Masters of Magic

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  His introspection was interrupted by a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, his master bustled into the narrow chamber and went over to a crude wooden stool standing by Lothar’s bed. With two men in the room, it seemed smaller and more spartan than ever; there was barely space for them to walk past one another.

  Helmut leaned his staff against the wall and sat down heavily beside Lothar on the stool. He looked around him distastefully. No doubt his quarters were slightly more comfortable.

  “By Ulgu,” he said breathlessly, “I’ve just got back from another meeting with the castellan. He’s had a look at the defences, and wants us stationed in the east tower, rather than the west. That shouldn’t affect our preparation too much, but it is annoying. They have no conception of the ways of magic, the trials of our privileged status. Even so…”

  He turned his long face to Lothar, who stayed silent. A look of concern seemed to pass across his features.

  “But enough of that,” he said, his voice gentler. “How are things with you?”

  “I’m keen to start, master,” the acolyte said, truthfully enough. “We’ve been travelling for a while, and it seems a long time since we’ve used the battle lore properly. I feel rusty, but I’m sure it will all come back.”

  Helmut nodded.

  “Aye,” he said, “it will. I have confidence in you. You’ve got potential, that’s for certain. You’re learning, to be sure, and you have more to discover. Your presence here is reassuring for me; it’ll be a long night, and I’m an old man.”

  Lothar smiled again. Despite himself, the praise was welcome. It came infrequently enough from any source. He knew he cut a pretty unimpressive figure: slim, lightly built, his slender features topped by a messy thatch of blond hair. Any peasant tinker would look the same. Only through magic was he in any way remarkable, and so far that had brought him nothing but trouble.

  Helmut leaned back on the stool. He looked weary already, and they both knew the call to arms was imminent. Letting his long legs stretch out, the old wizard looked at his pupil fondly.

  “Remember your teaching,” he said. “That’s all you need to do. A wizard’s power is in his mind, his will, his imagination. Follow the Wind of Ulgu, don’t fight it. Orcs may look fearsome, but they’ll succumb to the art as quickly as any man. Keep some power in reserve; it’ll be a testing time tonight, and weariness is one of the many paths to ruin. And don’t try anything too fancy. If you blow the ramparts to bits you’ll be back in the college washing pots before the end of the month, and even Starke won’t be able to save you.”

  It was meant to be a joke, but the mention of the master of the Grey College was ill-chosen. Lothar bowed his head, thinking back to his days in Altdorf, both the good and the bad. In some ways, he was much stronger now. He could feel the surge of the Grey Wind pulse around him. There was much that was dank and secretive about this place, many hidden events and emotions, all of which drew the strange wind inwards, curling around the ancient foundations and drifting against the hard stone of the mountains.

  “I’m prepared, master,” he said, defiantly.

  Helmut leaned forward, placing a calloused hand on Lothar’s shoulder approvingly.

  “Excellent,” he said. “There are plenty in this wretched place who doubt our worth and our prowess. It would be nice to prove them wrong.”

  At that, a low, rumbling noise started above them. The sounds of men shouting could be heard from the narrow window above their heads, followed by the clatter of running feet. Above all the noises, the clear call of a horn echoed in the night air. The signal had been given. Helmut pulled back. Lothar listened carefully.

  “The cannon have fired already. They must be close.”

  “Sounds like it,” said Helmut, nodding and taking up his staff. “Remember, there’s no way around the walls in this narrow space, so the entire assault will be against the south wall of the citadel. As I said, the castellan has decided to place us in the turret at the south-east corner, giving us a view of the battlements beneath and the expected press of greenskins against the gates. Despite what I said earlier, his change of heart is probably for the best. Due to the way the land lies south of the castle, we’ll have better angles to strike from the east tower. It’s a good vantage point, but we may be vulnerable, so be careful. Oh, one more thing: Karsten wants us to keep an eye out for a shaman leading the army. The scout who came in this afternoon thinks the whole horde is being led by one. If he’s right, we’ll be able to detect its presence better than anyone else.”

  He rose, brandishing his staff expertly. Lothar, his hands shaking slightly, picked his up more gingerly. The noises above rose in volume, and a second shuddering boom announced that the cannons were firing again. A faint roaring could be heard from far away, almost as if a great crowd of men and beasts had been mingled and augmented. Even deep within the stone walls, the noise was unmistakeable.

  Helmut turned to his acolyte, maintaining his usual calm demeanour.

  “Come,” he said, flatly.

  They strode from the chamber into the narrow ways of the keep. All around them, men were running, carrying swords and shields, and yelling orders at one another. Their grey cloaks swirling around them, the wizards made their way through a short series of corridors and out into the courtyard. The noise from beyond the walls was deafening in the open air. The faces of the defenders looked pale and nervous in the moonlight. They could all hear the noise of the horde, and it chilled the blood.

  The wizards went quickly through the press of men and into the south-east tower, ducking under the low doorway. After clambering up the tightly wound spiral stairs, they emerged into the cold air at the summit, and the whole scene unfolded before them. The sun had sunk beneath the western horizon, leaving only a sliver of blood red against the jagged peaks of the Grey Mountains. The stars had come out fitfully, and the pale light of Mannslieb cast a chill glow over the land. Clouds boiled behind them, and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. It looked like a storm was coming. From their vantage point above the castle, the furious activity of the defenders could be made out even in the growing darkness. Flashes of light from the guns illuminated the continual movement of men, their armour glinting in the night.

  Lothar turned his gaze southwards, beyond the walls of the castle and over the roofs of the empty houses. Before him, the whole valley had been transformed into a scene of horror. From the feet of the mountains on either side of the narrow way, the entire space was filled with a host of dark forms. It was hard to see far into the murk, but the noise was shattering, and told of many thousands of greenskins surging through the shadows. Dimly, Lothar made out the ranks of heavily built infantry, loping towards the castle in a disorganised mass. The jagged tips of their cleavers and battle-axes glinted dully in the moonlight. Gaudy, tattered standards flapped in the fitful wind, black against the pale stone of the mountains around them. The sound of drums rolled across the ramparts in a flood of oppressive aggression.

  Scattered fires had been started in great braziers by the orcs, and the lower walls of the castle were bathed in a lurid vermillion glow. Perhaps even the keen-eyed greenskins needed them to see by under the shadows of the overhanging battlements, or maybe they were just intent on causing as much fear as possible. From his vantage point, Lothar could see the silhouettes of monstrous forms hurling themselves towards the citadel in a mad frenzy.

  “By the Eight Colours,” he breathed. “How many are there?”

  Helmut didn’t answer, but began to brandish his staff.

  “Don’t worry about that, my lad,” he said in his usual impassive tone. “Just get to work.”

  With that, he began to weave the deep shadows between the ancient stones around him, drawing the pools of gloom towards his staff like streaks of pitch. When the ball of darkness was complete, far deeper and more intense than the night air around it, he hurled it into the mass of forms below, knocking a bellowing greenskin champion from his feet as he charg
ed blindly towards the gates. Taking a deep breath, Lothar raised his staff likewise. He felt the familiar rush of power surge through his limbs. His face setting into a flat mask of concentration, he joined his master, and the wind of shadows began to flow through his body, erupting from his hands and staff in deadly energy. It had begun.

  The castellan was on the ramparts of the citadel wall, naked sword in hand, orchestrating the waves of arrows flying from the battlements. As the clouds gathered, the rain grew stronger, and a wild storm wind from the west whipped and swirled around the stone walls. The night was chill, and his heart beat strongly. The familiar exhilaration of battle was upon him. Archers lined the battlements on either side of him, and their practiced hands sent volley after volley of darts spinning into the storm below. He looked back into the castle, down to the level below him, where the great cannons were placed on stone platforms against openings in the thick walls.

  Marcus was running between the three crews, bellowing encouragement and orders at them. Below the guns, at ground level, the courtyard swarmed with activity. Arrows and ammunition were being passed up to the levels above, and pitch was being heated and carried in slopping iron cauldrons to the murder-holes over the gate. It was a factory of death, running smoothly as it ought, all in the service of the Emperor. Karsten allowed himself a flicker of pride.

  He turned around to see Marcus, his breathing heavy, climbing a rickety wooden ladder from the cannons’ platform to join him on the battlements. The rain was falling hard, and the tattered clouds threatened to obscure the moon. The captain’s face was running with mingled water and sweat.

  “How goes it?” asked Karsten, withdrawing for a moment from the lines of archers clustered along the narrow parapet.

  Marcus wiped his brow and grinned wolfishly. He was never happier than when given an excuse to blast something to pieces.

  “They’re coming up to the citadel, but they have no answer to the heavy shot,” he said, savagely. “We’re sending both iron and grape into the ranks, and it’s causing mayhem. I’ve angled the cannon as flat as I can. They’re trapped in the valley and can’t get out of the way. Of course, I can’t see as much as I’d like, but I’ll warrant we’re giving them something to ponder on.”

  Karsten nodded with satisfaction.

  “They’re not noted for pondering,” he said, dryly. “They just keep throwing themselves at the walls, and the archers are cutting them down as they come. How do they think they’re going to get in? We’ll keep them at bay forever at this rate, provided they keep running into our arrows.”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “Who knows what’s running through their minds? But it’s good target practice; we don’t often have a chance to work in the dark. By your leave, sir, I’ll get back to it.”

  Karsten nodded curtly. The gunnery captain clambered back down to the level below, and soon his barked orders resumed. The castellan hastened back to the ramparts in the centre of the south-facing wall.

  Screwing his eyes against the dark, keeping his head low against the cool stone of the battlements, Karsten surveyed the carnage grimly. Rainwater streamed down his face. Even accounting for the darkness and the difficulty of estimation, there must have been more orcs in the valley than he had ever seen before, and they had been driven to an amazing pitch of savagery and madness. He knew what they called it: the waaagh, the elemental, innate force that drove them forward, filling their limbs with unnatural strength and their brutish minds with bloodlust. The relatively unprotected houses beyond the citadel walls were ruined and aflame, but Karsten didn’t have the men to protect the entire settlement. The citadel was the key. For now, the orcs broke against the walls like water, but how long could it last? And where was the rumoured shaman?

  His thoughts were interrupted as sudden cries came from the western end of the wall. Gathering all the swordsmen near him, he ran quickly along the battlements. Crude grapnels with ropes attached were being hurled up against the wall. Some flew over the battlements and lodged firmly between the worn stonework; others clattered harmlessly back into the hordes below. Almost instantly, goblins, their hateful faces lined with rows of needle-like teeth, grinning in the rain like visions of spite, were up the ropes and had begun to vault the tops of the walls and bear the lightly-armoured archers down. Their spiny fingers clasped throats, gouged eyes and snapped ankles.

  “For Sigmar!” cried Karsten, charging along the parapet. This was dangerous, and needed to be snuffed out quickly. For as long as the walls remained unbreached, they were capable of holding out. But should the greenskins gain a foothold, then their superior numbers would surely begin to tell. Swinging his sword, he barrelled into the first of the grotesque forms as it leapt over the ramparts. His charge sent two more wailing to their deaths below.

  His men piled in behind him, and soon the ramparts were soaked with blood. Swords clashed against twisted daggers and malignant, spiked scourges. The goblins pulled back, squealing and screeching. A fair fight was not something they enjoyed. For every rope cast twirling back into the massed ranks below, another two grapnels were thrown up. Karsten wielded his sword with renewed fervour, eager to clear the battlements before more could rise. There was no good in holding the orcs at bay below if the goblins drove the defenders off the battlements. He grimaced as he plunged his blade into the villainous hooknosed freak before him. This was going to be a long night.

  Lothar grunted with effort as the coronet of lightning left his hands. The glittering material sailed over the edge of the tower and into the mass below, bursting into strange dark flames as it hit its target, a bellowing orc warrior mounted on a boar in the centre of the boiling mass of bodies before the gates. It was even harder work than normal, casting from such a distance. From his high vantage point, he overlooked some of the worst of the fighting, but it was hard to make out much of what was going on down in the murk. Only the flames lit by the orcs and the scant moonlight guided their efforts.

  He turned to Helmut, about to ask if their orders permitted them to leave their station and get closer to the action, but then thought better of it. The old wizard looked drained, and leaned heavily against the crenellated brink of the circular tower’s edge. Wearily, knowing he had to keep the flow of magical bolts up, Lothar began another spell. There was some risk in attempting another one so soon. It was the tired hand that slipped, the tired tongue that stumbled, but there was a job to be done.

  He grasped his staff tightly in both hands, and began to murmur an incantation. As the night waxed and the shadows sunk into deeper black, the source of the Grey wizards’ power flowed ever more freely around the dank stone of Helmgart, and Lothar tapped it greedily. He felt strong, despite the effort of the prior castings.

  Helmut leaned back against the stone and listened to his student’s low chanting. When he heard Lothar’s choice of spell, he smiled grimly.

  “A nice idea,” he said. “Use it on those goblins; the castellan needs help clearing the battlements.”

  Lothar nodded, looking over the edge of the tower and down to where the defenders were fighting on the ramparts. Despite their efforts, half a dozen ropes held securely, and goblins were swarming up them like rats in the gloom. They were close to establishing a foothold on the walls. Hurriedly, he completed his spell weaving. Pointing his staff over the ramparts, he sent a spinning ball of shadowy energy towards the goblins climbing up the walls below him. Like a biting mosquito, it struck them each in turn, diminishing every time it hit. Initially, the effects seemed negligible, the goblins shaking their heads and continuing to climb. But by the time the little ball had burned out, an odd thing started to happen.

  The affected goblins began to shriek and turn on their colleagues, ripping their own soldiers from the walls and stabbing them as they fell. Many lost their handholds on the slippery ropes as they twisted with an inexplicable urge to attack their own forces. Within moments, the invasion was in confusion, with goblin lighting goblin viciously, tumbling back down t
he walls in confusion. Their blood splattered the stone of the ramparts, mingling with the driving rain.

  The castle defenders pressed forwards, pushing the squabbling, stabbing rabble from the walls and cutting the ropes. Gradually the goblins were repulsed from the ramparts. Karsten sent the last of them wailing over the walls to its death. For the moment at least, the battlements were cleared. Lothar, dizzy from the effort, grinned maliciously. He sat back against the stone, waiting to recover.

  “A good effort,” said Helmut appreciatively, looking as if he’d caught his breath again. “But it could have lasted longer. There are more waiting down below to try again. Here’s how it’s really done.”

  Before the older wizard could demonstrate his own version of the spell, a great shudder seemed to pass through the very foundations of the tower. In the dark and downpour it was hard to see what was happening; only through the angry glow of the fires could much be made out. Mighty orcs of enormous size, shielding something amidst their number, had worked their way to a position in front of the south wall, just visible from the tower against the glare of the flames.

  “It must be down there somewhere,” hissed Helmut, peering into the gloom. “It’s at the heart of it, that shaman. It’s holding it all together. Can you see it, the energy of the waaagh? You won’t need your natural eyes to see it. Ignore the distractions around it. Use your magical vision. It must be close.”

  Lothar relaxed his muscles, probing with his wizardly sense. Helmut was right; there was a lurid aura down below, somewhere in the darkness and chaos of the orc horde. It pulsed angrily. This was no true colour, not as existed in the real world at any rate. But there was something tangible nonetheless, a sickly, horribly vibrant greenish apparition, swirling and coiling from the earth, apparently sucked from the bodies of the orcs around it. He felt himself recoil instinctively. His throat constricted slightly, and he felt his fear seize him like a clenched fist around his stomach. With effort, he willed himself to concentrate, not to give in to his primal responses. Whatever was down there was malicious, and powerful.