Masters of Magic

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Just as she was about to speak, there was a sudden commotion at the rear of the straggling camp. A blast of horns rose in the air, but was swiftly cut short. There was the thunderous noise of horses, and a different set of horns blared out. Erhardt looked around sharply.

  “What is this?” he cried, racing to the entrance to the tent.

  Katerina, intrigued, followed him, the remaining officers tagging along in a servile fashion. As she stepped into the sun, she saw a line of mounted knights riding straight through the rows of tents towards them. The sun flashed off their polished armour, and a series of banners and pendants snapped and rippled from the shafts of their glinting spears. The horses’ hooves churned the damp earth, spraying clods of mud into the faces of the startled foot soldiers emerging from their idleness, their mouths open and eyes wide. Lines of infantry could be seen marching in order towards the camp, behind the snorting horses, their stride regulated by the heavy beat of drums. Unlike Erhardt’s men, their uniforms and weapons seemed bright and clean in the cool breeze. There were many more of them too. This was another entire army, hundreds of men, led by armoured knights, flying the colours and devices of the Emperor.

  Katerina watched with admiration, torn between the enjoyment of watching Erhardt’s face fall and the trepidation of what this new development might bring. She felt a sudden thrill of excitement at the sight of so many fine soldiers, just as she had when watching the parades from her father’s balcony as a little girl. No doubt Klaus had not expected this, and it could cause problems for her, but there was little she couldn’t work around, given time, and where there was change there was also opportunity.

  Ahead of her, the lead knight dismounted heavily from his steaming horse. He was a huge figure, encased from head to foot in gold-rimmed armour, worn from use, but lovingly cared for. A standard bearer rushed to his side, planting a flagpole in the earth next to Erhardt’s colours. The new standard was smaller and looked older, but its heraldic signs were obvious: the champion of the Emperor Karl-Franz, the infamous Ludwig Schwarzhelm.

  The mighty figure removed his helmet, revealing his bald, scarred head and bristling eyebrows. He strode forward decisively, his eyes burning. Behind him, his entourage of knights also dismounted and silently formed a semi-circle around their commander.

  “Erhardt!” bellowed the old warrior, the anger evident in his booming, gravelly voice. “You will relinquish command of this army to me, at once. I am commandeering your forces. You will accompany me as commander of the rearguard. Should you perform with distinction, however unlikely that may be, I may choose not to raise this shameful matter with the Emperor on my return.”

  Erhardt went pale. He looked from side to side nervously, aware that his officers still stood around him, looking to him for some response. He cleared his throat weakly.

  “What can you mean, my lord?” he said in a slightly high voice. “What regulation have I transgressed? I have marched to defend the city, as is my duty.”

  Schwarzhelm marched straight up to the diminutive figure, towering over him in his full armour and billowing cloak.

  “You left Altdorf without permission and without consultation,” he spat, the veins in his mighty neck throbbing. “Your reckless actions have endangered this whole enterprise. You seem to know nothing of the foe you face. Your forces are insufficient to even dent such a horde. With enormous trouble, I have ridden south to repair the damage your actions have caused. Why you have chosen to camp in this Sigmar-forsaken marsh with the enemy only days away is beyond me, when there are the Skaag Hills within a morning’s march. We’ll leave for the higher ground at once. Collect your troops and raise this camp. We ride within the hour.”

  Erhardt visibly quailed before the massive, implacable force before him. Schwarzhelm fixed him with a level gaze, and the general seemed to wilt.

  “As you command, my lord,” he said weakly, bowing. His cheeks flushed with the humiliation, he motioned snappily to his officers. They roused from their gawping and left, marching quickly back to their men. Schwarzhelm’s bodyguard parted noiselessly to allow their passage, their faces impassive. Erhardt retreated to the shade of the tent, looking unsure what to do. Katerina smiled to herself. She knew Schwarzhelm by reputation, and was pleased to see that he did indeed know his business. She stepped forward and curtsied gracefully.

  “My Lord Schwarzhelm,” she said, giving him a significant look. “I am the Imperial battle wizard assigned to this mission. I’m pleased to be of service.”

  The Emperor’s Champion looked at her with barely disguised contempt.

  “So you are the one behind this,” he said, his moustached lip curling slightly. “You can forget your wiles for the moment, wizard. They won’t work on me.”

  At that, there was a commotion behind the line of knights. A horse-drawn carriage was laboriously making its way towards the standards. It was large and heavy, and suffered in the mud. Gaudy hangings swayed from its sides as the horses laboured. The brightly painted wooden walls were splattered with grime, but it was clearly the transport of an important figure. It drew close, and the coachman pulled the horses to a stop. With much effort and fuss, servants rushed to the side of the carriage and pulled the wooden doors open, laying reed mats over the worst of the filth below.

  Katerina felt her mood plummet. She knew who was inside. She had seen the carriage before. Indeed, there were few battle wizards who would not have recognised it. The inhabitant was someone whom Klaus would certainly not have wanted to be there. She swallowed nervously, wondering how this little meeting was going to play out.

  Schwarzhelm looked disapprovingly at the florid procession, but made no move to intervene.

  “This is your replacement,” he said to Katerina gruffly. “Report to him, and he will report to me.”

  He leaned closer to her.

  “And understand this,” he said under his breath, “I don’t like wizards. Cause any more trouble, and I’ll have you hanged for a witch, whatever protectors you may think you have in the city. Forget your pride and follow my orders, and we may yet get on.”

  He straightened to watch the descent of his senior battle wizard from the carriage. Ambrosius Kalliston, wheezing and grunting like an old boar, came heavily down the steps and waddled up to the stern figure of Schwarzhelm. He gave a dismissive look to Katerina, and bowed to the Emperor’s Champion.

  “I see you have everything under control, my lord,” he said somewhat breathlessly. “What are your orders?”

  Schwarzhelm did not hide his distaste for Kalliston’s flabby, sweat-streaked face, but made no audible rebuke.

  “This is the Amethyst wizard of which your master spoke. Take her under your command, and inform her of the plans of battle. I want no trouble between you. We have a short march ahead to the Skaag Hills, where we will prepare and await the enemy. Until then, give me no cause to speak to either of you. I will summon you when I need your counsel.”

  Then he turned on his heels and strode back to his horse. With a powerful vault, he thrust his powerful frame back into the saddle. A bugle call, a flourish of the standard, and he was away, his charger kicking the turf into the air. Katerina watched him in admiration. The situation was not quite ideal, she mused, but at least the army was now under decent command.

  She took a look at the wobbly jowls of her newly appointed superior, and felt the opposite emotion. For all his unpromising looks, she knew from his reputation that Ambrosius Kalliston was not to be trifled with lightly. She made to present herself formally to him, when she felt a gentle tugging at her elbow. She turned, and saw Erhardt, sidling towards her.

  “What are we going to do?” he hissed, his early air of self-assurance entirely dissipated. “We need to talk.”

  Katerina gave him a look of pure contempt.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped, snatching her arm from his pawing fingers. “Things have changed. Keep away from me, or I’ll let the whole camp know exactly what you like to do in the pri
vacy of your tent.”

  Erhardt shrank back, a horrified expression on his face. Katerina gave him an icy smile, and went up to the newly arrived Gold wizard to make her introductions. Her mind was working quickly. She would need to work hard on Schwarzhelm if her position was not to become too precarious. But there was always hope, and there were few situations too difficult to be overcome by either cunning or charm. Possessed with plenty of both, Katerina bowed low to Ambrosius, her plans already formulating. It would be an interesting few days, she mused, and the orcs had not even arrived yet.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After so long waiting, the storm had finally arrived. All the land south of the castle was filled with countless orcs, leaping and howling, their frenzy as strong as it had been in the mountains. In the unwavering light of day, the full horror could be seen clearly: rank upon rank of loping greenskins, pale green skin splattered with mud, grime and blood, small red eyes fevered and staring. The ragged flanks were composed of smaller breeds: hook-nosed goblins mounted on lean, snarling wolves, their teeth long and yellow. Towards the centre of the army, the hulking forms were bigger and darker, their glistening hides clad in ill-fitting armour rather than rags and scraps of leather. The greatest of all were the mighty black orcs, thick skin the colour of yew trees, their armour heavy and hammered from iron, their roars booming over the tumult like thunder. They crashed through the muddied and churning waters of the B�gen before charging headlong up the near riverbank. As the mass of bodies surged towards the gates, many of the lesser kind were trampled underfoot, the smallest crushed to death in the press. Their pitiful squeals were drowned by the endless roll of the drums and the blare of crude horns.

  It seemed like a morass of mindless, feral violence, churning towards the castle without thought or design, but amid the chaos of the assault, there was a malicious purpose, a guiding intelligence.

  Orc champions mounted on huge, hulking warboars kept a veneer of order within the seething ranks, through the sheer force of their will. They were like tiny islands in a mad ocean. Their bellows and blows herded maddened thralls towards key strategic points, preventing the advance from becoming entirely without order, funnelling the anger of the entire army on to the fragile-looking walls before them.

  But all of these champions were subordinate to the great mind at the heart of the horde, obscured behind its towering bodyguard, the grotesque form of the shaman, destroyer of Helmgart. Even hidden from view, its malevolence was evident, persistent, malignant, deadly. Like some bloated insect at the heart of the nest, it drove its slaves onwards, pulling the fury of the host into a single point, directing it, feeding from it. The embodiment of the waaagh, it was both master and slave to the unearthly forces that drove the greenskins, the chosen instrument of their crude and unknowable gods.

  Lothar looked grimly down from the walls as they came. He could feel the throb of the drums as the serried ranks piled forwards, their beating feet making the very earth under them shake. He had to admit that the tide of frenzied forms heading directly for them had unsettled him. It was hard to remain composed in the face of such raw, unbridled hatred and bloodlust. He could feel his skin pricking with sweat, and his heart beating a little faster. With some effort, he worked to control his feelings. He found it useful to concentrate on the memory of his old master. Only his desire for revenge seemed to quell his fear.

  Marius and Karsten stood beside him, their eyes fixed on the composition of the approach, carefully looking for patterns or weak points. It was hard to see how there could be any. The castle overlooked a wide plain to the south, now filled with leaping, slavering figures. What little habitation had existed in the open space was ruined and burning. Beyond that, the limitless forests closed in, making it seem as if they were utterly surrounded by malevolent creatures.

  North of the castle, behind them, the land rose sharply, and the trees came much closer to the walls. It was difficult, rocky ground, and much less suitable for a sustained assault. They had to hope the orcs saw things the same way; their escape route was to the north, the only hope they had of getting away from the horde.

  “By Sigmar,” said Marius, for once sounding impressed. “If I’d known how many there were, I think I’d have kept going north.”

  “We killed many at Helmgart,” said Karsten quietly “They can be hurt, even if they cannot be stopped.”

  Lothar felt hot anger rising within him. He couldn’t see the shaman through the mass of running forms, but he knew it was there. He gripped his staff tightly, feeling the pain of his wounds against the wood as well as the surge of latent power. The wait had been longer than anticipated, but he was rested and ready. Fear was giving way to hate.

  “Aye,” he said grimly. “They can be hurt, and they will be hurt.”

  “Remember the plan!” said Karsten sharply. “We cannot have any deviation from it, or all will be lost. Arrows are our best hope now. We can forget swords until the gates are broken, and then we flee. If Sigmar wills it, a day will come when we can fight like men, but for now our only chance is deception.”

  Marius nodded, looking almost happy.

  “So be it, castellan,” he said, his low voice rasping, his eyes bright. “I can direct death from afar. Ah! I can smell the green flesh cooking even now.”

  With that, he stalked along the battlements to a vantage point directly over the gates, threw his ragged cloak back and prepared himself. On either side of him, a dozen archers drew their bows tight.

  “And you, Lothar,” asked Karsten warily, looking into the wizard’s eyes, “are you prepared?”

  Lothar looked back at him impassively.

  “Aye, to hide like a thief, and then shield the escape from their eyes. I’d rather be with you. If I had one more chance to face the shaman…”

  “Use your magic to fight with us now, and you’ll ruin everything. Your illusions are essential. Guard the gate, and don’t wish too hard for combat, it’ll find you again soon enough.”

  Grudgingly, knowing the castellan was right, Lothar bowed, and descended from the ramparts down a rickety ladder into the courtyard below.

  As he strode towards his station, he reviewed the strategy one last time. The castle was a simple design, a ringed wall enclosing a courtyard on the south, east and west, with the main gate placed due south. To the north, the keep rose up, its tall sides joining with the walls and looming high into the cold spring air. They all knew the assault would come where the citadel looked weakest, at the south gate, and so the north side of the citadel was lightly guarded. They had no wish to draw attention to their escape route, the hidden gate at the foot of the northern wall, by provoking a major assault anywhere near it.

  Much depended on luck. If the narrow way out was spotted and attacked, they would surely all die. Aside from a few archers positioned against slit windows high up the sheer walls, Lothar was their main hope, his expertise in shadows and concealment holding the promise of keeping the little archway at the foot of the keep hidden from prying eyes. Once the order was given to retreat, his task would become even harder. He knew that warding the surviving soldiers as they sped north through the fringes of the horde would test his powers to their limits.

  Lothar passed from the courtyard into the cool darkness of the keep, and went through the corridors quickly. He climbed up a spiralling staircase before emerging into a narrow, outward facing chamber on the north face of the citadel. A thin window looked out directly northwards. He was perhaps twenty feet up the walls. The chamber had been selected carefully for its position right over the gate. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see it directly, but he knew it was below him. He looked out through the window. The land beyond the castle rose sharply upwards. After a few hundred yards the open ground gave way to ragged clumps of bushes and trees, before turning into thick, heavy forest beyond. To his right, the silver ribbon of the B�gen glistened as it turned away north and east. Looking below him at as narrow an angle as he could, he noted how skilfully Kars
ten’s men had arranged rock debris around the approaches to the archway beneath. A casual observer would have seen nothing.

  Sighing slightly, deliberately removing the frustration and fear from his mind, he relaxed, letting his inner eye detect the shadowy Wind of Ulgu around him and draw it towards him once more.

  With a familiar surge in his blood, he felt the preternatural substance coil around, lapping at the foot of his staff like water running backwards towards its source. The power rose in him once more, and he began his low incantation, enjoying the sensation of power as his magical aura responded. His power extended forwards, and slipped out over the sill of the window. It crept, unseen, down the walls. Lothar, using his memory and magical sense to place the ward directly over the gate, smiled to himself as he felt the spell begin to work. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the form of the gate melted into the stonework of the wall, and passed from view.

  * * *

  “Let fly!” cried the castellan and the archers released their bowstrings in a single, disciplined volley. The arrows spun over the battlements and into the morass of forms beneath them. Wails and screams of anger and pain signalled that many had found their mark. Karsten peered through the gap in the stone, watching as the charge towards the gates faltered. Several huge greenskins tumbled to the ground clutching arrows at their throats and torsos.

  “Second rank!” bellowed Karsten above the noise, and the front row of archers stepped back from the battlements. They were instantly replaced by a fresh line, who released their missiles with similar deadly force into the tide of greenskins crashing against the stone beneath them. More staggered and fell to the ground, but plenty of slavering forms leapt forwards to fill the gaps.