Home Waters

Four stories of the Crisis in Marienburg
By Alexander Patrick Vement


1. Reikland Never Whispers

On the last day of Pflugzeit, I watched the executions in the Plaza of the Golden Compassion of Sigmar. The criminals filed out under the hooded eyes of the militia, grey in the morning air, pale and hopeless as frost. We gathered around the scaffold, packed numberless into the square, our faces eager. The priest led us in prayer, then brought to each criminal the peace of Divine Sigmar, the sign of the Hammer marked in black ash upon the forehead.

So it was. We, the crowd, clamoured for blood. When the executioners stripped the criminals and cast their clothing to us, we cheered. When they bound them, one by one, to the instruments of salvation we laughed with anticipation. When they began, oh, when they began...

Iron and blood, wood and bone. Thus perishes the sinner, proclaims the inscription upon the scaffold, let you who look upon this beware! Yet I watched them saw the limbs from the tailor, my neighbour, and I know he loved to watch the executions more than most. Sin is punished with sin. The blood of the guilty made all of us guilty.

On the first day of Sigmarzeit, I watched the Emperor receive the new month's blessing on the steps of the Cathedral of the Glory of Sigmar. He looked so small, his older wife by his side with her eager hand encircling his, the Grand Theogonist flapping round his shoulders like a crow. The heavy crown on his head, the tip of the scabbarded Runefang touching the floor, the wooden facsimile of Sigmar's Hammer that the Theogonist presented him with. No one alive has seen the real Hammer. Such empty splendour. I looked away, and could have cried.

Hermann was just a boy, but married three years already. Rosina was twice his age, with a dead war hero for a first husband and coldness in her eyes that threatened to crack her perfect face. As they turned and faced the crowd, the Theogonist draped white and grey silk about their shoulders. His hand lingered on Hermann's neck, and the boy shuddered. I saw the look on Fulmar's face - the leering, pawing old man. The Emperor was still only a boy.

A cheer rose among the weary crowd, started by priests who stood here and there among the layfolk, steel-tongued whips at their belts. The Emperor began to speak. His voice carried well, but he stumbled over the words again and again. The Countess of Wissenland smiled warmly, but I saw the irritation in her gaze. Fulmar had his hand on the Emperor's back. The boy had lost his place in the speech completely. I looked away again.

The crowd were really a wretched sight, and it's plain they had no appetite for ceremony. When did the city of Sigmar become a prison? Even the Emperor is a prisoner here.

"...to you, my people, most beloved of Sigmar-"

I cheered with the others as the Emperor completed the speech. But I saw him flinch as he said the word 'beloved,' and I wondered if it was the touch of his wife or that of the Grand Theogonist that he would recoil from, if he could. Fulmar raised his staff to call for silence, and the Emperor began to speak again.

"My people, I have the gravest news to impart to you. Late last night, we finally received an answer from the city of Marienburg. Count Philip will not yield. He does not recognise our authority, nor that of the Church of Holy Sigmar, nor yet common decency. He will see our people starve, and Sigmar's Empire ruined."

Cries of hatred burst from the crowd. I felt sure that they, at least, were not stage-managed, for I found my own voice joining them.

"But our Brother L'Anguille stands with us. His ships will break the traitor's fleet, and our armies - the armies of Sigmar himself - will shatter the walls of Marienburg!"

The crowd cheered with a fervour that came from months - years - of hunger and desperation. Then a dark figure broke from among them and levelled a pistol at the Emperor. I moved, despite myself, to catch hold of that figure, to grab its arm and wrench it away before it could pull the trigger. In that moment, I was ready to kill to protect a man, no, a boy, that I both pitied and hated.

But I was too far away, and there were too many others with the same intentions. The gun went off at the sky, and the dark figure vanished beneath a turmoil of tearing, savage bodies. A minute more and the Emperor’s guards were beating the mob with the butts of their halberds. When they uncovered the body, horribly broken and utterly dead, I was surprised to see that it had been a woman.

The Emperor was gone, whisked away by the guards along with his wife and Sigmar’s worldly representative. In the rush, he’d dropped the painted wooden replica of Sigmar’s Hammer. It had bounced down the cathedral steps and landed in a puddle near my feet. I stared at it, as it floated in the filthy water. The paint was peeling off it. It looked so cheap.


2. Forwards

"Did you arrive in time for the Emperor's speech?" Otto smiled, setting down his beer and taking a puff on his pipe.

Renetta shook her head, very slightly, "I'm afraid I was too late. The tides were not in my favour."

"Well then. You'll be wanting to hear about it, I think," he paused, laughing, "but perhaps you can guess what Titus-Artur had to say."

"Perhaps I can. Let me see: he began with a self-consciously devout prayer to Ulric."

"That's a good start. I can see you know his habits."

"I should hope I do. Next: let's say he spoke, movingly and at length, of the endurance and faithfulness of his people in the face of foreign evils-"

"Very good!"

"-and praised that of the people of Carroburg especially!"

"Perfect!" Otto raised his mug, and Renatta tapped it with her own. "Cheers!"

"For the next part," Renatta continued, her brow furrowing, "I shall have to draw on my own sources for inspiration."

"There are none better."

"Thank you. He reminded the audience of his ultimatum to Count Philip, given at the end of last year. Then he spoke at length - because he is a long-winded man - of the corruptions and vices endemic in Marienburg."

"And very lurid it was too. It rather made me wish I was there instead of here."

"I'm sure you weren't alone in that wish. The Emperor then declared that Count Philip had sent back an insulting refusal. Maybe together with a cartoon of the Emperor with a donkey's head or something of that kind."

"It wasn't a donkey's head, but you have the right idea."

"So, he proclaimed a state of holy war against Marienburg and all its allies, with threats against Emperor Hermann thrown in for good measure. Oh, and the usual anti-Nordland rhetoric of course."

"Lest we forget. If the Emperor is to be believed, we've been on the brink of crushing the Nordlanders for eleven years now."

"Has it been eleven years since he took the throne? They have simply flown by."

"I know. Twelve years ago, our beloved Emperor-"

Renatta interrupted him, "Yours, not mine."

"Twelve years ago, My beloved Emperor was only Baron Titus, Proxy-Elector of Wissenland. Young. Utterly un-electable."

"Proxy-Elector indeed! I don't think I'll ever get used to Middenlander politics. So, he has Marius to thank?"

"That's right. The Otillia put a final end to the persecution of Sigmarites in his lands. That upset the Ulrican clergy no end, and all the really angry ones came over to our side. So, Titus saw the way the wind was blowing and he bought into Ulric in a massive way."

"There's nothing more admirable than true faith."

"It's enough to make you weep. Soon enough he had most of the serious Ulricanists on his side. When he seized Middenheim, the Electors were forced to recognise him as Emperor."

"And that's when he took the name of the city's founder."

"Oh yes. That's one of my favourite parts of the story. He held a huge public ceremony of thanks in Ulric's honour, and held a vigil at the High Temple - praying all night before the sacred flame. When that was over, he had himself crowned Titus-Artur. I've never seen anything so nauseatingly calculated. I bet old Ulric was about ready to vent His Divine Guts over the whole thing."

"What a lovely image. You really have a way with words."

"Don't I just. Anyway, next thing you know Titus has created twelve new Electors, all of them high-ups in the Cult of Ulric. At that point, he had the throne well in hand."

"Until one of his new Electors had him poisoned, anyway."

"Well, to be fair, that only happened a couple of years ago. And it was your lot that arranged it, or so I hear."

"I wouldn't like to comment."

"Since the poisoning, he doesn't trust anyone. And who could blame him? He's surrounded by his Norse Guards all the time, because he's bought their loyalty several times over. Each of them is as rich as an Elector, or so people say, so they'll fight like crazy to protect him. They even have to help him stand up, some days."

"The poison took his strength, I suppose"

"Just so. But you'd know more than I."

Renatta coughed. "You were going to tell me how the speech ended."

"You've had enough of guessing? Fine. Well, it ended like it began, with a great deal of praying. The Emperor quoted some lines from one of the holy texts, something about raising your voices to the Father of All in blessed supplication, or some such rubbish."

Renatta raised one eyebrow. "Blasphemy? Does this mean you are coming around to my way of thinking?"

Otto snorted. "It's not Blasphemy! Ulric's a soldier's god, and he doesn't have any need for flowery words and empty praise. You serve Ulric by doing your duty in battle, not by grovelling to Him on your knees, with one eye on the clouds and one on the collection plate. No, there're parts in the holy texts that come from Ulric, but they aren't the parts full of metaphors and pretty words. I think the priests put those parts in themselves. They aren't for soldiers, and they shouldn't be for Emperors either."

"There's something to what you say. My side isn't so different from yours."

Otto glanced at the darkening sky. "Speaking of your side, isn't it about time you were returning to it?"

Renatta sighed and drained her cup. "Yes, I suppose it is. We both have reports to make. Until next time then."

"Until next time."


3. Lions

For the attention of Jakob Rotenbaum, Presiding Speaker, The Council of Trade:

Jakob,

I am writing to you from The Perfect Trout tavern at the dockside in Hargendorf, having just returned from my voyage on the Dwarf Ironclad Cost of Living (This is the translation of the ship's name that I was given by the Admiral. It seems suspect to me: I will have a scribe look into it). Before beginning this letter, it was necessary for me to imbibe two glasses of brandy in order to restore myself to some measure of composure. The brandy, by the way, is from your own order - the Dwarfs brought it with them. It is an excellent vintage, warm and full without being heavy. I shall drink another when this letter is complete.

Now: composure, I say, and with good reason. For today I met Zan Nagnoli, who some call 'The Ironmonger,' in person, and I could scarcely be more disconcerted in mind, more desolate in spirit! The man, that is to say the Dwarf, is, for want of a better word, impossible. I cannot work with him.

Let me explain the events in an orderly fashion. As planned, I travelled aboard our own ship Wave of Castigation, which is a trading vessel lately refitted with many fine bronze guns. The Wave was escorted by two Otillian galleys and a Kislevite frigate. Nagnoli's fleet, some fifteen vessels in all, and only part of his full command (or so I was told), met us near the Knifewater Rock, three miles north-northwest from Hargendorf. The rock, by the way, is quite large and bears many unusual carvings that are attributed to the sea peoples of the sixth century (in the Jutonic reckoning). The Elf Ships used the rock as cover when they made their attack.

Back to the Dwarf ships. I noticed three or perhaps four different configurations, all of them fitted with steel armour, rotating guns and steam-driven paddle wheels. They are darkly coloured, which Nagnoli says is the Dwarf preference. He had much to say on the colourful appearance of our own ships, and I will not repeat it here. If you are curious, I suggest asking him yourself when, in due course, you have the pleasure of making his acquaintance.

We ran up the appropriate flags to signal a welcome, and received a reply from one of the larger ships. This was Nagnoli’s flagship, and I took a boat across to it and directly came to be upon the bridge. Nagnoli is very long of beard, even for a Dwarf, and his eyes are something akin to steel lances. He spoke in short phases, which he barked at me in the manner one might address a disobedient dog. I found myself, almost at once, regretting my decision to accept the post of Chartered Legate, and regretting even more the not inconsiderable fee I paid for the privilege. I may ask for compensation.

As I mentioned in passing, something in the order of an hour after I boarded the Dwarf ship, three Elf vessels appeared over the horizon from the south west. These ships, smaller than the Otillian Galleys but better-rigged and swifter (with white hulls, and golden lions upon the sails), came in very fast using the Knifewater Rock to screen them from fire. They were armed with catapults, and sent a volley at the Kislev frigate (the name of which, I’m afraid, I cannot recall). At once, the frigate sprang into flame, prow to stern. Whereupon the Elf ships turned rapidly and sailed away.

“Alchemical fire,” Nagnoli barked at me, “the Oath-breakers love it. We taught them how to make it. But our own is much better.”

I was quite shocked to see his apparent indifference to the plight of the Kislev ship, and told him so. He simply shrugged. I reminded him that we are allies, and he said “Allies. Not Nursemaids.”

Despairing of obtaining help for the Kislevites, who had already abandoned their vessel and were being picked up by the Wave and the galleys, I asked him if he would at least go after the Elves.

“The wolves will bring them down,” was all he would say.

Later, Nagnoli had his ship travel south-west for somewhat more than a mile, where I saw wreckage floating on the sea. It was white wood, the remains of more than one ship. There was a gilded figurehead bobbing near our prow, a graceful image of a rampant lion. A shadow passed beneath it, a great dark shape like a gigantic fish.

“There,” Nagnoli told me, “the wolves have eaten.”


Yours in anticipation of blissful alcoholic stupor,

Ernst Rottenbaum,

Chartered Legate of the Council of Trade, so on and so forth.


4. One Sick Verse

"Her name means The Scythe of Hope, in your language." the elf told him. He looked into her face of sharp curves and bloodless skin, and thought it uncomfortably alien.

"It is a wonderful ship," he replied, with his eyes averted from hers to scan instead across the pallid deck, "and an honour to be aboard."

"An honour." she repeated, without emphasis.

The Scythe sliced the water in a manner more representative of a surgeon's scalpel, and he told the elf so; she replied that scalpel was another possible translation, for her language had many subtleties that could not be conveyed to him. He frowned, and stared at the water.

Soon he was stepping from a ladder of soft rope onto the Imperial Barge, two knights before him and two after. The barge sat heavy in the water, rolling with every motion. He looked at its gaudy decorations, its crudeness, then looked back at the elf ship. At rest, it sat immobile as a reef; when it moved again, it seemed to dance before its empty sails. Helmut whispered to him that the elves would carry away his soul in such a craft, and he staggered against the railing.

"Majesty?" The secretary sounded concerned.

"Only the sea," he told him. "has anything occurred during my voyage?"

"Yes, Majesty." the man hesitated. "The emissaries of the Reman Despot and the Doge of Tobarro have been detained for fighting on the steps of the Grand Assembly Hall. Ah. Each group wished to be the first to greet you on your return to shore."

Helmut was singing again, in his dry, monotonous voice. "Konrad was a evil beast, a thing of ruined blood..."

"The King of Bilbali has returned to... Majesty?"

"I am listening. Go on."

"But Konrad's crime was yet the least,  though stopped the heart and took the feast, of sacred royal blood."

"To... to his home, saying that the northern weather is not to his liking. His troops remain here, with the exception of his personal guard."

"I see."

"And... well... the council have received formal notice of war from both Graf Titus-Artur and Grand Prince Hermann. In your absence the council have voted to reciprocate. We are at war."

"The blood is on the brother's hand, a villain through and through..."

"War." He looked into the secretary's worried face, and saw Helmut reflected in the man's eyes.

"There is more, Majesty. At dawn, the steel ships of the so-called League of Traders broke through our blockade north-east of Aarnau. They sank three frigates and a Galleas. We must consider ourselves at war with them also."

"For Phillip left his guarded land, and Helmut there alone to stand, then Konrad ran him through."

"War." He repeated. He shook his head.

"Majesty? Are you unwell?"

"It's such bad poetry," he said. "An Emperor should be ashamed to taunt another in such bad verse."

The secretary looked bewildered. But reflected in his eyes, Phillip saw Helmut sweep his hat from his head in a mocking bow.