Vlad nodded. ‘Herrscher,’ he murmured. ‘A fine name. And believe me, you have given him honour. Truly, you have.’
Then he withdrew, and snapped his fingers. The black flames flared into a coil, and fastened themselves around Herrscher’s neck. The coil contracted, snapping the man’s spine. For a moment, his eyes continued to stare upward, then he went limp in his bonds. Vlad gestured again, the fires flickered out, and the witch hunter’s body thudded to the stone.
Vlad gazed down at the corpse for a moment. It was a shame. Herrscher was the kind of man that made the Empire worth fighting for.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low cough at the chamber’s entrance. He looked up to see one of his white-faced servants hovering anxiously. This one was a living soul, and Vlad felt an involuntary pang as he watched the man’s blood vessels throb under his skin.
‘You pardon, lord,’ the servant stammered, clearly terrified, ‘but the first brigades are ready for inspection.
That was good. It would be a long and arduous task to create the army that Vlad required, even though Nagash had been quite insistent on the need for haste. The hosts of the North were converging on Altdorf already, and Sylvania was far further from Reikland than Marienburg. Even the expedience of raising the fallen to fight again would scarce suffice to meet the need, and so the scouring of Sylvania for living troops had begun in earnest.
‘Very good,’ said Vlad, pulling his robes about him, preparing to descend the winding stairs to the parade ground below. ‘I will attend shortly.’ His gaze alighted again on the body of Herrscher. ‘And do something with this while I am gone.’
The servant hesitated before complying. Even in death, a witch hunter could inspire terror in a Sylvanian. ‘Shall I burn the body, lord?’ he asked.
Vlad shook his head. ‘Do no such thing,’ he said. ‘Take it to my chambers and give it every proper burial rite.’
He swept imperiously out of the chamber. As he did so, the last of the black flames guttered out.
‘He is too good to waste,’ Vlad said. ‘We shall have to find ways for him to serve again.’
The Grand Chamber of Magnus Enthroned stood near the summit of the Imperial Palace’s main basilica. Vast walls of granite and ashlar stone soared above a wide marble floor. The pillars that held up the high vaulted roof were many-columned and banded with silver. Torches blazed, sending clouds of soot rolling into the heights. Statues of fallen heroes stood in alcoves along the walls, each graven from black veined stone. Magnus himself had been carved from a solid block of dark grey granite, depicted sitting in judgement on a massive throne. His image dominated the far end of the hall, fully twenty feet high, as stern and unbending as he had been in life.
Overlooked by such grandeur, the chamber’s few living inhabitants were dwarfed into near-insignificance. They stood in the empty centre in a loose circle, clad in the robes of finest silk and linen and bearing heavy gold artefacts of office – chains, amulets, crowns.
All but one. Martak had not had the time or the will to find something to wear less filthy than the robes he had slept in, and so stood apart from the others. He guessed that he smelled fairly bad to them. That was simply reciprocal – each of the others smelled truly repellent to him, with their thick-wafted perfumes and armour-unguents.
‘None have suffered more than I,’ said the sturdiest of them, a tall man wearing a fur-lined jerkin and long green cloak. His leonine face was crested with a mane of snow-white, and he wore a goatee beard on his age-lined face. Despite his advanced years, he carried himself with a warrior’s bearing, and his flinty eyes gave away no weakness.
Of all of them, Martak liked him the most. This was Theodoric Gausser, Elector Count of Nordland, and there was something attractive about his unflinchingly martial demeanour.
‘We have all suffered,’ replied a woman standing to his right. She was as old as Gausser, and draped in lines of pearls over a fabulously opulent gown of grey and silver. Her face was gaunt, though liberally rouged and slabbed with whitener. She carried herself perfectly erect, as if her spine might snap if she curved it.
This was Emanuelle von Liebwitz, Elector Count of Wissenland, as fabulously wealthy as her subjects were grindingly poor. Like Gausser, she was no one’s fool, though her imperious manner even with her peers made her hard to warm to.
‘Nordland has borne the brunt of the enemy for centuries,’ reiterated Gausser. ‘We have fought them longer and harder. I know what it takes to beat them.’
‘None of us knows what it takes to beat them,’ said a third figure, quietly. He was thinner than the others, as tall as a crane and with a pronounced nose. His attire was less flamboyant – a drab green overcoat and travel-worn boots. That would have come as little surprise to any who knew his province – Stirland was miserably poor, and far from the Imperial centre from which all patronage flowed. This one was Graf Alberich Haupt-Anderssen, a grand name that did little to disguise the poverty of his inheritance. ‘If we did, their threat would have been eradicated long before this day. They are unbeatable. All that remains is survival for as long as we can muster it.’
The other two glared at Haupt-Anderssen contemptuously. The first two were warlike electors, and their cousin’s blood was too thin for their liking.
Martak said nothing, but took some enjoyment from the incongruity of the situation. None of those assembled could remotely have been described as the finest the Empire had to offer. The greatest names were dead or missing – Gelt, Volkmar, Schwarzhelm, Helborg, the Emperor himself. Other Electors, such as the great Todbringer of Middenheim, were looking to their own defences. What remained in Altdorf were the outriders, those still obsessed enough with the Great Game to seek political advancement even as the wolves scratched at the door.
‘Your cowardice damns you, Graf,’ spat von Liebwitz.
Haupt-Anderssen shrugged. ‘There is no virtue in hiding behind fantasies.’
‘You shame this hall,’ said Gausser, gesturing to the towering image of Magnus.
Haupt-Anderssen sniffed, and said nothing.
A fourth figure cleared his throat then – Hans Zintler, the Reikscaptain. In Helborg’s absence he was the highest ranking military officer, and carried himself suitably formally, with a brass-buttoned jerkin and short riding cloak. His black moustache was neatly trimmed across a broad-jawed face.
‘With your pardon, lords,’ he interjected. ‘Only one task requires our attention this day. The news from Marienburg requires a response.’
‘Deserved everything they got,’ growled Gausser. ‘Dirty secessionists.’
‘Maybe so, lord,’ said von Liebwitz, ‘but the question is what to do about the army that laid them low.’
‘Nothing,’ said Haupt-Anderssen. ‘Look to our walls. That is the only hope.’
‘Carroburg stands in their path,’ pointed out Zintler. ‘If it is not to fall in turn, it must be reinforced.’
‘With what?’ grunted Martak, his first contribution to the debate. All eyes turned to him, as if the others had only just noticed his presence. Von Liebwitz’s elegant nose wrinkled, and she pressed a scented handkerchief to her mouth. ‘We can barely man the walls here. Send men to Carroburg and they’ll just die a little earlier.’
Gausser bristled. ‘We have wizards advising us on military matters now?’
‘You invited me,’ shrugged Martak. ‘I’d have been happier with the horses.’
Zintler coughed nervously. He was a good man, a fine soldier, but he did not like discord amongst his superiors. ‘Then, Supreme Patriarch, what would you suggest?’