Fiction Spawning of Bob - The Great War Against Chaos - Book 1 Finished

Chapter 23 The Envoys


The signaller and the troops on Altdorf's wall were all but hypnotized as they drank in their first view of elf-kind. The approaching trio were tall by human standards, and they made the simple task of walking look so sinuous and graceful that any human dancer would be put to shame. Their scale-and-plate armour was polished to a mirror finish and trimmed with gold. It protected their heads, shoulders and torsos but left their limbs unencumbered. They wore long swords at their waists, and each carried an ornate staff. Two elves walked side by side. They trailled swirling cloaks of gold and blue, were fair haired and radiated youthful vigour. The third elf followed a few steps behind, contrasting the others' appearance by having dark hair and an older appearance. His cloak was rich scarlet in colour.

The three glided to within ten paces of the gate and stopped. As the gate showed no signs of opening, the blue cloaked elf looked up and spoke in musical tones to the men above him. Although he made no apparent effort to project his voice, the words carried clearly to the signaller’s ears. The man gaped stupidly and nodded.

Another voice intruded. This one was as harsh and unpleasant as fighting crows. The signaller wished the elf would speak again, but the harsh voice grew more insistent.

"Signaller! What did he say?" Graf Mahrlecht bellowed from the inner court.

The glamour was broken. The signaller hurried back to the other side of the parapet and peered down at the anxious electors who were clustered together awaiting his report.

"There is a problem, sir. They said they would only treat with the Emperor. We had three emperors to choose from this morning. Who should be chosen now?”

"Mahrlect.” Several of the electors cursed aloud.

"Wait!" thundered Heimlich, Priest of Ulrik. He thrust his improvised banner into the hands of an unfortunate Captain of the Marienburg Citadel Guard and began counting on his fingers. When he arrived at a satisfactory number, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head towards Mahrlecht.

"Congratulations on your election, Emperor Mahrlecht, and with a clear majority of electoral votes, too. Now by the power vested in me, get your Majestic arse along to the Imperial Palace and look imperious."

"What?" spluttered Mahrlecht.

"What?" spluttered the remaining elector counts.

Heimlich leapt to his feet and propelled the Emperor Elect and his peers in the direction of the citadel. "Your Graces, you will need to fill out the throne room and look wise and resolute. When all is ready, signal the gate to open. Come along!"

Heimlich dragged the newly elected ruler along. The retinue of baffled Electors jogged behind.

"Another wild gambit, Mahrlecht?" Elector Arnulf grunted, "I've heard that elves do not suffer fools."

The Emperor Elect dug in his heels and stopped. "They do not suffer fools? Hmm." The two disguised lizardmen-flagellants were still trailing along. They were not looking for trouble, but recent history told Mahrlecht that they were rarely out of it. "Brothers Joe and Bob, I have a special mission for you. Go with one of my black companies and capture the Chaos coven you discovered last night. They are to be imprisoned in the Imperial Zoo cages, rather than the city lock-up. The red robes are not to know."

"Red Robes not to know? I was expecting you to say… Oh, I see. You may rely on us, captain, commander, umm…"

Mahrlecht cut Joe off mid-honorific. "Brothers, take your time. And Heimlich,"

The wolf priest raised his eyebrows and pointed at his own chest.

"Yes. You, Heimlich. Go with them. You know the brothers’ special... condition and the discretion that is required. Perhaps you can keep them and yourself out of mischief."

The Priest of Ulrik departed with the enthusiastic Brothers of Purity and the electoral party hurried towards the Imperial Palace.


Like usual, news travelled faster than seemed credible. Before the Emperor Elect had travelled half the length of Heldenhammer Grand Allee, citizens of Altdorf lined both sides of the triumphal way. They didn't cheer or shout for the new Emperor Elect. Instead they murmured quietly about the unexpected turn of events. One word was repeated often and could be heard clearly over the susurration – ‘Mahrlecht.’

It seemed somehow to be a discouraging start to potentially the shortest Imperial reign on record.




At the Imperial Palace itself, the Imperial Door-Warden was astonished by the thought of actually having a patron. However, he could not dispute the legitimacy of the Imperial election - eleven grim warriors stood impatiently before him, bearing the Runefangs which gave them the right to choose from among themselves.

The warden released his adjutant to guide the electors to the throne room, although he did feel some distress at sending the junior officer away. That action had reduced the strength of the Imperial Guard by fifty percent and left him no one to talk to.

His loneliness was cut mercifully short by the arrival of the entire combined command company of the state armies. Marshalls, generals, knights, batmen, squires and signal corps had all tagged along behind the Emperor Elect trying to look official and essential. One of them, the magnificently moustachioed First Marshal of Averland, felt the need to affirm his own relevance by giving some orders.

"Assign an honour guard of the Knights of the Order of the Black Bear to escort the envoys from the gate,” he barked at a lesser officer. Then he turned to the warden, "Go and run the Emperor's colours up the palace flag staff."

The ward snapped off a crisp salute. "Immediately, sir! Err, what are his colours, sir?"

The miserable Captain of Marienburg proffered the spear which had Heimlich's precious silk underhose fluttering from its tip. "I've been following him around with this. I gladly surrender it into your custodianship."

"I can't take that!" The warden shrank away from the improvised pennant with absolute horror on his face. "There is a protocol we must follow. You need to lower it while we all salute. Then you fold it the special way. Then I can take it."

The captain leant very close so that only the warden could hear his next words. "Take the filthy thing, or you will have your protocol and this spear rammed so far up your behind that the only way anyone will be able to see the Emperor's pennant will be if they look deep into your eyes."

The warden snapped another very quick salute before fleeing with the precious icon.




The warden’s adjutant scurried down the echoing marble hall with the electors. On the way he pointed out features of note, such as portraits, friezes and sculptuary. In amongst the commentary he apologized for the sparseness of the Imperial staff.

The staff was but a remnant of the glory of the Empire's heyday. The titular roles had become almost hereditary and many departments had shrunk to virtual non-viability. The Imperial Guard was now only composed of their young guide and ‘Papa.’ The title of Imperial Chef had been passed from father to son for fourteen generations. The current Imperial Astrologer was also the Imperial Herbalist and through lack of anyone else who had the time, Imperial Gardener.

Despite the Imperial functionaries being few in numbers, they had faithfully maintained the tradition and the dignity of their roles for eleven hundred years. They had kept the hearth fire burning for the inevitable return of Sigmar's heir.

Rapid introductions and explanations were made as the new electors found the ancient Imperial Herald and the Imperial Protocol Advisor playing draughts at a small table to one side of the high throne. The electors examined the twelve ancient granite thrones which lined both sides of the audience chamber, one for each province – including Drakwald which had been lost to the Empire a thousand years earlier. The Imperial throne itself was elevated on a dais at the end.

Emperor Elect Mahrlecht lowered himself gingerly onto the high throne. There was no thunderbolt or earthquake, but he did not feel at all comfortable on the God-Emperor’s throne. Holy Sigmar had probably never used a cushion in his entire earthly life.

Mahrlecht set to preparing for the delegation. "Herald, would you be so kind as to summon the Imperial Signals Officer."

To Mahrlecht’s surprise, the herald did not below the order down the hall way. Instead he marched over to the dais, pulled up a funnel ended speaking tube from the shadows beside it and bellowed into that. His powers of voice projection probably obviated the need for the sophisticated communications device, because he could be heard in every corner of the palace without assistance anyway. The signals officer arrived in less than a minute.

"What news from the gate?" demanded Mahrlecht.

"The elves remain. They have made no other demands."

"We have kept them waiting long enough. Signal the gate captain to admit them and have them brought to the citadel."

"At once, Sir." The signal officer turned on his heel.

"Adjutant.” Mahrlecht addressed the young warden.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Instruct… Papa to admit the envoys and escort them here."

The adjutant scurried away.

"Your Grace, if I may-" began the Imperial Protocol Advisor.

"Have you lost all decorum in the last three hundred years?” Elector Oswin of Westerland sneered. “That should be 'Your Imperial Majesty,' you dolt."

The advisor sniffed, "The Emperor Elect is properly referred to as 'his grace' until his rule is confirmed by the Imperial Religious Orders."

"Hmmph. It seems you will be 'Your Grace' for some time them, Mahrlecht.” Elector Arnulf was blunt, as always. "The Orders won't even stand in the same room, let alone agree on anything."

"Please,” the Emperor Elect smothered the conversation quickly. “Titles and confirmation are of no consequence at this time. We have a powerful army outside our gate. Their intentions are unknown but their posture is threatening. Our first priority must be to avoid more needless bloodshed this day. Furthermore, I have no interest in the squabbles of the Orders, nor in minutiae of court etiquette."




The three elves had been left waiting in the shadow of the Marienburg gate for what seemed to be the ideal length of time to indicate contempt. When the gate creaked open, they maintained their haughty posture as the gate captain crept reluctantly out to hail them.

"Sirs?" The trio did not even look at him. "Sirs, the Emperor Elect awaits you in the Imperial Citadel."

With that they were off, striding through the gate without uttering a single word of acknowledgement. They did not ask for directions to the citadel. Indeed the gold cloaked one had already seen the location of the palace from atop his dragon mount. The gate captain hurriedly stepped out of their path and, once they entered the city, their escort of knights-afoot needed to trot awkwardly to keep up with them.

The dark one glided a pace behind his fuming kinsmen with a mounting feeling of unease. "There is a pall of Chaos over the city,” he muttered.

"If the barbarians have already fallen to Chaos they will be of no use to us," the gold-clad elf pronounced. "As I told you from the outset, Teclis, this mission is futile.”

The dark haired elf spoke again, "but Lord Finreir, these people have not fallen, or at least not all of them. There is something else here, another power which balances the evil. It is not magic. What can the third power be? It eludes my insight.”

"Whether these humans have fallen or not, we have won no friends this day," the blue cloaked elf stated without apparent concern.

"Why do you say so, Lord Yrtle? I sense no peculiar hostility. These people seem curious, or expectant."

"No peculiar hostility?" Finreir scoffed. "The Masters of Hoeth put too much emphasis on using mystic insight. Use your ears instead, child."

The citizens of Altdorf lined both sides of the triumphal way, murmuring quietly among themselves. Two words were repeated often and could be heard clearly over the susurration - The first was 'elves'. The second was 'mahrlect’.

"That is... quite offensive." Teclis observed. The trio ran the rest of the gauntlet of profanity in silence.




At the doors of the Imperial Citadel the three elves found their way barred by crossed halberds.

"Who seeks audience with the Emperor Elect?" boomed the Imperial Door-Ward.

Finreir favoured him with a withering glare. "Dragon Mage Finreir of Caledor, High Mage Yrtle of Eataine and Mage Teclis of Hoeth."

A messenger boy ran ahead to relay the titles to the herald. When he had a good head start, the halberds were uncrossed and the wardens marched down the echoing hallway at a stately pace. The mage lords fell into step behind them.


The Pearl of Imperial architecture it may have been, but the Imperial Citadel held no interest for them. Even their meanest dwelling seemed to have more elegance than this dim, squat monstrosity. The lack of natural light served only to darken Finreir's uncharitable thoughts, if that were possible. There was a patter of feet behind the elves, but they were too dignified to turn.

"Excuse us, if you would, Your... Elfishnesses. Imperial Business - very important!" Three figures pushed past.

One wore a tattered wolf skin, the others wore grey hooded cloaks which trailed muddy hems on the polished marble of the floor.

"Oi! You'll have to clean that up yourselves - Mavis isn't back in 'til Tuesday," the Imperial Door-Warden bleated.

The errand runners ignored him and hurried ahead to the throne room.


When the envoys themselves arrived at the throne room doors, the two escorts turned and crossed their halberds again. "Your Excellencies will wait to be admitted at the Emperor Elect's pleasure."

More footsteps approached. This pair did not even excuse themselves as they darted around the startled wardens and admitted themselves to the throne room, closing the doors behind them.

Teclis leaned close to Yrtle and whispered a question. "Was that a skink and kroxigor of Lustria?"

The High Mage shook his head vigorously. "They cannot be. The larger one appeared to be female, and Lustrians have no gender."

After another minute, the elves’ intolerable wait for an audience with the Emperor was disturbed by the approach of what sounded like a lynch mob. What approached was a collection of mostly old men waving their fingers and angrily accusing each other of heresy, religious atrocities, apostasy, proselytization and poor upbringing. The three elves were forced to leap aside or be trampled by the procession of religious animosity. The wardens also knew when they were beaten and wisely uncrossed their weapons to admit access to the throne room.

As the last of the queue jumpers reached the doorway, he turned and made eye contact with the elves. "Screw you and your whole bleeping race." he said before slamming the door in their faces.

 

Well Scalenex is taking forever releasing his next piece. Probably has writers block on chapter 10--I mean he's probably has writer's block on some non-specific chapter. How would I know what he's specifically working on?

 

For a panda, you do seem to know an awful lot about all of the undead lizards on this site.

 

Chapter 24 The High Council of the Empire


The Emperor Elect and his supporters speculated as to the elves’ purpose outside the city. With no hard information guide them, the ideas became progressively more paranoid. Mahrlecht eventually closed the conversation by saying, "For good or ill, we will know soon enough."

The doors opened a moment later to admit Heimlich and the two hooded brothers of purity.

Mahrlecht sprang up from the high throne in a state of poorly disguised dismay. "You are back even sooner than I had hoped.”

"Yes, Your Mightiness. Good Brother Joe has solved our heretic problem by disguising himself as a fruit seller to gain entry to their den – his powers of blending in are amazing. With the door opened, and Lieutenant Herrick’s black company behind us, we were able to quickly subdue the handful inside."

"We could not take their leader alive," Bob apologised, "he put up such a struggle."

Joe took up the riveting narrative. "It was touch and go for a while - the leader came at us with an ensorcelled stick of celery. Did you know that the wolf priest has a fear of vegetables?"

"The details are not important!" Heimlich snapped. "We left your mercenaries in hiding to overpower, disarm and bind any cultists who appear later. With Ulrik’s blessing, the cages of the zoo should be full of song birds upon the morrow."

"Well done Heimlich and brothers. Now, I am expecting some important and easily offended guests. If you wouldn’t mind stepping out-“

The doors opened again and Rychek and Mahtis tumbled into the throne room.

Rychek was panting from the effort of running in diapers. Mahtis had a nervous, hunted look. His bonnet was askew and his apron was torn in several places and smeared with blood. From the wounds on his arms and face, it appeared that the blood was all his own.

The disguised skink delivered a breathless report. "Your grace - I mean Uncle Mahrlecht, the Locanda park is ideal for the zoo animals, but your warning about the geese near the ornamental lake was warranted. The rhinoxen went down for a wallow and were surprised by a cowardly attack from above. Mahtis sustained his wounds in a heroic rear-guard action which bought the beasts time to withdraw to the topiary. When all seemed lost for Mahtis, the pegasi counter attacked the geese’ west flank and scattered their charge. Both the Imperial Zoo forces and the geese have temporarily withdrawn to tend their wounded and fortify their positions. I fear that the bloodshed will soon commence anew and that the whole city could be drawn into the conflagration.
“I respectfully request that the pegasi be equipped with Grekian Fire and authorized to bomb the whole lake from above. It is the only way to be sure."

Elector Burkhe of Talabecland interjected from his granite throne on the side of the chamber. “Look, this is an emotional moment for all of us, okay? I know that. But let's not make snap judgements, please. This is clearly an important species we're dealing with and I don't think that you or I, or anybody, has the right to arbitrarily exterminate them.”

Mahtis frowned. “Wrong.”

Rychek backed him up. “Yeah. Watch us.”

Mahrlecht had barely enough time to draw breath before the doors crashed open again under the weight of an avalanche of clerics. Entering the hallowed throne room did not cause them to pause in their stream of invective. In fact, the heat and volume of their utterances increased such that physical violence between the men and women of faith seemed inevitable.

"Silence!" bellowed Mahrlecht in his impressive parade ground voice. "Who is it that impedes matters of state importance?"

The clamour died away. A bear-skinned and bear-sized priest of Ursun growled a belligerent reply. "And who is it that would claim the throne of the Empire without the blessing of the orders?”

"Go back to your hibernation, Griswold!" called a heckler from the back of the throng.

"My question stands!" the priest of the bear god roared.

"Mahrlecht!" shouted the Emperor Elect by way of reply.

Nigh all of the religious leaders in the room gasped at the profanity. Mahrlecht felt a claw on his shoulder and heard Bob whispering in his ear. "That name, however much it suits you, may not be fitting for this company. Could you make it seem a bit less offensive? Just alter it a little?"

The man of the moment nodded slightly and tried again. "You shall know me as Mahr… gnus. Yes, that is right. Magnus."

Silence greeted the pronouncement.

Bob whispered again, "It’s a good start. Alter it some more. Perhaps something religious sounding?"

The Emperor Elect brushed the disguised saurus warrior's claw off his arm. "I am Magnus the…the Pious."

Bob nodded vigorously. "Much better."

One of the Arch-Lectors of the Cult of Sigmar gestured savagely with his ceremonial war hammer. "See him take council from a flagellant lunatic. Would you all have a puppet of those fanatics on the throne?"

To Bob and Joe’s surprise, Father Clemens of the Order of Purity pushed to the fore in his sedan chair and raised his quavering voice. "Surely the purity and sanctity of the throne is paramount. Would you all have an Emperor to smite our debased foes only to fall to depravity himself?"

The ecumenical conflagration kindled anew and Magnus the Pious had to shout again to quench it. "For shame Holy Fathers. Would you grieve your own gods with such coarse squabble? For the sake of the heavenly patrons of this holy Empire be still.
“You," Emperor Elect Magnus the Pious singled out the Arch-Lector. "Whom do serve?"

"I serve All Conquering Sigmar, the Victorious."

"And you?" Magnus indicated Father Clemens.

"The Order of Purity serves Sigmar the Merciful. Pié Sigmar dominé, dona éis requiem." Father Clemens, his bearers and Bob and Joe lashed themselves across the shoulders at the sound of the familiar chant.

Magnus continued, “Does Holy Sigmar hear your prayers and petitions? Yes? And yours as well? Or does the God-Emperor argue with himself?"

The sheepish mumbles he received in reply were indistinct.

“Heimlich, Priest of Ulrik is skulking about here somewhere. Perhaps he could tell us whether the god of Wolves, Winter and War battles alliteratively against the gods of the righteous. Or does he perhaps war with the wicked deities of daemonkind?
“Also, I see you, Arschloch, High Maledictor of the Order of Saint Tourette. Does the Saint receive and store your curses to rain down one hundred fold upon the unrighteous? Or does he smite the ears of the righteous? Tell me which it is.”

Magnus stood up from the high throne and glared down from the dais.

“Are the enemies of the Empire in this room? Are they? They are not. I tell you, even now our enemies, the hordes of Chaos sweep out of the blighted north while you waste your breath. Soon they will beset Praag, a city filled with believers."

A lone voice was raised in challenge. “There is but modest shrine to our Lady Verena in Praag. How can you say that the city is filled with believers?"

“A fair question, Judicar. I have been there and heard first hand of the the horrors from the north. As Praag stands today, it is by the hope of her people, for if all of Kislev had fallen to despair, so the Tzardom would have fallen likewise. We would have heathen filth and daemons on our borders already, but it is not so. And if the people of Praag and Kislev cling to their hope, then what other than faith can sustain it? Those who are not standing at their posts on the walls are surely on their knees in the temples.
“You who claim to be wise should follow the example of your gods and the example of those who turn to them in this our of need. Do not war with each other. Instead join together to smite the scions of evil. Join together for the Holy Empire and her gods! For the Holy Empire and her gods! For the Holy Empire and her gods!”

The chant was taken up by the electors and court officials. Soon after, the various priests joined in.

“Wait! What of the heathen elves who overshadow this city?" someone called out.

"Let them join our crusade or be swept aside like excrement!" another voice replied. A high pitched voice.

"Otto?" Elector Arnulf pulled the Vice Regal Arse Wiper out of the group of clerics by his ear. "What are you doing here still? We will attend to your claim after the succession."

Magnus seized the initiative again. “Let the elves be answerable to their own gods as we are answerable to our own. We, who meet here this day must choose: Will we stand together for the Empire and her people, or will we fight among ourselves and surrender to Chaos by default?"

A yet more powerful voice interjected. It emphasized its primacy by the use of colloquial language. “I've bleeping heard enough. Get down here you little bleep.”

The Emperor Elect, Magnus the Pious flinched and obediently climbed down from the dais. He stood to attention, swallowing nervously.

High Maledictor Arschloch of the Order of Saint Tourette pushed through his peers. He circled Magnus like a wolf, noting every blemish.

The Emperor Elect had not bathed nor slept for two days. He wore the scored cuirass and torn black hose he had borne from the battle that morn and they were smeared with blood, dirt, and soot.

"Look at you. You are a bleeping disgrace to the bleeping Empire." Arschloch did up the Emperor Elect’s top button and continued in a hoarse whisper. "Do you even have a clean bleeping pocket handkerchief?"

The Emperor Elect now looked genuinely anxious. He held up his empty hands. “No. I gave it to-“

“What would mother say?"

The Mahrlecht shuddered. "I dread to think."

The High Maledictor of the Order of Saint Tourette smiled. "You bleeping dread to think, do you? No one could describe our mother as being anything less than bleeping devout in her observances to Saint Tourette."

He took a clean pocket handkerchief from his own robes and furtively pressed it into the Emperor Elect’s hand. As he did so, he asked, "Are you sure about the name change?”

Magnus glanced at the stern clerics before him and nodded. Arschloch turned back towards the assembly of holy men.

“I swear for Saint Tourette in this matter. And I say screw this bleeping Emperor Magnus. And screw you all.” The High Maledictor gave a one fingered gesture to everyone in the room before taking his place one step behind the Emperor Elect.

The assembled priests and priestesses smiled and nodded. Many of them gave their own signs of blessing in return.

Father Clemens of the Order of Purity creaked down from his sedan chair and tottered forward. He put his arm around the Emperor Elect's shoulders and spoke to him gently.

"I don't know what sort man you have been, young fellow, but every man hides secrets.” He tapped Magnus on the chest with the haft of his whip. “Some have more secrets than others."

Magnus drew breath to speak but the old purifier cut him off.

"What is past does not matter, only that you are on the path to purity. I see that the Brothers Elwood and Jakob are with you. I release them from their usual observances so that they may guard your purity and your person from this day forth."

The cowled brothers swished their flails to show that they understood the significance and gravity of their new holy calling.

Clemens raised his hands heavenwards. “May the Emperor, Magnus the Pious live long in purity." Then he moved beside Brother Arschloch who lent an arm to keep the old man steady.

The Priest of Taal spoke next, which was somewhat of a surprise. Many present knew that he was much more comfortable communing with nature and beasts than making speeches. Indeed, many present were surprised that he was even wearing trousers. "The beasts fought at your side this morn. The world already knows that Mighty Taal blesses you. His cult is with you, Emperor Magnus."

One by one, the other leaders vouched their support, some with words of blessing, others in more demonstrative fashion. Freya, Abbess of the Sisters of Occasional Chastity showed the favour of Rhya, the goddess of abundance and fertility by giving a lingering kiss on the lips. "Call me," she whispered into the startled Emperor's ear.

Finally all had spoken and taken station behind the throne, except for Wolf Priest Heimlich, the Grand Theogenist of the Cult of Sigmar, and his two Arch-Lectors. The Lectors held between them an ornate casket. The Theogenist, Gadrim the Stern, was old but he stood with a straight back and squared shoulders that spoke of a life time of military training and discipline.

"The Cult of Sigmar is not blind to darkness that threatens the Empire of Sigmar. Our brothers in Kislev have sent word of what is to come. War like no man has seen before is upon us and the Empire is ill prepared for it. An Empire without an Emperor has been a travesty. So also would be an Emperor without his legacy.”

The Lectors opened the casket. Inside, on a velvet bolster, lay the Ghal Maraz.

The Ghal Maraz was the war hammer which was wielded over two millennia previously by God-Emperor Sigmar himself, and by each subsequent Emperor. Its name is rendered 'Skull-Splitter' in the common tongue. This was evidence of both the un-poetic nature of the dwarf artisan who wrought it and the efficacy of the weapon. Its potency did not come from its name, although many a creature of darkness would shudder at its utterance. Its power came from the perfection of its forging and the master runes which intertwined across its surface and suffused its core.

"The Cult of Sigmar has held the Ghal Maraz in trust, awaiting one worthy of its heritance," the Grand Theogenist declared and gestured for Magnus to take up the hammer.

The Emperor Elect stepped forward and gingerly lifted it. As soon as his hand closed on the haft he found that he believed without question the fabulous stories of the weapon’s effectiveness. Despite its obvious mass, Ghal Maraz hefted as easily as his own duelling sword. He couldn’t tell if this was from some quality of the weapon or if it had lent its strength to his arm.

He held the weapon high and noted that he had the undivided attention of everyone in the room. “In the name of Holy Sigmar," he said gravely, "and the other gods of the Empire, and before these witnesses,” he took a slow breath, “I renounce my claim to the Ghal Maraz and to the Imperial throne.”

The crowd gasped.

Magnus continued, “I renounce this claim until the Chaos Hordes are scattered, the Elven threat resolved, and until such time as I have been proven worthy. I have not earned the right to bear this title and authority.”

He replaced the Ghal Maraz in its casket and closed the lid.

Gadrim cleared his throat. “I cannot compel you to carry this weapon, nor any other. However, I can command you to kneel, Graf Mahrlecht von Bildhoven of Nuln, second son of a minor house, mercenary and rogue. Yes, I know who you are.”

The Grand Theogenist rested his own ceremonial war hammer on each of the kneeling man’s shoulders.

“When you rise, you will be Emperor Magnus the Pious. And no, you did not earn this title or choose to take the authority that goes with it, but you cannot alter the fact that we who are assembled here under the stern gaze of our gods have chosen you to bear them."

The throne room doors burst open again.

"Sirs! A great portent is in the sky! You must see it at once!" The excited speaker was a bushy bearded individual wearing a soiled smock. He urgently gestured back through the doors of the throne room with a loam caked shovel.

Theogenist Gadrim scowled at the messenger. "We are just in the middle of something important."

"A twin-tailed comet shares the sky with the setting sun and the full moon! A portent of great significance!"

Many voices rose in a confused uproar.

"Holy Sigmar's comet? Nonsense!"
"Let me see."
"Aiee! Cometh the Fangs of Sotek! Cometh the Fangs of Sotek!”
"Well that's no ordinary rabbit."
"Purify yourselves, I said! Purify yourselves before the end times. You should have listened. No, you may not borrow my whip, Elector Arnulf, it is too late for that."

The throne room emptied as holy men, electors, lizardmen and Imperial functionaries all hurried outside to gaze at the skies.

As he knelt in the middle of the deserted chamber, Emperor Magnus the Pious felt the loneliness of high office for the first time in his entire reign.

 

I am so far behind on this book now. Everytime I go on this thread I'm scared I'm going to glimpse something in a later chapter and spoil somethin

 

One more chapter to go - just read that and you don't need to worry about the rest.

If you don't even have enough time for that...

Spoiler: the butlersaurus

did it

 

Heresy. I'm going to read every last word!

 

Chapter 25 The Grand Alliance


Dragon Mage Finreir was ill suited to diplomacy. He would have preferred to set the city alight with dragon fire rather than stand around, filling the numbers for Arch Mage Finreir's delegation. The subsequent hours of delay and numerous vague insults eroded what little tolerance he possessed.

"The lowest sailor of our fleet has nobler lineage than these dogs, yet they make us wait like beggars at the scullery door,” he growled.

Yrtle arched an elegant eyebrow. "We seek to use them for dire purpose. Do you wish they were fawning puppies? Far better if they are wolves."

"Quietly, lords." Teclis added a word of caution. "These dogs, as you name them, have ears. And teeth." He inclined his head towards the wooden-faced door-wardens.

Finreir waved a dismissive hand. "Their teeth do not impress me. I saw them squabble ineffectually this morn, and over what? A scrap of land or a base cottage, no doubt. They are ill suited to our purpose."

The conversation was interrupted by the passage of yet another boorish human, this one wearing the costume of a rustic gardener. The elves watched in disbelief as he forced his way past them and through the doors.

"Whether they are wolves or curs, we still have need of them," said Teclis philosophically.

Yrtle replied, "that may be so, child, but if we are to avoid being bitten ourselves, the human dogs must be leashed and brought to heel. This Emperor will kneel before the ancient authority of the Asur. I have foreseen it."

Barely a second later, the throne room doors nearly burst off their hinges as men stampeded out as if pursued by hell-hounds. Only the near supernatural reflexes of the three elf lords saved them from being trampled. When the human tide had passed, the elves observed that the throne room doors were ajar. They peered into the dim throne room beyond.

There they saw a man in dirty clothes kneeling on the marble flags holding a scrap of white cloth. It seemed that he had been cleaning the floor. He nodded to the envoys and called out.

"Sigmar preserve us. There goes the High Council of the Empire." He wearily climbed up from his knees and stuffed the cloth into his tunic.

"You may as well enter, sirs. The council will return all too soon. I seem to be known as Magnus. Magnus the Pious, among other more cumbersome titles. There is a board with refreshments here, and it has been a long and taxing day. Will you join me?"

The man didn't wait for a response. He led the way to the side board and drew up four stools which had been lurking in the shadows.

Finreir was speechless with anger at being received by a mere servant. Yrtle was lost at sea without the compass of protocol and formality to guide him. It was left to Teclis to chart their course through these unknown waters.

“Our thanks, Good Magnus. We will stand to await the return of the High Council.”

“Suit yourself.” Magnus sloshed a good portion of rich Estalian red wine into a goblet. “Perhaps it is best if you explain what errand brings you to the Imperial City. I could intercede for you before the Empire's bold leaders jump to hasty conclusions. They are a little excitable on this surprisingly auspicious day.”

Finreir found his voice again. “It beggars belief that such a rabble could lead anything. If the Empire of Man cannot rule itself, then it must be ruled by others.”

Magnus raised his eyebrows and tore off a chunk of bread. “Cannot rule itself?” he asked around the crusty mouthful.

The Dragon Mage continued. “When the Asur quit these shores four thousand years ago, the uncouth savages of this land were bickering among themselves over who possessed the least wretched hovel. How little has changed.”

“How little has changed?” The man moved thoughtfully back to his goblet.

“We have borne witness to your futile civil war just this morn. A divided house will fall.”

Magnus’ eyebrows rose again. He looked genuinely confused. “To which civil war do you refer?”

“Don’t act the fool. This morning, three armies contested the field beside the river.”

Magnus chuckled as comprehension seemed to dawn. “A civil war, eh? Of course you elves know best about those. What you saw this morn were merely the Imperial Millennial War Games. Did you enjoy the spectacle?”

“War games?” Finreir blurted, “many were injured and killed.”

“We play hard.” Magnus’ maintained his easy demeanour, but an edge had appeared in his voice. “Now, before you repeat your notion that the Holy Empire of Men cannot rule or defend itself, and...” he held up a hand to stifle Teclis’ extenuation, “...before you get to stating your business, I feel it is only fair to remind you that it is a very long swim back to Ulthuan.”

Finreir abruptly regained his sense of humour, “Ha! You threaten a fleet of eight score vessels. You are a fool indeed. We can pluck your long cannon off your wall as fast as you can reload them.”

“Obviously you have never experienced Bullenscheisse-Krieg Cannon. They need only fire once and… this charade will be over.”

“Bullenscheisse-Krieg?” Teclis’ piercing black eyes locked Magnus’ own. He could detect no actual lie, but his insight told him there was an illusion being spun. The red cloaked elf probed further, “Perhaps there is more to your tale. Or less."

Magnus pulled his eyes away to examine the refreshment board. “Do you think I tell tales? I am not interested in bluffing, thus I shall not dissemble." He selected a shiny apple.

"Can you imagine that with one volley your fleet would join countless others beneath the surface.” His inspection of the fruit precluded Magnus from meeting Teclis’ eyes.

“One volley of cannonade to sink one hundred and sixty ships? Bah!” Finreir’s words conveyed blistering contempt.

Magnus withdrew a dagger from his boot and he began carefully peeling the apple. His attention remained on his task as he continued his unlikely words of warning.

“No indeed, Sir. However, damaging ten ships will suffice. Your farthest ten ships.” The man cut slices from the apple with excessive precision.

“The tangle of wreckage will block your fleet’s escape while the river surface is flooded with oil from the city. I have flint and steel about me, somewhere. I may even light the river afire myself. Do you swim, sirs? I only dog paddle.”

Magnus risked a glance upwards to see if his outrageous bluff had succeeded. Finreir’s eyes showed all the friendliness of a beaten wyvern. Yrtle chewed his lower lip thoughfully.

Teclis was another matter. His steady black eyes showed that he suspected that the Bullenscheisse-Krieg Cannon were only so much bullenscheisse. Worse than that, Teclis knew that Magnus knew that he knew that Magnus’ threat was a ruse, and that Magnus knew so, and so on and so forth. Yet, for his own reasons, the elf mage kept his council. Magnus wondered what this complicity would cost him later.

Yrtle came to a decision about how to handle the matter and smoothly steered the dangerous discourse away from the abyss. “Magnus, we should brook no understanding,” he declared. “We High Elves return to these shores foremost as a spear to smite the vassals of Chaos. This we must do before they obliterate the world of order and light. We would have humans, the Shield of the Empire with us, as a weapon paired with the Spear of Asur.”

The sudden return of the High Council prevented Magnus from accepting the olive branch that the Arch Mage had offered. The council members were abuzz with theories on the implication of the appearance of the twin tailed comet. However, the circular discussions eventually faded away due to the obvious fact that no one had the remotest idea what the comet's return meant.

A flagellant monk peered around the dim chamber as if he had just realized he had lost something. “Yoohoo? Your Imperial Majesty?”

“I am here, Brother Bob,” declared Magnus and he stepped from the shadows. Behind him, Yrlte looked surprised and Finreir looked affronted. Teclis looked smug.

“I bid you all to welcome our esteemed guests; Yrtle, Arch Mage of Eataine; Finreir, Dragon Mage of Caledor and Teclis, Mage of Hoeth.”

The elves reluctantly came forward. As they did so, Finreir snarled to Magnus in a low voice, "When we entered, I took you for the court jester. Now it seems you are the Emperor of Fools."

Magnus blithely ignored him. Instead he addressed the returned dignitaries. "Our guests have come far, seeking war. I’m sure you will join me in delight because they have found it. The High Elves of Ulthuan will join us in our Holy Crusade to eradicate the Evil of Chaos from the Empire and the lands of our allies.”

Members of the council advanced cautious words of affirmation, which was as positive a response as Magnus could have hoped for under the circumstances. His new mission was to get everyone out of the throne room before some fool caused offence.

"Emperor Magnus, what of my neglected claim to justice and reparation?" a high pitched voice shouted.

Magnus could have wept. "Yes, your neglected claim. Now that the lesser business of state security has been concluded, let Otto, Guildsman of the Society of… recently the hand behind the eminent Graf Stadtler, and now seemingly adherent to this court stand forth.”

The throng made way for the little man to approach the Emperor.

“Good Otto, your claim has been neglected for too long, but I ask one further indulgence before the matter is adjudicated - before he and his compatriots depart, I ask that you would clasp hands with Lord Finreir before he and his compatriots depart. Do this in order to cement the bond between elves and men. I hope that this will leave a mark redolent with the esteem with which I now hold him.”

 

And there it is, 59898 words later (or 130 pages or 0.77 Philosopher's Stones)

I eventually adopted the strategy of getting the last third out quickly because I wasn't going to make massive improvements to this draft - because I had already moved a lot further forward with the stuff I was actively writing. This had the disadvantage that stuff was coming out much faster than my proof reading posse could correct. I will do a cosmetic clean up in the next few weeks.

I am aware of a number of issues with the story which I will specifically seek suggestions on later, but for now, dear reader, I would love some (any) general feedback - particularly what didn't work for you, but also what (if anything) did work well - so I can do more of that stuff in future.

I am happy for warts and all discussion on this thread, or PM if you prefer