“The fox fears the wolf, the wolf fears the boar, the boar fears the ogre. What an animal fears is as much a part of it as its fur or teeth. What an animal fears is part of what defines it, but Strigany are not animals.”
– From the Ode to Ushoran “It’s really quite simple, your lordship,” Stirland’s chancellor told him, as his liege paced up and down the great hall of his castle. “As we have discussed, there is a key for every lock, and the key for Averland is the Strigany.”
“But it’s ridiculous,” Stirland said. “What does he care what happens to the Strigany? If they rob the burghers it serves the swine right. To think of all the trouble I had getting my tribute from Arnborst this year. I still say we should have hung some of the burghers. Burghers! Like they’re any better than honest peasants who pay their tithes.”
“Yes,” the chancellor said vaguely as he watched his master pace. It was always this way. The elector count always ended up arriving at the right decision, but, by Sigmar’s balls, he always took the longest route to get there. The click of Stirland’s boot heels echoed off the granite walls of the empty hall, and his face worked with thought. It worked hard. The chancellor waited.
“Anyway,” Stirland said, gesturing towards his chancellor, “I like the Strigany. Old Tilly is the best damn horse trainer I’ve ever had. I think that even Heinz might have some Strigany in him, the old villain. We were lucky to have a man in the cells to behead in his place. As it is, he’s got to stay in hiding until Averland leaves, even though he was well within his rights to clip him.”
“Within his rights, your lordship? To strike a nobleman?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” A moment of unaccustomed doubt flickered across the count’s face. Then it was gone, washed away by a happier memory.
“I remember my younger days, too. When I was a student in Altdorf… Well, let’s just say that Strigany girls leave nothing to be desired, nothing at all.”
The count leered happily at the memory, and the chancellor resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“I doubt if Averland will be persuaded by that argument, my lord,” he suggested, and Stirland barked with laughter.
“I doubt you’re wrong,” he scoffed, “weak-blooded bastard that he is. He even sent Gertrude away, you say?”
“Yes, my lord,” the chancellor said, nodding. Gertrude had been sent to ease Averland’s discomfort after the hunting expedition. “She said he looked quite terrified when she offered to… well, you know, comfort him.”
Stirland chuckled.
“Doesn’t like hunting, doesn’t like drinking, doesn’t like women. I don’t know what’s wrong with…”
The count stopped pacing, a sudden suspicion burning in his eyes. He looked around, and lowered his tone, before voicing his concern.
“You don’t think he’s a cultist, do you? A follower of one of the Dark Gods, Sigmar curse them?”
“No,” the chancellor reassured him, “even the witch hunters would hesitate to equate a lack of appetite with the worship of the Dark Gods. No, he’s just weak-blooded, or perhaps more than that. I recently received a letter from my old friend Professor Fritz Van Jungenblaumen from Marienburg. He has a theory that the raising of a babe can affect the way it behaves in later life.”
“That’s Averland stuffed then,” Stirland leered. “Remember his mother? Challenged the top courtesan in Altdorf to a competition, apparently. Won, too. Not that she wasn’t a damned fine-looking woman in her day. I saw a painting of her once. Had an arse like two pigs in a blanket. Lovely.”
“Jungenblaum’s theory would certainly hint at a connection between the character of the countess and the nervousness of her son in these matters.” The chancellor nodded.
Stirland grunted. “Makes some sort of sense, I suppose. Still, don’t see why he should have it in for the Strigany.”
“Jungenblaum theorises that, in order to survive, the fragile mind projects those parts of itself that it finds disturbing onto other individuals or groups. In this way, it sublimates unpleasant feelings, and protects its vestige of pride.”
“What’s that mean in Reikspiel?”
“Averland’s a lunatic.”
“I could have told you that,” Stirland said. Then he sighed. “But I understand what you’re saying. By playing along with Averland’s foibles, and helping him to persecute the Strigany, we’ll make him our ally.”
“Precisely. It’s always better to go with the grain of a man’s character. That’s why, if you remember my liege, I advised against taking him hunting.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Stirland said, waving the comment away. “Never mind that now. What we have to decide is, what should we suggest be done to the Strigany?”
The chancellor looked down at his immaculately polished fingernails. “There have been precedents, from history.”
“What precedents?”
The chancellor looked at Stirland.
Stirland looked back.
“No. Oh no, there’ll be none of that. Nothing worse than the unsporting spilling of blood, even Strigany blood, damn them.”
“In that case, perhaps you would care to read the proclamation I have prepared? It should provide Averland with what he desires, and us with the basis of our alliance.”
Stirland unfurled the scroll his chancellor handed him with a wry smile. The old rogue always seemed to know where their deliberations would end. Then, he read the proclamation, and the smile left his face.
“This is a bit strong,” he said.
“As strong as it needs to be,” the chancellor said, “without spilling blood, at least, not too much.”
“And you’re sure there’s nobody else we could better ally ourselves with?”
“My lord, I believe that we have already discussed that exhaustively.”
“Well, stuff it then,” Stirland said, frowning, “I’ll do it. Damned if I like it though.”
“Yes, my lord,” the chancellor said, and, with a bow, he left his master to his thoughts. In the same hall, a couple of hours later, the Elector Counts of Averland and Stirland met, neither of them realising exactly what they were about to set in train. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight streamed in through the high, narrow windows. The light warmed almost every flagstone of the hall, but when the counts met to embrace they found that they were standing in a patch of darkness.
Stirland ignored the feeling that this was an omen. Instead, he gestured his guest towards a table, and the platter that awaited them.
“Take a seat, Lord Averland,” he said, “and have a glass of wine with me.”
“Thank you,” Averland said, “although I’d prefer a glass of boiled water.”
He still sounded as if he had the flu, Stirland noticed. The hunt master’s fist had crushed his nose nicely. Congratulating himself on saving the old villain by executing a poacher instead, Stirland poured a goblet of boiled water for his guest, and, after a moment’s hesitation, poured water for himself, too.
The things we do for diplomacy he thought, as he drank the damned stuff.
“So,” he said, sitting down at the table, and looking across at Averland, “it’s been a real pleasure having you as my guest. Your tastes are obviously more sophisticated than mine.” Sigmar forgive me for the lies, he thought. “I must say, I’m glad you were such a good sport about the hunting.”
“Yes,” Averland said, his tone miserable, and his eyes as downcast as always. “By the way, my aides tell me that the lunatic who attacked me was executed this afternoon.”
“That’s right,” Stirland said. “I did send you an invitation, but your man told me you were otherwise engaged.”
Averland shivered. “I’ve never liked the sight of blood,” he said, and took a sip of water.
“Anyway,” Stirland said, and, clearing his throat, he started reciting the lines his chancellor had given him. “Although I’m a little embarrassed by the rustic nature of my court, I am glad to have learnt so much from you.”
“Really?” Averland asked, scepticism evident on his face.
“Oh yes,” Stirland lied, “especially about the Strigany. I never realised quite what a plague they were.”
Averland looked as if he’d been slapped. His eyes, usually hooded and downcast, flashed as they fixed on Stirland, and his pallid complexion exploded in blossoms of red and white. Meanwhile, his mouth, usually a miserable frown, twisted into a feral snarl.
Sigmar, thought Stirland, what did I say?
Then Averland spoke, and Stirland realised that the sudden blast furnace of hatred that had opened up in his guest’s face had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the Strigany.
“Yes!” Averland hissed, and Stirland drew back from the man. He suddenly seemed a lot bigger. “Yes! They are a plague. They spread disease, like rats, and they consort with the Dark Powers, bargaining with them for our destruction. They say they don’t, but they do. You can tell just by looking at them.”
Averland, unable to contain himself, sprang from his chair, and paced towards one of the windows. He seemed a different man, a more powerful man. In fact, Stirland realised, he was a more powerful man. His permanent stoop had gone as he stood tall, his stomach in and his chest out. He wasn’t wringing his hands, either. He was punching the fist of one into the palm of the other.
“Ever since I was a boy, I’ve been able to smell the filth that clings to the Strigany, the disease. They come to our lands, polluting our air and corrupting the morals of our womenfolk and parents.”
“Yes, well, as you say,” Stirland said, agog at the transformation in his fellow nobleman. Averland’s hatred had filled him with such a terrible energy that he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. No wonder he didn’t have any passion left for anything more wholesome.
Averland, his eyes ablaze with the captured light of the setting sun, turned back to his host, his small, neat teeth bared in a hungry smile. Stirland shifted uncomfortably, and his fingertips brushed against the hilt of his dagger, as Averland came striding towards him.
Then he relaxed as Averland slapped him on the shoulder, the gesture obviously an awkward imitation of one of Stirland’s own.
“I am glad that you have seen the truth of this, my friend,” Averland said. “We may have different interests, but I can see you have a rare intelligence. Not many people understand the threat the Strigany pose, the horrible, horrible threat, but we do, and as noblemen of this great Empire it is our duty to do what needs to be done.”
By Sigmar’s fist, thought Stirland, amazed. Spirit, camaraderie, and maybe even the ability to tell a story, I might get to like this lunatic yet.
“And what needs to be done, as you know, are the Strigany,” Averland said.
“Ah, yes,” Stirland said, seizing the moment. “Yes, exactly. In fact, my chancellor…”
Averland, however, was no longer listening. Instead, he was gazing rapturously back through the windows towards the sun, staring right into the burning heart of it.
“There is only one solution,” he said, smiling, “and together, we can do it.”
“Exactly,” Stirland said, as emphatically as he could. He even slapped his palm onto the table in an effort to get Averland’s attention. “Exactly what 1 think, too. We will exile these terrible folk from our fair lands. I even have a place in mind, an old demesne I inherited, called Flintmar.”
“Exile?” Averland turned back to him, confusion clouding his flushed features. “Oh, I thought you meant… Well, never mind. Get them all in one place, and then we’ll see. Yes, round them up, and then we’ll see.”
The fire of his passion left him. His shoulders slumped back down, and his eyes dropped to the floor. He returned to his chair, absent-mindedly wiping his hands on his tunic, and stared into his flagon of water.
“So, that’s decided then,” Stirland said. “Now, how about we celebrate?”
“Celebrate,” Averland said vaguely, his thoughts a carnival of murderous possibilities. “Maybe later.”
Stirland grunted, and, deciding that he’d had enough of diplomacy for one day, emptied his goblet of water onto the floor, refilled it with wine and started to drink.