Sigmar's Blood

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

TEMPLEHOF CRAG

Sigmarzeit, 2522

Today, the sun had not risen at all.

Standing high up on the crag, a bald figure robed in yellow stared hard at the horizon. His focus was such that it looked as if he was trying to bring the sunlight through willpower alone. The robed man had been there for hours, yet all that the day had to show for itself was a gradual thinning of the darkness. An insult to the dawn, the figure thought. An insult to the name Sunscryer, come to that.

It had started less than a week ago, the great darkness that had been drawn like a shroud across the province of Sylvania. No one truly knew why, not even Sunscryer himself. Most of the theories had to do with supernatural creatures. More specifically, most of them had to do with vampires.

Already vegetation was beginning to wither and die. The animals would be next, starving for lack of sustenance. Before too long, the men and the women would follow them. And the children.

Something had to be done.

THE CONCLAVE OF STATE

Imperial Palace of Altdorf, 2522

With a tremendous crash, a rain-sodden corpse burst through the stained glass dome of the Grand Atrium. It slammed onto the banqueting table, bouncing a foot into the air and shocking the assembled elector counts seated around it before landing sprawled across the enormous map in their midst.

The dignitaries barely had time to shout in alarm before daggers of leaded glass sliced down. Though the Emperor himself was unhurt, Wolfram Hertwig had looked upwards reflexively at the crash and lost an eye to a splinter depicting Sigmar’s Triumphs. Helmut Feuerbach’s yellow Talabecland silk turned red as coloured shards sank into his flesh. Boris Todbringer earned yet another facial scar. Gausser of Nordland stared in shock at the wedge of stained glass pinning his hand to the polished mahogany of the table, and a shattered image of the Empire’s warrior god stared back. At the glassy icon’s feet was a depiction of Nagash Defeated. The Great Necromancer’s orb-like eyes glinted in the misty rain that drifted from the broken dome above.

The aides and servants ranged around the electors fared even worse. Elder Kattarin’s hunched back had been sliced to the spine by a pane the size of a stable door. Rudiger had been neatly decapitated in the act of picking up claimant-scrolls that Count Ludenhof had scattered in a fit of pique a few moments before. Shouts, cries, and challenges filled the octagonal hall, its famous acoustics magnifying the din into sheer bedlam.

‘Order!’ bellowed Grand Theogonist Volkmar. ‘Order, for Sigmar’s sake!’ He gestured sharply for his arch lectors to tend the wounded. ‘Stop squawking and just
listen
!’

The old warrior priest’s frustration had been simmering for a while. Five hours of watching the electors bicker over geopolitical boundaries had been close to torture for him, and now his ire had boiled over. Whether at sermon or in battle, Volkmar could out-bellow a minotaur, yet even he was struggling to make himself heard.

Emperor Karl Franz picked up the massive Book of State from the mahogany table and slammed it back down with a cannonshot boom. The confusion of voices instantly ceased. All eyes went to the head of the table. The only sounds were the whimpers of the wounded and the slither of blades sliding from their scabbards.

‘Less panic, more thought, please,’ said Karl Franz, coolly. ‘This corpse – intended as a message, no doubt. But from whom?’

The Grand Theogonist leaned over the body in their midst. Rainwater drizzled down gently upon it, pattering from the warrior priest’s shaven head as he stooped to investigate. Volkmar had given a shout of alarm as soon as he had seen a winged shadow disturb the moonlight illuminating the vellum map, but his warning had come too late. Now the highborn blood of several elector counts had been spilt, and several servants had met a sudden and messy end. Yet despite the body’s impact, the rainwater pooling around the cadaver was completely clear.

Reaching over, Volkmar moved the corpse’s arm from its pallid face. He shook his head slowly. This man had clearly died in a great deal of pain. A roll of thin leather had been jammed deep into his gullet, forcing his mouth open in a permanent scream. Volkmar yanked the scroll out and tucked it behind his arm in one smooth motion, turning to face Karl Franz with a curt bow.

‘As you say, my lord, a macabre message,’ said Volkmar, his voice cold. ‘Your eminence will remember my petition to follow up the disappearance of one Gunther Stahlberg, a witch hunter I despatched to investigate the rumours about Drakenhof Castle two years ago?’ The Grand Theogonist closed the corpse’s staring eyes and made the sign of the comet upon his chest. ‘By the looks of it, his body has been drained of blood for a long time.’

‘Careful, dolt!’ interrupted Count Gausser, spitting in indignation at the nervous aide attending to his injured hand. ‘Drained of blood, eh?’ he said, turning to Volkmar with a face as sour as lime. ‘You can tell that without cutting him open, can you? I see no wounds. No doubt you think that
vampires
are to blame?’

‘A single vampire, to be precise,’ replied Volkmar. ‘Mannfred von Carstein.’

Several of the more flamboyant electors scoffed in disbelief. It was widely known that Mannfred, the last of Vlad von Carstein’s evil brood, had been slain at Hel Fenn over four hundred years before. The Sylvanian aristocrat had been cut down by an alliance of dwarfs and men, finally bringing about the end of the Vampire Wars.

To their credit, most of the electors from the east of the Empire remained silent. Graf Haupt-Anderssen of Stirland made the sign of Morr, his features solemn. ‘As I have said many times now, my Emperor, darkness is rising in Sylvania.’

‘And further afield, it would seem,’ replied Karl Franz. He motioned Volkmar to continue.

‘The rainwater around his body shows not even a trace of discolouration, my Emperor. In my experience only a vampire can drain a body of blood so completely,’ said Volkmar. ‘He was… delivered to us by a winged creature, one strong enough to bear a corpse and yet stealthy enough to evade discovery. The hellbats of Sylvania have long been under the curse of undeath. Those creatures are large enough to bear a horse, and even the living ones have a hunting strategy based upon surprise. Lastly, the corpse is sprawled across the part of the map that depicts Sylvania. I doubt that is coincidence.’

‘Really?’ sneered Gausser. ‘And are these monsters of yours also known for their impeccable aim? I see you’ve deftly leapt to the conclusion that this poor fellow’s arrival is not your own mistake coming back to haunt you, nor is it an unfortunate side effect of our beloved Emperor’s menagerie, but instead a message from a minstrel’s villain who even now flees Altdorf on the back of a giant bat.’

‘Yes,’ said Volkmar, holding up a tightly rolled tube of leather. ‘And I’ve come to that conclusion because it is Mannfred von Carstein’s seal upon the scroll I just removed from the corpse’s throat.’

Emperor Karl Franz ordered the scroll broken open and read immediately. Though the missive was still slick with rainwater, its thin leather held the words in crisp detail. Volkmar’s scalp had prickled with an odd sensation when he realised that the scroll was made from human skin. The words had been not so much inscribed as tattooed. As the Grand Theogonist scanned the elegant, but archaic, calligraphy, he felt his blood rise. The message had a formal tone, but it was a challenge through and through.

‘Fellow counts,’
read the Grand Theogonist, his teeth gritted in disgust at having to give voice to the words of the undead.

‘I hereby make eternal claim to that which is mine. Sylvania thus secedes from thy petty Empire, as do all who dwell within her borders. Mortal or grave-bound, they are mine by feudal law, and let none dispute it. Look to the east and thou shalt find I have drawn a shroud of night across my rightful realm. In this way I demark it from thine own lands, where sunlight and hope are still welcome guests.

‘If this fact displeases thee, think long upon this. As the last great count of Stirland, my claim to the throne of the Empire is as true as thine own. My lineage runs deep and red, undiluted by the blood of fools and whores. Only one amongst thee can claim the same. Yet despite his great and noble ancestry, thy priest is old and spent.’

Volkmar swallowed a hard knot of rage. He looked long at Karl Franz, eyes locked in silent communiqué, before reading the rest of the letter.

‘Perhaps I will attend thy yearly feast of words someday, and feast upon thee in turn. Worthless and brief as you are, it would be a mercy. I predict little nourishment, and little challenge. For how can the great leaders of the Empire protect its borders, when they are barely aware of what is taking place under their noses?

Yours eternal,

Count Mannfred von Carstein,

The True and Lawful Lord of Sylvania’

Volkmar let the letter fall away onto the banqueting table, his heart pounding at its implications. Under their noses – an odd turn of phrase. Perhaps that meant…

‘The vaults!’ shouted Volkmar, instinctively reaching for the blessed warhammer hanging at his waist. ‘We have to get down there, right now!’

Karl Franz’s eyes widened. ‘By Sigmar, you don’t think that…’ He looked to his right for a moment, and swore under his breath. ‘Zintler, take as many Reiksguard as you can find and accompany Arch Lector Kaslain down to the Temple Vaults with all haste. If you find Schwartzhelm on the way, send him up here at once. Go!’

The moustachioed Reikscaptain saluted smartly and strode out of the octagonal hall alongside Arch Lector Kaslain, their armour chinking as they broke into a run. At Zintler’s command, the Reiksguard detachment that had stood vigil outside the Grand Atrium since the last change of guard broke position and joined them. Soon the wide, vaulted corridors resounded to the clangour of metal, the sound diminishing as they pounded down the hall.

Back in the Grand Atrium, Volkmar read over the vampire’s missive once more before slamming his fists onto the banqueting table so hard the corpse at its centre jumped a full inch into the air.

Reikscaptain Zintler strode down the wide flagstone stairs that led from the Imperial Palace to the undervaults of the Great Temple, a dozen-strong detachment of Reiksguard behind him. Flanked by the authoritarian figures of Arch Lectors Kaslain and Aglim, the officer met only the most perfunctory of challenges from the warrior priests guarding the entrance to the sacred vaults below.

‘Any trouble down there, may I ask, gentlemen?’ inquired Zintler.

‘None that I know of, sir,’ said the eldest warrior priest, making the sign of the comet. ‘Sigmar Exalt.’

‘Sigmar Exalt.’

Behind Zintler’s back, Arch Lector Kaslain exchanged a baleful look with his opposite number, Aglim, but they kept their peace.

As the detachment entered the first circle of crypts, the torches that lined the underground passageways illuminated monolithic stone gargoyles carved in the likeness of beasts. Each was a depiction of a legendary creature Sigmar had slain over his lifetime. The cobwebbed statues did little to lighten the mood.

Scanning the dusty reaches of each vault as they passed through, the Reiksguard made the symbols of Sigmar and Morr against their chests.

‘Keep together, please,’ said Zintler, smoothing his waxed facial hair. ‘Maintain two paces, nothing more. I want eyes on every corner.’

His men murmured their acknowledgements, none wishing to disturb the silence any more than necessary. Down here were the bones of every Grand Theogonist to have taken office, their souls united in an eternal vigil over the Cache Malefact at the heart of the vaults. Faint ghostlights flickered on the edge of vision above each sarcophagus. Technically it was blasphemy even to speak in the presence of these strange guardian spirits.

The grandiose tombs of Volkmar’s predecessors fanned out in maze-like circles that the investigators passed through on their way towards the cache. There the Sigmarite cult kept every magical relic it had recovered over two thousand years of war against the dark powers.

The Reiksguard probed further into the murk, and the air became charged with indefinable energies. Soon it was difficult to draw more than a shallow breath. Arch Lector Kaslain hefted the Reikhammer, his symbol of office and chosen weapon both. The hulking warrior priest cast a grim glance at his fellow arch lector as they passed the obsidian statues guarding the inner circles.

‘That smell…’ whispered Aglim, his brow furrowed.

Kaslain nodded in assent. The cold, musty tang of limestone hid a definite undertone of decay.

As the investigators passed the threshold, the intermittent light cast by their torches illuminated splintered wood and broken stone scattered across the flagstones. Thrice-locked chests had been smashed to pieces and suspended glass orbs dripped luminous fluids onto the consecrated ground beneath.

Amongst the debris were severed arms, legs and heads that drooled congealing blood. Kaslain nearly tripped over a torso with only one leg still attached, its livery that of the Templar Inner Guard. He curled his lip in distaste, nudging the human remains out of their way with his foot.

‘A proper benediction will be held for these men,’ he whispered, ‘but it can wait.’

Judging by the disembodied limbs scattered around the chamber, the intruders must have been creatures of unnatural strength. Yet there was no sign of the force that had wrought this destruction. Bright shimmers of gold, pearls and even the sickly glimmer of wyrdstone punctuated the debris. Whatever had done this was evidently not interested in wealth.

A funnel-shaped hole gaped in the middle of the floor. As Kaslain looked down into it an oily, rotten odour wafted up to assault his nostrils. Something foul had burrowed up through the limestone at speed, a feat no man could have achieved without suffocating.

‘Weapons please, gentlemen,’ said Zintler, his civility incongruous in the charged atmosphere of the deep vault. Almost as soon as he had spoken, a low gurgling growl came from the alcove at the back of the cache.