by Ben Counter
‘She does,’ replied Alric. ‘Near the Königplatz.’
‘Then the plague must concern you greatly.’
‘Yes, most certainly. Every time I hear of another district falling, I imagine the white cross painted on her door and her in her sickbed. I have received word in this past week that she is well, but one can never know what the next day might bring.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Albreda,’ said Alric.
‘Then fear not for Albreda, even on account of the plague.’ Van Horstmann placed a hand on Alric’s shoulder, and it seemed for all the world like Alric had been reduced in age to that of a child who needed comforting and reassurance, and that van Horstmann was his elder. ‘Master Chanter, I swear that it will be over soon.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BATTLE
Upon the border of the Buchbinder District, where the homes of Altdorf’s middle-class burghers adjoined the cramped, teetering tenements that surrounded Midday’s Mirror, Witch Hunter Lord Argenos drew together his army.
He had a hundred and fifty men. Most of them were of House Salzenhaar. Among them were the younger sons of client families, youths who, without the likelihood of inheritance and the accompanying responsibility, fell to brawling in the streets. They were useful men to have in a tight spot, such as was sure to occur at the Pyramid of Light. Even now they spat, swore and gambled, as if looking for excuses to start a fight already.
Others were household troops, men armed and armoured by House Salzenhaar to guard their estates, chaperone their ladies and accompany the family’s patriarchs to lend them the gravity of presence that came with an armed escort. They wore yellow and blue plumes, their mark of family allegiance, and were led by Mikhael Salzenhaar himself. Mikhael had recovered sufficiently from his interrogation by Argenos to carry a sword, but he was pale and shivering in the moonlight, sweating in spite of the chill.
The rest of Argenos’s men were the thugs who occasionally lent their weight to the Silver Hammer, such as the ones he had taken into the wharves to destroy the Hand Cerulean. And then there was Argenos himself. Argenos could handle himself in a fight. It was a necessity of his role as a hunter of witches. He always kept himself prepared for the possibility that the witch would fight back, and he had a plentiful supply of blessed shot for his pistol.
Two figures were approaching the gardens where Argenos had gathered his strength. These gardens had been the pride of the burgher family who had built it, but the flowers were now trampled beneath the feet of Argenos’s thugs. No doubt the family in the adjoining house were watching from the windows, but they knew better than to confront Argenos. The two men approaching wore hooded travelling cloaks but Argenos knew well who they were.
Magister Heiden Kant threw back his hood. ‘Lord Argenos. Are we ready?’
‘It is never a question of being ready,’ said the witch hunter. ‘Are you?’
The second figure pulled down his hood. Argenos peered at the man’s features, trying to read them in the moonlight.
‘I take it,’ said Argenos, ‘that Magister Kant has explained to you our purpose?’
‘He has,’ replied the man who wore the robes of a Light wizard under his cloak.
‘I am Witch Hunter Lord Argenos.’
‘Magister Kardiggian.’
‘Ah, the battle magister. A man who wields magic as a weapon of war. Kant, you have done well.’
‘Well enough?’ asked Kant.
‘To storm the Pyramid of Light?’ asked Argenos. ‘That remains to be seen.’
‘Magister Kant told me of his suspicions,’ said Kardiggian. ‘More than suspicions. He had pieced together a compelling argument. And I have had suspicions myself of late about our new Grand Magister.’
‘So, van Horstmann is wearing dead Elrisse’s boots?’ said Argenos. ‘I had imagined it was only a matter of time. On what did you base your own suspicions, battle magister?’
‘At the Gardens of Morr,’ said Kardiggian, ‘I fought alongside van Horstmann. It seemed to me that he knew full well what he would have to fight, and had prepared for it very specifically. He had mastered the Argent Storm, I believe, because he knew that he would need it to defeat what came out of the Salzenhaar tomb. That suggests he had foreknowledge of what lay there, and that can only mean his hand in the events of the plague. I can prove nothing, of course, but then I believe the Order of the Silver Hammer rarely holds out for the luxury of proof.’
‘Can you get us into the pyramid?’ asked Argenos.
‘I can,’ said Kardiggian. ‘I hold great seniority among the magisters. Once we are inside, some will side with me. More than that, I cannot promise.’
‘Then that will be enough,’ said Argenos. He turned to his men. ‘Brothers! Men of House Salzenhaar and of the Silver Hammer! The time has come to move out. Our destination is Midday’s Mirror. Move swiftly and quietly. Pray that Morr casts on you a kindly eye, for some of you will meet him soon. Come, place your souls under the guardianship of Sigmar and your bodies under the protection of your blades.’
Argenos led the force out. Above them Morrslieb, the ill-omened witch moon, glimmered near the horizon, as if peering over the edge of the night to see what bloodshed might unfold.
The Pyramid of Light was reflected beneath the grounds in the basement levels that made up the vaults. The outer vault was haunted by the magisters of the Fourth Circle, who catalogued and guarded dozens of relics relating to the Order of Light and the deeds of its wizards. Below that, as van Horstmann had learned, was the inner vault, where alone in the pyramid shadows were permitted to gather and artefacts with wills of their own roamed in a constant, bloodless struggle with one another, a microcosm of some world where the sole inhabitants were items of power forged an aeon ago and infused with the most potent of magics.
Beneath that, corresponding to the middle levels of the pyramid above, was nothing. A great endless light, like an ocean of it, without substance or, to the naked eye, an end. The shore of this ocean was reached through a doorway in the inner vault that looked like an empty pedestal where some relic had once stood, only to have fled or perhaps been consumed by a magic artefact turned predator. The pedestal lifted up to reveal a short flight of steps down, onto a shore of crumbled masonry.
Overhead was a ceiling of stone, the floor of the inner vaults stretching off into a distance made hazy by the glare. In front and below was nothing but light.
Van Horstmann knelt on the shore and dipped a hand into the light. It was not liquid, but a tingling warmth. His eyes, well used to the constant glare in the pyramid, still smarted at the brightness.
‘A reservoir of magic,’ explained Magister Pendorf.
Pendorf, when told to allow the Grand Magister into the Pinnacle Vault, had not seemed perplexed or concerned by the demand. Perhaps he had always known that van Horstmann would reach the lowest point of the Light College, just as he had reached the top. ‘It bleeds down here from above. In their wisdom, Teclis and the founding wizards made sure there was a place for it to gather, or the tide of it might have destroyed the pyramid.’
‘They were wise men,’ said van Horstmann. ‘And a wise elf. How do I get across it?’
‘Elrisse never sought the Pinnacle Vault,’ said Pendorf. ‘We were blessed, perhaps, that events were never so dire that he needed to.’
‘And today, Altdorf’s future depends on what lies down there. Yes, we were blessed, Magister Pendorf. But now we are cursed, unless we make use of the vault’s secrets.’
‘I must ask, Grand Magister,’ said Pendorf, ‘how you came to learn of what lies there. I have never been within, nor have any of the current Fourth Circle so far as I know.’
‘A Grand Magister must know everything about his order,’ replied van Horstmann. ‘A body of knowledge is passed on from one to the next. Among that knowledge was the contents of the vault. Now, Magister Pendorf, if you please?’
‘Of course.’ Pendorf pointed down into the light ocean.
‘You are a worker of wonders. You are a master of Light magic. Master it.’
Van Horstmann nodded. ‘And so none but a magister can cross it.’
‘But of course.’
Van Horstmann felt the channels in his body open up, just as they had done when he had first sought to marshal the winds of magic. His veins and arteries, the invisible lines of power that connected every point to every other, opened wide and the wind of light blew through them. They connected into the spider’s web of power that lay as potential within every human body, but was realised only by the few with the capacity to feel it.
He felt it now. He directed everything through his mind, focusing the wind that blew with the lens of his will and imagination. Like light through the lenses of the speculum, the wind of magic took on new shapes as it passed through his mind.
Van Horstmann imagined great blocks of matter coalescing from raw magic, rising up like islands. His will was echoed in the ocean below, and glowing slabs like rock with veins of light rose up to meet him. He stepped off the shore onto the first and imagined now a whole spiral of them, winding down towards the lowest point that corresponded to the pinnacle of the pyramid above.
Pendorf followed as the steps rose up to meet them. Below the surface, van Horstmann’s whole body felt suffused with the light. He felt it leaching in through his pores, pouring in through his eyes, and it became easier to create the staircase down.
He could see the far shore now, still some distance below. A rocky island, where a portion of the pyramid’s ornate masonry held a wall with a single doorway. On the door was raised in silver the image of an elven woman over a crescent moon – Lileath, the high elf goddess, and a seal of Loremaster Teclis himself.
Van Horstmann continued down until he reached the shore, conjuring the last block of solid ground with a thought. He placed a hand against the door, and felt that it was warm.
The door slid open at his touch, and beyond, too, there was light. It shone through stained glass windows high overhead, which ringed the domed ceiling of a chamber that could not exist beyond the door. Here the space-folding magic of the pyramid was in effect, creating the bubble of existence in which was held the Pinnacle Vault.
The walls were not walls at all, but cascades of glittering silver light that poured down over the windows and over the edge. The light through the windows was in every colour, a choir of light that almost dazzled even a Light wizard like van Horstmann. White flame rippled without heat along channels cut into the floor, as if this place were so suffused with magic that it could not stay pent up in the aethyr and was compelled to flow free.
In the centre was a cylindrical structure of polished marble, veined with grey and pink. Around this structure were built a dozen shrine-like enclosures, each with a pedestal like an altar on which stood a single artefact.
Van Horstmann had spent years, and a goodly portion of his soul, to learn of what treasures the Order of Light had stored in the vaults beneath the pyramid. Even he, however, knew that he would be ignorant of most of the relics down here. The knowledge of their existence had simply never escaped. No doubt they were vastly powerful and even more dangerous. The sword he looked at now might be enough to slay an army on its own – the mask he glanced at next might grant him some mind-expanding magical sense or let him see into men’s souls. It did not matter. There was only one thing here that van Horstmann needed.
Well, two. But the second could wait.
Pendorf hobbled across the spectacular chamber, the thrum of contained energy the only sound save for his shuffling footsteps on marble. He led the way to one of the shrines where the pedestal held a wooden mannequin, on which was hung a splendid cape of grey fur. The cloak was trimmed with ermine and lined with crimson silk, and the clasp was a heavy golden brooch in the shape of Sigmar’s twin-tailed comet.
‘The Mantle of Thoss,’ said Pendorf.
Van Horstmann saw the hem of the cloak was stained pink with blood. It looked fresh. Perhaps it was – the Pinnacle Vault might have strange magics about it that trapped the artefacts inside in time so they did not decay or tarnish. ‘He wore this at the scourging of the Taalite monks,’ he said as he walked up to the cloak. He reached out a hand and touched the ermine, felt its power fizz and hum through his fingers. ‘And the burning of Huntsmistress Evraya.’
Pendorf swallowed. ‘I saw the book,’ he said. There was a reluctance in his voice, as if he had forced the words out unwillingly.
‘The book?’
‘The Codex Aethyrica.’
‘I see.’ Van Horstmann let his hand drop from the Mantle of Thoss.
‘It was gutted,’ said Pendorf. ‘Its pages scattered to the fates, replaced with trash and scraps. Oh, it was a beautiful book. I wept just to look on its cover when I thought of the sacred things written inside. The learning therein. I had opened it once, when I was young, newly descended to the vaults. That memory came back when you took it out and when it was returned, I felt the need to open it again. It was so beautiful. It was everything I studied with the Fourth Circle to be near. And so one night I was weak. I opened it again. And I saw.’
Van Horstmann did not answer. He just looked at the wizard, the way the old man’s skin had sunk into his face and his shoulders hunched, the way he looked less like a man and more like a mannequin, much like that which held the Mantle, on which someone had haphazardly draped a wrinkled and faded wizard’s robe.
‘Why did you do it, van Horstmann?’ asked Pendorf. His eyes were wet. ‘I do not know why you are truly here and I do not expect to learn. And my life has been a long one, and I have no complaints. I just want to know why you had to destroy something so beautiful.’
‘I cannot tell you, Magister Pendorf,’ said van Horstmann levelly.
‘I am not going to leave this place. Not now there is nothing else you could possibly want, not that you could need my help with, at least. Please, tell me. It was so beautiful. I just want to know why.’
Van Horstmann held up a hand, palm towards Pendorf as if to silence him. Black flame flickered around his fingers, their chill running down his arm. The flame leapt up around his hand, forming hypnotic shapes as it flared higher.
It had been a long time since van Horstmann had been able to wield Dark magic to its full potential. There had never been a time when he could not be certain he was unobserved. Even when he had fought the ratman general, he had taken a huge risk. Another magister might have seen him, even in the thick of the battle. It had been a necessity, and there had been no time to enjoy it. Now, there was no one who could witness it. And even if there was, at this point it did not matter.
‘I see,’ said Pendorf sadly.
Van Horstmann imagined the beam of black energy leaping from his palm, and it did. The beam lanced through the centre of Pendorf’s face, boring right through to hiss against the falling light behind him.
Van Horstmann let the beam play around, burning a path through the old man’s scalp, until it sliced up through the top of his skull. Pendorf’s head flopped into two scorched halves and he toppled over into one of the flame channels on the floor. The fire flowed over his body like water, not burning him but suffusing him, his flesh glowing as it began to slowly disintegrate.
Van Horstmann watched Pendorf’s corpse for a few moments. He marvelled that anyone had ever thought killing another man was difficult. He had accomplished far more troublesome tasks on that day alone.
He looked again at the Mantle of Thoss. Perhaps it really could have cured the plague – perhaps old butcher Thoss’s bloodstained garment would have somehow, against every turn of history and fate, released something other than raw hatred into the waters of the Reik. Stranger things had happened, although not very many.
Van Horstmann turned away from the Mantle of Thoss. It did not interest him now. He was inside the Pinnacle Vault, and the mantle could burn like Pendorf’s body for all he cared.
What he sought was in another of the shrines. He passed by the magical sw
ord, and for a moment his eye was drawn, unwillingly, to the glow on the edge of its blade where it was so finely honed that the metal was transparent. He looked away. A standard stitched of red cord bore the image of a golden boar and, from the look of it, was of antique enough design to have flown over Sigmar’s own battlefields. A hunting horn was held up by an ornate stand carved from animal skulls. A mirror-polished shield reflected not only van Horstmann’s face but Elrisse’s, Vek’s, even the ratman sorcerer’s, with Pendorf’s looking confused in one corner. Van Horstmann passed them all by.
Finally he reached the relic he was looking for. It was perhaps the least assuming object in the innermost vault. He had first read of it when he was little more than a child, his limbs still recovering from the broken bones and torn muscles inflicted by the coils of a hundred snakes. His plan for it had been confirmed in the communion with Tzeentch, where all the possible paths of fate were laid out before him like the veins through the marble of the vault.
At last, van Horstmann had found the key.
The Half-Circle stewards did not stand in Kardiggian’s way, even though he was not alone. A battle magister had both the authority and the raw strength to go where he pleased. The guards stood aside as Kant, then Argenos and the men of House Salzenhaar, filed through the doorway into the pyramid.
Salzenhaar’s men were afraid. They had been afraid even before they had plunged through the waters of Midday’s Mirror into the folded space around the pyramid. They knew Argenos to be a hunter of witches by the implements of burning and torture he carried, as much as badges of office as for practical use, and many an eye fell on the ornate pistol with its glowing barrel he had tucked into his belt. And they knew that anything involving not one wizard, but two, must be serious business indeed.
‘Kardiggian!’ demanded Master Chanter Alric, running across the Chanter’s Hall as the Silver Hammer force walked blinking into his domain. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ He pointed at Argenos. ‘Who have you brought into our midst?’