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  For Boris’s purposes, Otwin’s table was perfect. The Emperor couldn’t have asked for a better prop to adorn the festivities he had planned for Hexennacht. Hoary with age, steeped in legend and saturated with mysterious magics, the table would set the proper atmosphere. He was so pleased, in fact, that after von Metzgernstein told him about the table, he agreed to release the seneschal’s son from the dungeons. The gesture, however, proved a bit empty. The boy, it seemed, had taken ill and expired the month before.

  Thinking of this, Boris glanced along the table until he found the dejected-looking seneschal. The fellow was being quite irrational over the loss of the stripling. Von Metzgernstein was still young, he could certainly sire another one. Perhaps the Emperor would offer to have his marriage annulled. A saucy new wife might help the man put things in better perspective.

  Smirking, the Emperor patted the hand of the young woman seated next to him. As always, Princess Erna trembled at his touch. He could imagine her skin crawling under his fingers, feeling a thrill of power that he could command such fear in the headstrong wench. His arrogance wouldn’t consider the possibility that the reaction was one of disgust rather than fear.

  ‘We think this should prove very entertaining,’ Boris told her, wagging a finger at the uneasy dignitaries assembled around Otwin’s table. The matriarch of one of the Empire’s major temples, seven electors, dozens of landholders who between them controlled a third of all the agriculture in the Empire, even a few generals and the grand masters of several knightly orders were in attendance. Some of them had even brought along their wives; many more had the good sense to bring along their mistresses. Boris chuckled as he considered the power these men claimed to possess. For all their pretensions, when he’d invited them to seek safety behind the walls of Schloss Hohenbach, they’d come running.

  Which of the wives should he seek to conquer next, Boris wondered? The months of isolation were becoming a bit tedious, even the performers he’d engaged were struggling to justify their continued presence with new entertainments. For all her charms, there were times when he tired of Erna’s defiant streak. Toying with an ambitious baroness or a wanton countess made for a nice break in routine and never failed to bring a frown of disapproval from the papess Katrina Ochs.

  Still, the high priestess wasn’t the only member of their company with a set of strict, prudish morals. The Emperor gave Erna’s hand a tight squeeze and leaned close to her. ‘What do you think of von Kirchof’s niece?’ he asked, nodding his chin towards the dainty young lady seated opposite them. ‘Pure as new snow, We understand,’ Boris continued. ‘Her uncle has been keeping a careful eye on her for Us. Can’t have any of these blue-blooded degenerates plucking the rose.’ He chuckled as he felt Erna’s nails dig into his palm as her body became tense.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Leave her alone. Don’t befoul her.’

  Boris leaned back in his chair. ‘What a treasonous thing to say,’ he observed with feigned shock. ‘As though she could aspire to any greater purpose in her miserable life than a dalliance with her Emperor.’ He turned one of his mischievous grins on Erna. ‘They can’t all marry a dashing young peasant, after all.’

  The Emperor relished the pain his remark inflicted, then sighed and released Erna’s hand. It was too easy to provoke her on that subject, stripping it of any degree of satisfaction. Rising from his chair, Boris swept his Imperial gaze across the great hall. The usual furnishings had all been pushed to the walls to make room for Otwin’s table, but a path had been left clear to the connecting passage leading to the tiny chapel of Sigmar. He glared impatiently at the doorway.

  ‘What’s keeping that conjurer?’ Boris hissed. He turned his head, nodding to the two Kaiserknecht who attended him. The knights stalked away, their hands closed about the hilts of their swords. The Emperor watched as they walked down the passage. A few minutes later, the knights reappeared, dragging a tall, gaunt man between them. With a final shove, they deposited the man on the floor near Boris’s seat.

  ‘We are waiting,’ the Emperor stated in a tone as cold as steel.

  The man on the floor looked up at his sovereign with panic in his eyes. He was of indeterminate age, his long beard yet displaying streaks of black among its white, his face devoid of wrinkles beyond the crow’s feet attending the corners of his eyes. He wore a long blue robe, its folds adorned with stars and moons and yet more obscure esoteric symbols. In his arms he held a battered teakwood casket.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty, I was readying my paraphernalia for the experiment,’ the bearded man apologised. ‘Under ideal conditions, it takes a month to prepare for…’

  Emperor Boris waved away his warlock’s excuses. ‘We are already becoming bored with your magic. If We are expected to wait a month for your conjurations, We may reconsider your usefulness to the court.’

  Karl-Maria Fleischauer shivered at the Emperor’s threat. His studies of the black arts were well known, and only the protection of the Emperor kept the Inquisition of Verena and the witch-takers from burning him at the stake. To lose the Emperor’s favour would be a death sentence for the warlock.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Fleischauer whined. ‘I shall make everything ready at once.’ He stared at the teakwood casket, doubt flickering across his face. Quickly he composed himself and scrambled to the high-backed seat that had been reserved for him.

  Boris watched with undisguised impatience as the warlock took his place and opened the casket after a few muttered incantations and passes of his hands. Fleischauer removed an orb of polished crystal from the box, winding a strip of gauzy cloth around it before setting it on the table before him. The cloth gave off an offensive odour, and Boris realised it had been cut from a funeral shroud. Again he sighed. It was so like a warlock to collect such noxious trappings.

  Holding a seance had seemed like such a novel idea when it occurred to Boris two days before. It would be just the sort of scandalous entertainment that would appeal to sensibilities that had become jaded to more mundane diversions. Now, however, he was becoming annoyed by the warlock’s foolish theatrics. He knew the peasant could work magic. It was time he stopped dawdling and got down to it.

  After a few minutes, Fleischauer asked that the doors to the hall be closed and all the lights extinguished save two candles, one set to either side of the crystal ball. A murmur of anxiety passed through the guests assembled about Otwin’s table as the room was plunged into darkness.

  ‘All must link hands,’ Fleischauer said. ‘Those who would call upon the spirits of the dead must form an unbroken circle. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, do not break the circle!’ His warning given, the warlock began to chant in a sibilant, slithery language. His body went rigid, his eyes rolling back until only the whites were visible.

  A clammy cold filled the hall. The crystal ball began to glow with a spectral blue luminance.

  Boris couldn’t decide if the moan preceded the wispy, vaporous spectre or if the apparition formed before the sound. Certainly one impressed itself upon him before the other. The moan was a ragged, grisly noise, like a corpse being dragged across gravel. The ethereal image was no less uncomfortable, reminding the Emperor of the grave cloth Fleischauer had wrapped about his crystal ball.

  Gradually, both the moaning sound and the apparition began to change, becoming somehow more distinct. Even with this impression of change, when the final resolution came, it was shockingly abrupt. The moan became the dry, brittle voice of a woman. The nebulous spectre became the semblance of a plump rural duchess.

  ‘Artur! Artur, you murderous cur!’ the ghost wailed, spinning around where she hovered a few inches above the table until she faced the trembling ruler of Nuln. The apparition raised a phantom finger and jabbed it at Count Artur. ‘I wait for you in the gardens of Morr, assassin! Adulterer!’

  Boris chuckled as he listened to the ghost’s harangue. It seemed Count Artur had removed his domineering first wife through the expedient of poison, di
sguising it to look as though she’d succumbed to the plague. A delicious bit of scandal that the woman’s wealthy relations would be interested to learn. The Emperor was annoyed that he hadn’t had the foresight to have his scribe attend the seance.

  After a time, Count Artur’s wife faded away, her voice evaporating back into the speechless moan, her form melting into the formless wisp. Soon another spirit manifested itself through the medium, another voice rising from the moan, another figure emerging from the wisp. Brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, friends and servants, many were the ghosts evoked by Fleischauer’s magic. Many were the dark secrets the wraiths related. Boris chuckled at each embarrassing revelation, promising himself he would make good use of all he learned when he was back in Altdorf. Indeed, he’d never imagined magic could be so useful. If Kreyssig wasn’t such a capable and dangerous man, he might suggest he add sorcery to his intelligence network. Handing such a tool to such a man wouldn’t be wise, however. Perhaps if he were removed and a more pliable commander put in his place…

  Distracted by his plotting, Boris didn’t see the wisp form itself into the barbarous figure of Baron Thornig, Erna’s father. He didn’t hear much of what the ghost had to say to his daughter. What little he did hear made him curse his distraction.

  ‘Endure,’ Thornig moaned. ‘The night will end. The dawn will come. Wickedness and corruption will be purged from the Empire. He who loves you best will return. He will return what was stolen. Together you will have justice. Endure, and know you suffer so that Light may shine once more.’

  The Emperor tightened his hold on Erna’s hand as the spectre of her father started to fade. Viciously, he twisted her arm, provoking a gasp of pain. ‘What did he say?’ Boris growled. ‘What did that hell-damned traitor say!’

  Lost in his anger, Boris was again inattentive of the spirits. He didn’t see the wisp reform. Only when a familiar voice called to him did the Emperor turn away from Erna. He quivered as he found himself staring into the mournful countenance of his own father, the man who had been Emperor Ludwig II.

  ‘Woe, my son,’ the shade wailed. ‘You bring ruin to the House of Hohenbach.’

  Emperor Boris cringed away from the apparition. Frantically, he broke the hold of those seated to either side of him and leaped away from his chair. Almost at once, the ghostly image winked out and the hall was plunged into darkness as the candles sputtered. Screams of alarm filled the darkness until servants threw open the doors and brought more candles.

  ‘I think we’ve had enough amusement for one night,’ Boris declared, sounding anything but amused. His sardonic composure rattled, he hastened from the hall without so much as a glance at the prostrate form of his warlock. The abrupt disruption of the seance had sent the aethyric energies snapping back into Fleischauer’s body, breaking his trance and leaving him more dead than alive.

  Princess Erna glanced from the stunned warlock to the fleeing Emperor, unsettled by her own ordeal. Against her will, she felt sympathy for Boris. Where her own father had returned to bestow words of hope, his had offered only condemnation.

  Chapter VIII

  Altdorf

  Nachgeheim, 1114

  The chambers of the Holy Synod of Sigmar had been unused since the completion of the Great Cathedral some hundred years ago. It had only been the death of Grand Theogonist Uthorsson and the transplantation of the Holy Seat from Nuln to Altdorf that brought the vast hall of marble and alabaster into prominence. For years, the chambers had been made ready, prepared for the ecumenical council of theologians, priests and augurs who would debate the election of a new Grand Theogonist.

  Plague had kept the Holy Synod empty, the fear of the strange death that was laying waste to the Empire. To gather the leadership of the Temple in one place, to expose them all to the threat of dissolution, was something the Sigmarite elders would not countenance. Since the founding of the man-god’s cult by Johann Helsturm over a thousand years ago, never had the prospect of annihilation been more pronounced. An orc invasion, religious warfare with one of the other temples, natural and arcane catastrophe, these were things that might wipe out a city or devastate a province, but never were they so widespread as to threaten the whole of the Empire. The Black Plague had spread its pestilential grip into every corner of the land. Nowhere was safe. Like the locust, it might seem to recede only to bide its time and explode afresh with renewed vigour. This plague had neither pattern nor rhyme. It was unpredictable. It was a thing of Chaos.

  Seeing the hand of the First Enemy in the Black Plague, the Sigmarite elders had deferred the election of a leader until such time as it was considered safe to convene in sacred council. To do otherwise, they felt certain, would be to tempt the profane Ruinous Powers into exerting their hideous strength and wiping out the very foundation of the Temple. They must wait, wait until the plague began to abate and the power of Chaos waned once more.

  Waiting, however, was an option that was no longer available to them.

  It was a small group that was gathered in the Holy Synod, a feeble echo of the great congregation for which the vast hall had been built. The rows of cherrywood pews, rising in tiers and surrounding the central nave, were empty. The stained-glass windows depicting Sigmar’s victories over beast, monster and man stared down upon only a tiny clutch of robed figures gathered before the jade altar in the sanctuary at the front of the chamber. Their voices echoed through the deserted room.

  ‘What you ask is impossible.’ The words were spoken in a carefully measured tone, a voice struggling to smother the intense emotion stirring in the heart of the speaker. Arch-Lector von Reisarch was the Consultator of the Sacred Rites, successor to Arch-Lector Hartwich and, with the death of Grand Theogonist Thorgrad, the highest-ranking priest in the whole of Altdorf. Known as a jovial father of the faith, he was held with almost paternal fondness by the Sigmarites of Altdorf, a warm and friendly face to a religion that could at times be cold and distant.

  It was a very different expression von Reisarch wore now from that jocular visage known to his diocese. The priest’s face was severe, his jaw set in defiance, his eyes smouldering with unspoken rage. The exuberant old man who wasn’t above slipping a jest about the foibles of priesthood into a sermon was gone, subsumed beneath the angered patriarch who glared at the Imperial personage who had intruded upon the sanctity of the Holy Synod.

  Adolf Kreyssig’s expression was no less severe. ‘I ask nothing,’ he said. ‘I am the Protector of the Empire, invested with the authority of the Emperor… Authority bestowed upon him by immortal Sigmar himself.’

  ‘Secular authority,’ von Reisarch countered. ‘The power of the Emperor is secular, not spiritual. You have no jurisdiction over the politics of the Temple.’

  Kreyssig glanced across at the vicar-general and the other priests attending von Reisarch. ‘You must be very important now, your beatitude. The Arch-Lector of Altdorf, once the hierophant of all Sigmarites in the Imperial capital, at least until Grand Theogonist Thorgrad relocated the Holy Seat. Then you were simply reduced to another functionary, a number-two man. How you must have missed the taste of power! The second son of an old and privileged estate. No inheritance from his family, so he must seek his fortune by taking up holy vestments.’

  ‘You dare,’ von Reisarch gasped. ‘You dare utter such blasphemies in this sacred place!’

  ‘I would dare anything to preserve the Empire,’ Kreyssig retorted. He pointed to the great stone hammer suspended above the shrine. The symbol was more than simply that of Sigmar as god, but of Sigmar as uniter of mankind.

  ‘I am versed in the symbolism of faith,’ von Reisarch growled, his voice like acid.

  ‘But do you understand it?’ Kreyssig challenged. ‘Your refusal to convene the Holy Synod and elect a new Grand Theogonist threatens the unity of the Empire. The people look to the Temple of Sigmar for hope and guidance, to assure them that despite the plague and unrest there is stability. Faith in Sigmar is the bedrock of the Empire, the rope which
binds the people together and endows them with a sense of unity. When the Temple is seen to be strong, the spirit of the people is strong. When the Temple is seen to be weak, the people lose faith. Their hearts stray into strange places.’

  ‘You are a fine one to speak of faith,’ von Reisarch accused. ‘It was on your orders that Arch-Lector Hartwich was arrested and would have been executed had he not fallen victim to the plague. It was through your scheming that the Bread Massacre brought bloodshed overflowing in the streets. It was your barbarous murder of Grand Master von Schomberg that pushed men like Prince Sigdan into revolt. Tell me, who has done more to break the spirit of Altdorf?’

  ‘I can tell you who will restore that spirit, and how,’ Kreyssig said. He removed a folded proclamation from his tunic, setting it down on the altar. ‘You will convene the ecumenical council. You will elect Lector Stefan Schoppe as Grand Theogonist.’

  Von Reisarch’s eyes blazed. ‘You not only demand the impossible, but you add the sacrilege of dictating the decision of Holy Sigmar!’ The other priests with the arch-lector began to whisper angrily among themselves, horrified by Kreyssig’s arrogant blasphemy.

  ‘I demand what is necessary to keep the Empire intact,’ Kreyssig stated. ‘As Protector, that is my duty. The people need a strong Temple to unite them. The Temple needs a Grand Theogonist to make it strong.’

  The arch-lector removed the scroll from the altar, casting it to the floor with a contemptuous gesture. ‘This Temple is answerable to the will of Sigmar, not the machinations of a power-mad peasant. There will be no ecumenical council!’

  Kreyssig’s eyes blazed as he stared down at the discarded scroll. ‘There will be an ecumenical council,’ he said, his voice dropping to a venomous, threatening tone. ‘Do not make the mistake of dismissing the “machinations of a power-mad peasant”. I have been most thorough. My Kaiserjaeger have pursued inquiries in many places. I am quite aware of the Temple’s dirty little secrets, of what happened that night Grand Theogonist Uthorsson burned with the cathedral in Nuln. Tell me, how do you think the people would react if they learned Uthorsson was a servant of the Ruinous Powers, or that Thorgrad was a murderer?’