Masters of Magic

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Helmut raised his staff to strike, but then, from the centre of the diffuse aura, sudden flames shot across the earth in front of the castle, burning and maiming all who stood in its way. It was no natural flame, its amber heart tinged with sickly green edges. Orcs and goblins trapped in its advance bellowed and screamed in agony, but they were not the target. With remorseless speed, the strange fire hit the walls. Like the breaking of a huge wave, it reared high up the stonework and coursed into the gaps where the open cannon barrels reared their iron heads. With a series of devastating explosions, one by one, Marcus’ treasured guns detonated.

  Huge blasts ripped great gashes in the stone around them, throwing men wildly into the air. A roar of triumph rose up from the frenzied orcs. As more blackpowder exploded, a great section of the wall at the western end of the heavily defended ramparts gave way, toppling with agonising slowness into the baying masses beneath.

  Lothar looked on, his unwilling eyes fixed with horror on the scene below. In the darkness, the shadowy forms of men trapped in the falling masonry dropped from the ruined battlements into the frenzy beneath, and were torn to shreds. Those nearest the blast had been scattered by the explosion, and dozens of soldiers lay unmoving against the stone of the courtyard. Most had been killed by the impact, and pools of their blood stained the ancient walls. The few who had survived tried to get up and limp to safety, but their chances were slim. Whooping and shrieking, the greenskins surged towards the breach, hacking at any defenders unfortunate enough to have been thrown into their path.

  Lothar turned to Helmut, aghast. The old wizard looked genuinely amazed. His old hands gripped his staff weakly. He too seemed frozen by the demonstration of such destructiveness. Then he collected his thoughts, and a grim look hardened his face.

  “Steel is no use against a monster like this,” he hissed.

  Lothar stood back, still weak from his previous effort and in no condition to offer assistance. Helmut raised his staff, summoning coils of force around him, whipping the wind and rain to his cause, generating a vortex of ever-increasing speed and magnitude. The storm was his ally, fuelling and driving his spellcasting. It was a difficult trick to accomplish, harnessing the elements, and the consequences could be dire if a mistake was made. But Helmut’s face was fixed into a mask of concentration and no error crept in. With a cry of arcane words, a snap of his wrist sent a bolt of lightning searing towards the mass of greater orcs. The vivid streaks of dazzling light zigzagged into the heart of the orc host in front of the walls. The fury of the storm had been driven into a single point.

  When it hit, Lothar could just make out bodies being hurled aside, slammed against the unyielding stone of the citadel like puppets. Something else had clearly been hurt, for a crazed bellow of rage rose from the seething cauldron of bodies below them, echoing far into the frenzied night.

  “It’s in there!” cried Helmut, panting hard from the effort and looking momentarily dazed. “Lothar, direct your power where I did. Together we can—”

  Whatever lurked in the darkness and confusion had seen them, exposed and vulnerable against the night sky. Before Lothar had time even to begin a supporting spell, bolts of the same destructive green energy streaked towards them. Both wizards ducked beneath the battlements, before realising they were not the target—the tower was.

  “Brace yourself!” cried Helmut as the stone beneath them rippled and broke. “Use your staff!”

  His world collapsing around him, Lothar hurriedly conjured the means to break his descent. His staff glowed with the sudden effort. The tower lurched, buckled, and then fell in on itself, centuries-old stonework turned into rubble in an instant. Lothar slid and parried as best he could, his part-levitation keeping him safe from the carnage below, hurried swipes of his staff fending off detritus raining from above. When he came to a halt, covered in dust and blood, he realised he was still on the inside of the citadel, but at ground level. He must have fallen two hundred feet. If it weren’t for his art, he’d have been dead.

  Staggering to his feet, disorientated and shaking, he pulled his staff free of the wreckage. Getting his bearings, he gradually worked out where he was: at the east end of the courtyard. Above him were the huge platforms where the cannons had been, now blasted and black. Green flames still licked at the charred stone. All around him, faint moans and agonised cries testified to the poor souls trapped within the ruin of the tower, but there were more pressing concerns: ahead of him, on the far side of the courtyard, he could see the gap in the walls caused by the shaman’s magic.

  All was chaos, men running down from the walls in a panic, orcs beginning to clamber through the breach unopposed. For a moment, Lothar hesitated, at a loss. Then there was a muffled explosion behind him, and Helmut staggered out from under a pile of loose rubble. He was caked with dust, his hair white and matted.

  “Right, I’m angry now,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Come with me. I’m going to find that damned creature and flay it alive.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Karsten arose painfully, his head thumping. He had been on the ramparts with the archers when the first blast had hit, and had been thrown heavily against the stone by the impact. He got up unsteadily, trying to lake in what had happened. Thankfully, his section of the battlements was still intact, and all around him archers were slowly clambering back to their positions. Only a few paces away to his left, however, the walls fell away, horribly ruined, blasted apart by the combination of magic and blackpowder. There was rubble everywhere, and prone bodies littered the ground below.

  He looked east, across the open courtyard and to the far side of the castle. The tower where the two battle wizards had been stationed was scorched and cracked. Masonry still dropped from its ruined summit. So much for magical allies, he thought bitterly. Through the driving rain, he could make out the dark forms of orcs leaping into the courtyard below, swarming through the breach like flies on a wound. If they were not stopped soon, the castle was lost.

  “We must hold the walls,” he shouted at the nearest archer. “Aim your fire at the orcs coming through the gap. They cannot be allowed to enter in numbers.”

  With that, he ran along the narrow parapet and down one of the few remaining ladders, quickly descending into the courtyard, now a churning mass of bodies in mortal combat. Blood was streaked across every surface. It mixed with the sweat, mud and rain into a turgid slick on the ground. The greenskins pressed forward. Their axes and crude scimitars were brutally effective, crushing skulls, cracking bones and ripping armour apart. The defenders were disorganised, and more orcs were leaping into the fray through the damaged walls. They were falling back, breaking under the incessant pressure. There were only moments to organise a defence. If they failed to hold them back, it would all be over.

  “For Sigmar!” roared Karsten at the top of his voice, desperately hoping he would be audible over the shrieks and bellows of the invading army. He charged the nearest interloper, a thickset bull-like orc with blazing eyes, and sliced his sword across its neck before turning quickly to parry the axe blow of a second orc coming up on his flank.

  The conspicuous charge brought some focus back to the motley mix of swordsmen and halberdiers still fighting in the courtyard, and before long a dozen of them were at his side, hacking and slashing against the orc tide with the desperation of men who knew their lives were hanging by a thread. Arrows began to fly again from the battlements above them, slowing the advance of the orcs through the narrow breach. Gradually, painfully, they began to regain control of the courtyard, and pushed the enemy towards the gap in the walls.

  As they neared the breach, Karsten slowly realised something else was happening. The orcs beyond the walls had started baying rhythmically, stamping their feet in unison and banging the drums in a series of long booms. The effect was chilling. They were no longer sending soldiers into the gap or up the walls. Instead, they seemed to be focusing their efforts on something outside the castle. The remaining orcs in the cou
rtyard retreated towards the gap. The wounded limped and lurched away from the fighting, but even they had a cold light in their eyes. Karsten’s men made to pursue them, but the castellan held them back. Something strange was going on.

  “Keep together, men,” he warned in a low voice. “Stay in formation.”

  The darkness made it hard to see far, but it was clear there was new activity at the gap. With uncommon discipline, a dozen heavily armoured orcs had formed a cordon around it, but they couldn’t entirely conceal what was happening. Slowly, deliberately, a massive form was clambering through the breach.

  “Archers, let fly!” cried Karsten, looking up to the ramparts where most of them still were. They loosed their arrows from above in a single, disciplined round. Most hit their target. It kept coming. Karsten felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his back. Whatever this thing was, it was huge. He looked to either side. His men stared into the gloom at the approaching horror. Their swords shone weakly in the dim moonlight. Karsten knew he should order a charge, repel the invader, but cold dread gripped his heart. He felt his fingers begin to tremble.

  As if by some soundless command, the orc soldiers drew apart to reveal the monster in their midst. Like some nightmare from childhood, the stinking figure waddled into the open. It was an orc of sorts, but like none Karsten had seen before. Its skin was lurid and covered with sores and strange growths. A mane of lank hair framed its long, mournful face. Its eyes were red and wild, each steadily weeping a clear liquid down heavily tattooed and pierced cheeks. Rags were draped over its ruinous form, which seemed to sway with a life of their own.

  The apparition breathed uneasily with a hoarse, scraping rattle, and leaned heavily on a massive, gnarled staff. The support dripped with a luminous green substance, like sap from some unholy tree. Karsten felt a fresh tremor of fear. This monster had exploded his cannons and taken the summit off the east tower, apparently at will. Uttering a prayer to Sigmar, he finally mastered himself. Grasping his sword tightly, he opened his mouth to order the charge.

  The creature halted, head cocked, nose sniffing.

  “Come no further, beast of Mork,” said a calm voice from the shadows. “Go back into the wilds and leave this place, or I will end the misery of your existence forever.”

  The wizards strode into the space between the two opposing forces, their grey cloaks limned with pale moonlight. Lothar looked at the beast with horror, a crushing sense of dread hampering his movements. Despite his training, he was scared, and could feel his heart beating heavily. He knew what it was: the skilfully projected aura of the waaagh, the cloud of intimidation that could render the stoutest general a craven wretch.

  The remaining men in the courtyard seemed rooted to the spot, their faces alive with fear. He felt no contempt for them. It was a hard thing to combat. The source of the power was truly impressive, reeking of strange, sorcerous energy, channelling the bloodlust of the entire army behind it into a single, terrible point. Even the orc guards around it seemed terrified, their eyes wild and staring in the night.

  Lothar gripped his staff tightly, taking comfort in its cool strength. He and Helmut walked deliberately into the centre of the courtyard, positioning themselves squarely between the shaman and Karsten’s men. No one from either side impeded their progress.

  The orcs kept up their strange rhythmic thumping outside the walls. They were feeding the shaman, letting the raw bestial energy of their kind nourish and sustain their leader. They knew, perhaps better than the men defending the castle, that this was a magical duel, axe or sword having little to do with it.

  “Iron, stone and steel you can destroy,” said Helmut, standing coolly in the rain by Lothar’s side, “but no creature of darkness can stand against the magic of the colleges. Go back, I say, lest I give you a taste of the fate that awaits you and all your kind.”

  Such was the steadiness of the master wizard’s gaze, augmented by all the subtle art he was able to bring to bear, even the crazed form before him paused for a moment. The fire in its eyes darkened, and the frenzied drooling over its cracked lips ceased for an instant. Behind them, Karsten and his men stood stock-still, their swords held ready but unused, reduced to spectators. For a moment, the beast before them hesitated. But it could not last. The shaman was bolstered by the waaagh, the manifestation of the battle-rage of its race and their strange gods. Shaking its shaggy head as if to clear it, it started to whirl around. Its cloak of rags swung violently in the driving rain. Dark green energies began to pool at its feet, and flickers of pale force crept up its arms.

  The wizards leapt into action. Lothar, willing himself not to slip from fear or fatigue, sprang to one side, throwing his staff along the ground as if casting a net over water. The earth rippled and ruptured, causing the shaman to stagger. Helmut spun his staff to point straight at the monster, and unleashed a buffeting surge of unnatural wind. The shaman reeled, bellowing its rage. Behind it, its bodyguard joined the swaying and chanting of the horde outside the walls, feeding the beast with their battle-rage. No Empire defender moved a muscle.

  Regaining its balance, the shaman slammed its staff to the ground, sending zigzags of crackling disruption along the churned earth. Lothar jumped aside, almost too late. Tottering slightly, he regained his balance and hastily began a fresh incantation. Helmut stood his ground, and planted his staff in the path of the shaman’s spell. He promptly disappeared behind a blooming cloud of green. Lothar issued his counter-spell, and a circlet of sparkling steel formed across his brow, spitting and crackling with bright energy. He felt a great tide of weariness hit him as he completed the spell; it was like wearing a crown of molten lead, but the pain was endurable. With a hiss of preternatural lightning, he sent a stream of fizzing energy towards the shaman, the effort of it causing him to stagger slightly. Helmut emerged from the enveloping cloud unharmed, his ward having been successful, and began to chant. The ground beneath the shaman’s feet began to yawn open.

  The shaman was old, wily and as strong as stone. Its eyes glittered with a feral cruelty and malice, and the surging power of the horde pulsed through its ruined frame. With a raging shake of its head, Lothar’s crackling fire was cast aside. A stamp of its massive, gnarled feet closed the opening earth with a crack. Rising to its full height, a claw-like hand seemed to pull green-tinged fronds of snapping, crackling energy from the empty air around it. With a contemptuous flick of bony fingers, a spinning ball of savage power tore towards Lothar.

  The young wizard raised his staff in defence, and a grey protective mist rose around him, but it was too slow, and he was hurled backwards, the green-coloured magic sticking to him like the strands of a spider’s web. Helmut spun around, and his robes scythed in the rain like blades. With a savage movement of his staff, the shadows of the shaman’s cloak and rags burst into flames, distracting the monster from completing his attack. Lothar, struggling against his bonds, stepped back, desperately trying to cut through the clinging strands. He felt frustration and fear rise within him, and worked to banish them from his mind. He was beginning to panic. Now, more than ever, he couldn’t afford a mistake.

  The shaman shuddered, shaking violently and flapping at the flames licking over it. With a guttural, strangled cry, it slammed its staff onto the ground once more, and the fires blew out. Then it began to work again. Amidst the tumult, Lothar could make out the beginnings of a low, muttered incantation. He looked over at Helmut, who was ashen-faced and exhausted. Grimly, the old wizard began to chant an incantation. Lothar wriggled free of the last of the webbing. He was weak. His spells were ineffective against the monstrous form before him, and he was running out of ideas. Breathing hard from the effort, he started a new spell, summoning a brace of dark, insubstantial daggers from the air. One by one, each time harder than the last, he sent them whirling towards the shaman. But the summoning had been hurried, and he could feel himself weakening. Only one found its mark, and was casually swatted away. The muttering continued.

  “He’s too p
owerful, lad,” said Helmut through clenched teeth, waving his staff in ritual preparation. “While he’s fuelled by the horde, there’s no hope. We need to try something different.”

  Lothar felt his anxiety, bred of exhaustion and frustration, rising within him.

  “What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly.

  Helmut cracked his staff on the ground before him, and a grey cloud rose over his body and into the night air. It began to spread into the darkness, a mist-like shield rising over them. The shaman started to sway more strongly, and his muttering grew louder and more urgent.

  “He’s preparing the final assault. I can isolate him, but not forever. When we’re locked together, you will be alone. Aid the castellan.”

  The shaman drew its arms into the air, shrugging off the last of Helmut’s shadow-fire as if it were mere village green trickery. With a roar that shook the walls around them, it pulled a column of vivid green fire into being, moulded it and sent it directly at the old wizard. It burned through the air like pitch, a living stream of raw waaagh magic, a deadly flow of hatred, savagery and primeval force. Helmut leaned forward. Where the shaman’s stream impacted on Helmut’s shield it went mad, splattering gobs and gouts of steaming, many-coloured detritus in all directions.

  Gripping his staff tightly, Helmut fought grimly, pushing the green substance back, using his grey shroud to absorb and deflect it. He was attempting a spell of containment, drawing the shaman into a magical embrace, giving the defenders time to attack the waaagh, isolate the monster and turn the tide of the battle.

  “Move back!” he barked with effort. “When we are enclosed, you must attack.”