by Warhammer
'You have a talent that other men will be afraid of,' the white-haired tutor had said. 'I saw it in you, but you must endeavour to ensure that no other does.'
'Why so, master?' the young Magnus had asked.
'Men fear what they do not understand, and what they cannot see with their own eyes,' the master had told him. 'They will call you warlock and sorcerer, and they will try to kill you. You must hide your talents with the astrolabe and the compass. You must obscure your skills with the pestle and mortar, alembic and lens. Astrology, they trust. Alchemy, they trust. Magic, they fear.'
And so now it was, twenty years later, that Magnus was court astrologer to Count Vapold of Ostermark, living in this tower crammed with its books and its telescopes and its charts. Of course, the real texts lay hidden in secret drawers and behind false covers, the true references of his work.
There was a knock at the door, interrupting his sour contemplation of the rain clouds that the wind was bringing ever nearer. He glanced around the room, instinctively looking for anything out of place, a telltale sign of his true nature. As ever, there was none.
'Enter, my lord,' Magnus intoned in his bass voice, turning back to the window.
The man who stepped through the door was tall and slim, his dark hair and pointed nose giving him a lean, hungry look. He had a high forehead and arched eyebrows, a feature that was exaggerated by his long hair swept back with silver pins.
'You sent word for me,' Count Vapold said, closing the door behind him.
'She will arrive soon, my lord,' Magnus said, turning around and folding his arms. 'Within the hour, I would say.'
'Ha!' said Vapold with a dismissive wave. 'Your charts and readings are not so accurate as to predict the hour of her coming.'
'You are correct, my lord.' said Magnus. He turned half back to the window and pointed. 'However, a rider from the west gate hurries through the streets at this very moment, and unless my assumption is wrong, he brings news that she has been seen approaching the city.'
'So that is why you insist on living in the highest part of my castle, is it?' said Vapold with a lopsided smile. 'So that you can spy on all the comings and goings of my city?'
'Of course, my lord.' Magnus said, returning the smile. 'A man may stare at the heavens for a lifetime and not gain wisdom, and yet spend an hour gazing upon the streets and learn much.'
'Must you always be so pompous, Magnus?' Vapold asked, idly picking a stoppered bottle from one of the cluttered desks and shaking it. He peered at it with a raised eyebrow as the agitation caused the liquid inside to turn from green to blue.
'A professional necessity, my lord.' Magnus laughed. He had a genuine affection for the count, who had proven to be both witty and circumspect in equal measure during the five years of Magnus's current employ. 'If one does not make one's pronouncements with suitable gravitas and veracity, then any bloody fool could do it.'
Vapold laughed and placed the bottle back on the table and bent down to look at the scattered scraps of parchment. He picked one up to examine it more closely.
'You are delaying, my lord,' said Magnus, striding across the circular room and proffering a hand to take the parchment. 'It is a trait I have found to exist only in those who do not need to keep appointments and pay no heed to keeping their guests waiting. Why are you nervous?'
'The girl, Magnus, the girl!' the count replied, handing over the paper. 'Ever since your proclamation three months ago, I've been all astir. Is she really everything you and my agents say she is?'
'We shall see soon enough, my lord,' Magnus said after a moment's thought. In his heart he was not sure whether he wanted her to be or not. He glanced out of the window as he heard a shout from the castle gate. 'Rest assured, I will be with you, as will the High Wildfather, and a contingent of your guards. You should go and prepare, your messenger will be coming up shortly.'
'Yes, of course.' said Vapold, and yet still hesitated for a moment. With a nod to himself, the count turned and walked towards the door. He stopped again, one hand on the great brass handle at its centre. 'A visionary they called her.'
'A very apt description, my lord, by all accounts.' Magnus said. 'I shall see you in the audience chamber shortly.'
Vapold did not reply as he opened the door and stepped out, closing it gently behind him. Magnus waited for a few moments, reassuring himself that the count was not about to come back in. He then grabbed up a deep pile of papers from a particular desk and dumped them onto another table. Running his hand over the grain of the exposed wood, he located the crack he was looking for and inserted a long nail. With a snick, the hidden catch was sprung and the secret drawer within the desk slid open on its well-oiled runners.
Inside was a picture of the girl, blindly sketched by Magnus himself as he had entered a meditative trance. The count had asked whether she was everything he had been told. That she carried the ancient sword of Marbad was now confirmed, and scattered reports of the last several years all attested to her strange behaviour and vehement faith in Sigmar. More importantly, Magnus had now seen, with his own dreamsight, her trip into the distant snows. Yes, the gods might have touched her, but Magnus was far more interested in what she could tell him of the sorceries of the northmen.
Wolfenburg squatted across a large hill, overshadowed by the enormous presence of the Middle Mountains. There was a ramshackle accumulation of houses outside of the city wall. Like an infant town stretching up the skirts of its mother, tottering upper storeys piled upon each other, climbing towards the battlements that towered above them.
Squared towers every hundred yards, cut with deep embrasures from which the muzzles of cannons stuck out like uneven teeth, punctuated the wall itself. Hoardings covered with slate protected the battlements, and outcroppings of brick suspended on heavy beams loomed out over the buildings below, their floors pierced to allow defenders to pour oil, lime or arrows onto an attacker below.
Beyond that could be seen the keep, the castle of the count himself. Standing atop the highest point of the hill, its curtain wall was painted black, an imposing shadow that dominated the cityscape. White flags with black eagles, each big enough to cover a house, fluttered from eight tall poles, and from the central tower the count's personal standard flew over all.
The western gate stood proud of the wall, flanked by two enormous barbicans almost twice as high as the wall itself. A company of soldiers stood guard at the huge oak gates, a hundred men armed with spears and shields who flanked the road leading into the imposing gatehouse.
Ursula could feel their stares as she, Ruprecht and Johannes walked through, surrounded by farm carts, coaches and ponies laden with bales. None of them spoke as they passed into the shadow of the gatehouse. Ursula had not spoken of what she planned to do once they had arrived, and Johannes and Ruprecht had not asked, both regarding ignorance as bliss in that regard.
Through the gatehouse, having passed under four sets of heavy iron portcullis, they came out onto the main street, which wound around the hill in a clockwise direction. As they pushed their way through the morning crowds, ignoring the shouts of hawkers and beggars alike, Ruprecht noticed the distinctive layout of the city. None of the streets passed all the way from one circle of the spiral to another, meaning that any attacker would either have to break through the buildings themselves or fight their way along the entire circuit.
The road under their feet was cobbled, a brick gutter at each side, and the buildings were mostly two and three storeys high, brick at the bottom and wooden on the upper storeys, many roofed with black and white tiles. Shop fronts lined the streets displaying all manner of wares, from baskets to pets.
Ruprecht watched Ursula closely. She was focussed straight ahead, barely glancing when a particularly loud shout from a baker or farrier tried to attract their attention. He was also very aware of the looks they were getting from the other people in the street. He could hear whispered conversations, and caught several people openly staring at his artificial hand
. He had forgotten what a sight they were: a woman dressed and armed as a warrior, and a great bearded man with an iron hand and a warhammer. They had spent so little time in the cities of the Empire in recent years, he had never given a second thought to their outlandish appearance. He ignored the crowd's curiosity, but was more perturbed when, on turning to speak to Johannes, he caught a glance of a small group of soldiers following them up the street. He nodded to them and Johannes looked back and raised an eyebrow.
'Could be nothing,' Johannes said. 'Perhaps they're the guard for the citadel.'
'It never hurts to be cautious.' Ruprecht replied. 'We're a long way from Marienburg, but we're not far from Badenhof. Who knows what tales have spread around these parts?'
They quickened their pace until they were alongside Ursula, the crowds were thinning now, about halfway up the main street, as the shops petered out and gave way to houses and guild buildings.
'There are soldiers following us.' said Johannes, laying a hand on Ursulas arm.
'I know.' she replied. 'They broke ranks and came after us when we left the gate. I thought you had already noticed.'
'Perhaps we should find somewhere to hide.' suggested Ruprecht.
'Why?' Ursula asked, finally looking at him. 'Is there anything to be afraid of?'
'I just like to be careful.' Ruprecht said with a heavy shrug. 'I don't know what you think you're going to do, but I'm sure getting arrested isn't part of the plan.'
'If they were going to arrest us, they would have done it at the gate.' Ursula replied, and Ruprecht couldn't fault her logic. 'I think we're going exactly where they want us to go. I was sure that they were looking at us specifically when we passed them.'
'And just where are we going?' asked Johannes, with another nervous glance over his shoulder. The soldiers were still some way back, keeping to the same pace.
'To the keep of course.' Ursula answered. 'Where else would we be going?'
Neither Johannes nor Ursula heard Ruprecht swearing under his breath.
Magnus smoothed the creases in his robes, sighing inwardly at their gaudy design. Count Vapold had insisted that if he were going to have a court astrologer, Magnus was required to wear suitable vestments. Magnus had pictured something austere, even severe. Instead, he had been given this horror of a shapeless sack, decorated with star and moon design, in yellow on blue. They were no more vestments than a jesters costume, he thought.
Vapold was sitting on his throne, fidgeting with the hem of his black doublet. It suited him well, the black and white slashed sleeves matching his dark hair and pale skin, the white hose picked out with gold thread adding a nice touch of wealth to his appearance. Magnus resolved to find out who tailored for the king, and to make arrangements for the same person to address some of the shortcomings of his own attire.
Where Magnus was standing to the count's left, High Wildfather Talbrin stood to his right. Even he managed to look regal and important, despite the theoretical difficulties of his robes of office. His green smock hung to just above the knees, intricately worked with yellow thread in designs that reflected a forest theme. Leaves of different shapes intertwined with deer and bears, and down each arm, a bubbling brook teeming with fish. The priest of Taal was certainly showing his age though; his white beard neatly trimmed at waist length failed to hide the heavy lines in his ancient face. It had never struck Magnus before, but now that he looked at the Wildfather, he noticed a certain tree-ness about him, a bark-like cragginess to his features. His thinning white hair escaped in wisps from the circlet of golden oak leaves around his head, and his eyes were almost white with cataracts.
There were a few others loitering about the place. Hemden Keffel, the highest-ranking priest of Sigmar stood close to the doors, talking to the city treasurer, the hatchet-faced Engrim Stor. Captain Felsturm, head of the count's guard, stood with a modest contingent of twelve men behind the throne, their highly polished breastplates dazzling in the light of the sun streaming in from the high windows of the audience chamber.
Magnus resisted the urge to tap his foot or hum while he waited. Several minutes had already passed since he had hurried down from his high tower, following an agitated pageboy who had brought the message that the count required his advisor. He gave an audible sigh of relief as there was a loud knocking on the double doors, earning himself a warning glance from Vapold.
The doors swung open and the herald bowed as he entered, his feathered hat nearly draping on the ground, but not quite. Then the girl followed him in, and Magnus started to pay more attention. She was dressed in leather trousers tucked into short boots, and wore a sheepskin jerkin laced at the front. Her hair was tied back in a simple plait, the colour of molten bronze. As she entered, Magnus's other senses twitched, those instincts that his old master had taught him to hone.
There at her belt was the sword, the elven blade Ulfshard. Magnus could feel the magic within it from here, at the far end of the long hall. Perhaps, if circumstances permitted, he would be able to spend some time studying the sword, to divine the secrets of its forging. The girl herself walked with confidence, staring straight at the count. It was not just her posture that exuded strength. Magnus could detect the corona of power that surrounded her. Some of it was from the sword no doubt, but there was an edge to it, a strange aftertaste to Magnus's hidden sense, that the warlock recognised immediately.
His master had taught him that magical energy flowed in different ways, and that with study, the practitioner of the Other Arts, as he referred to the use of magic, could discern their flavours. This was very familiar to Magnus; he tasted it every time that Talbrin was in the same room. But he had never met someone with such a strong aura before, and as the girl approached, Magnus had to concentrate to keep his focus. Not even in a temple on a high day had he felt this type of power with such potency.
The girl exuded a shield of raw faith.
The others had followed her in, but Magnus paid them little attention, he was focussed entirely on the girl. He didn't even really hear what Vapold was saying, as the count made a very formal speech of welcome and introduction. The allure of the girl was far more than her physical beauty, to one such as Magnus. As she bent to one knee in front of the count, instead of curtseying, Magnus noted subconsciously, a wave of energy swept out from the girl. It was almost intoxicating to the warlock, and he suppressed a shudder. Yes, he thought, this girl is everything they say she is. And a lot more besides.
'My lord, I come before you with a request,' said Ursula, straightening, her hand unconsciously resting on the glowing hiltstone of Ulfshard.
'I am happy to hear it.' said Vapold, leaning forward with one elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand.
'I request that you assemble an army, for a march to the north, to wage war on the barbarians.' Ursula said.
Vapold said nothing, his smile seemingly slightly more fixed than it had been before. Ursula did not mind, she had expected worse. Derision and laughter had been her greatest fear, disbelief the next. Shock she was quite comfortable with. With a deliberate blink, the count straightened up.
'An army, you say?' he said, with a glance towards the astrologer to his left.
'Yes, my lord.' replied Ursula. 'I believe that the Empire is in peril, and beg you to cut short this threat with force of arms.'
'To the north?' said Magnus. 'And why would the count wish to do such a reckless thing? What is this threat that you speak of?'
Ursula took a deep breath, and glanced around the room.
'Perhaps my lord might care to have his servants bring refreshments.' she suggested. 'This could take a long time.'
'That was your plan?' said Ruprecht, pacing back and forth across the antechamber they had been taken to while the count deliberated with his advisors. 'Tell them everything?'
'It is quite a tale.' said Johannes, seated on a long velvet-trimmed couch, a goblet of wine in one hand.
Outside, a bell tolled the late hour. For nearly the whole day, Ursula had
spoken, almost uninterrupted by questions. She had told them of how she had met and fallen in love with Kurt, and of Kurt's history with Marius van Diesl. She had told them about her visions, and the sham trial that van Diesl had been forced to preside over. She had continued on through their amazed expressions as she told them of the attack from the rat-like mutants and Kurt's timely arrival. Without wavering, without any show of emotion, she related their flight northwards and the taint that had grown inside Kurt, fuelled by the half-Norse Jakob.
As calmly as if she had been describing the weather, Ursula had spoken of the carnage in Tungask: the burning of the houses, the slaughter of the knights of the Osterknacht. Only when she talked of Kurt did her voice tremble slightly, of his transformation into an unnatural creature of the dark gods. She ignored the count's exclamations as she described the grievous wounds Kurt suffered without effect and the final encounter between him and the witch hunter, as his sword had burst into flames and engulfed van Diesl as the flames had engulfed his own corrupted family. Ruprecht had shuffled uncomfortably under the attention of the nobles as Ursula described his aiding of her escape from Kurt and their journey south to Marienburg.
She had fallen silent for a moment and then pressed on with the story of the Arabyan enchantress Jasmina el Al, who had masqueraded as the Lady Halste and led them on the fateful expedition to the dwarf hold of Karak Norn to retrieve Ulfshard. Her voice had grown passionate again as she had spoken of the sorceress's true intent to claim daemonic power for herself, and the events in the court of Count Luiten that had led to Ursula taking up Ulfshard herself.
With no sign of passion, she described the attacks on the Norse villages, the executions and burning. As she finished, describing the final battle and the words of the Norse leader concerning Kurt Sutenvulf, she had looked to the count and asked again for an army to fight this warlord of the north.
Now it had been an hour, perhaps more, since the count had asked them to retire while they discussed her story. Ursula sat on a high-backed chair near the door, Ulfshard across her lap, and had said nothing since. At Ruprecht's question, she turned her head and smiled at him.