Masters of Magic

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  “First rank!” he cried once more, and the process repeated. Fresh arrows streaked towards their targets.

  Karsten was pleased. Many of the men on the ramparts were from his garrison, and they knew their business. Even some of the newcomers were learning, and their pale faces and grim, determined looks were a far cry from their earlier carefree enthusiasm. The hail of arrows was constant, and was keeping the vanguard of the orc host from overwhelming the gates.

  “Repeat!” he urged, striding up and down the narrow parapet, exhorting his men against fear. It was not easy. The roar of the horde was nearly overwhelming, as was the stench. “Don’t lose heart! There are many of them, but we are men! Children of Sigmar, inheritors of his realm! Keep your discipline! Second rank!”

  Below, the orcs were beginning to respond to the steady hail of arrows. Crude black-feathered shafts rose up against the walls, clattering and skidding across the stone. More massive orcs, wading their way to the front of the slaughter, were able to hurl rocks at the defenders from crude slings, some of which found their target, crushing skulls and breaking bones where they landed amid the battlements. Karsten strode fearlessly through it all, his voice hoarse and cracking, sweat beginning to pool on his brow. His body ached, his mind worked hard. How long had they got before the assault reached the gates and broke them? It was so hard to tell, so hard to judge correctly.

  He looked across the battlements, over to the narrow rampart surmounting the gatehouse. From the summit, Marius was hurling some strange, glowing substance at the orcs below. Whatever it was, it was generating whoops and shrieks of panic and agony. Karsten smiled grimly, and made his way to the wizard’s side, holding his battered shield high to guard against the rain of arrows, rocks and other debris looping up from the field.

  “Good hunting?” he yelled over the ever-present roar of battle.

  “Aye, castellan,” laughed Marius, his eyes bright, his cloak and staff swirling as he worked the Amber Wind, apparently without effort. “Forgive my wishing to leave you earlier. I’m beginning to enjoy myself up here.”

  His staff shivered from root to tip, and the earth beneath the orcs’ feet began to heave and buckle. Karsten stood back, alarmed. Marius winked at him and smiled savagely. “You’ll like this,” he said with satisfaction. “Keep watching.”

  Holding his shield over his head, Karsten crept towards the battlements and peered down through the narrow slit in the stone. With a mix of horror and a strange, thrilling fascination, Karsten saw the ground before the gates lurch and run like water. The orcs caught in the spell wavered, their frenzied attack suddenly checked as fear rippled through them.

  Something was boiling and seething in the earth between their feet. The whooping and chanting ceased from the vanguard, and even a bull-necked champion on its boar, staggering against the movement of the ground, found its bellows checked and distorted. Like a mad, perverted springtime, the grasses and weeds of the field were growing, surging up like snakes, their tendrils and choking roots springing into the air with an animal frenzy, curling around the figures above them, dragging them down, smothering and squeezing.

  “Ha!” roared Marius, and swung his staff once more, an angry, almost crazed, light in his eyes. “Crush and snap! Drag and choke! Throttle and squash!”

  Karsten could only look on with amazement as the very soil seemed to rise against the invaders. The unnatural vegetation streamed into every gap in the orcs’ armour, winding and suffocating with terrible speed.

  He steadied himself against the stone of the battlement. The effect was dizzying, as if the whole world had gone mad, the laws of the seasons forgotten and given over to frenzy. As the front ranks of the assault were dragged down by the winding fronds and roots, panic set in amongst the orcs behind them. The driving power of the waaagh was forgotten for a moment. The chanting stopped, and the orcs fell back, stumbling and crashing into one another, the momentum of the charge broken.

  For a precious moment, the gates were free of assailants. A few laggards writhed pitifully against their supernatural bonds. Karsten winced slightly as one unfortunate beast, its broad back bound with thick vines, feet clogged and trapped by curling briars and creepers, was gradually crushed to death, its roars decreasing to wails, until a sickening, squelching crunch ended its agony.

  Marius stepped back from the walls, slick with sweat, his temples throbbing, his breathing quick and shallow. He seemed momentarily dazed. Karsten motioned to the archers stationed around them.

  “Keep up the volleys!” he roared. “Don’t let them regroup!”

  The missiles kept coming, flying high in the air before looping back down and thumping into the backs of the disarranged orc lines, spreading yet more woe amongst the broken advance. Karsten, seeing the defence was safely in order, fell back from the battlements to attend to the wizard. Marius had slumped, limbs limp, against the stone floor of the rampart, his face red. He took a swig of some liquid from the gourd around his neck.

  “Are you all right?” asked Karsten, full of concern.

  “I will be, in a few moments,” panted Marius, his eyes still blazing with that peculiar savage light. “I just need a break, that’s all. It’s tiring work, this magic.”

  “So I’m told. Well, you’ve earned a few moments to collect yourself. I’ve never seen such spellcasting, or such destruction.”

  Marius smiled through his exhaustion, as open to flattery as any of his kind.

  “Get used to it,” he said with pride. “You’re lucky to have me. Any wizard will tell you he’s the greatest in the Empire, of course, but they’re all wrong: I am. There’s more power in my fingers than in a regiment of normal book-reading, spell-memorising tricksters. I’m the best there is, the most gifted of all who have ever passed through the colleges. Give me a moment, and I’ll be up again.”

  Karsten looked at him keenly. He had come to expect such bluster from wizards, who, with the exception of young Lothar, all thought they were the mightiest spellcasters between the mountains and the sea, but something told him that Marius was different. He meant it.

  “Why are you out on your own, then?” he asked, almost without meaning to, his thoughts slipping into words.

  A shadow passed across Marius’ face briefly, and his fire dimmed.

  “If we get out of this alive, I’ll tell you sometime,” he said, some of the blood draining from his cheeks, his breathing returning to a normal level. Then he pushed himself upwards, and the two men went back to the battlements, using the stone to shield their bodies, looking through the gaps across the plain. It still boiled with moving forms.

  “I’ve bought you some time,” grunted Marius, “but only a little. I can’t keep the spell going forever, and they’ll be back at the gate soon.”

  “Aye,” said Karsten grimly, watching the orcs start to edge nervously forwards. The most heavily armoured amongst them shrugged the arrows off as they came, and beat their reluctant minions into line. “But where’s the shaman? Most of all, we need to lure it into the castle. It was at the forefront of the assault at Helmgart.”

  “Maybe it’s learned not to lead from the front,” mused Marius, taking up his staff once more. “Who knows? Perhaps it was wounded. If it fancies its chances against me, I’ll let you know… after I’ve killed it.”

  Karsten grinned, and made to return to his station further down the walls, raising his shield above his head.

  “I like your attitude, Marius,” he said. “You almost convince me that wizards are normal people.”

  Then he was gone, his voice rising in command as he returned to the archers. The whine of arrows intensified as the orcs charged towards the walls again.

  Lothar worked quietly on the other side of the castle, subtly and slowly bending the fabric of the world around the stone archway beneath him, shifting the light of the sun away from it, making it blend into the earth as if it had never existed. This was simple magic, the basic technique of the illusionist, and it barely taxed him.
Of all the arcane arts, deception and trickery were the lowest. The minds of men, and of orcs, were easily led, and to make things seem other than what they were was, most of the time, a trivial matter. It was the elemental arts, the summoning of substance from void, the breaking of the great laws of life and death, the conjuring of force and matter, which were the pinnacle of a wizard’s art. To be confined to such menial sleight of hand while the castle was under attack was an ignoble assignment, even though Lothar knew it was essential. He yawned slightly as he worked. The shimmer of his illusion played gently in the strong spring sun.

  Then, something changed. There were orcs ahead of him, a hunting pack, mounted on wolves, sniffing carefully through the trees on the rise ahead. Lothar stiffened, and peered carefully at the interlopers as they picked their way towards the walls. They had clearly been sent to scout out any weak points in the north face. They were small, dark-skinned goblins, their narrow eyes glinting in the shadows under the branches. Above him, he knew that archers were poised at the windows, ready to loose their shafts if the gate were discovered. They would hold off until the last moment; at all costs, attention must not be drawn to the escape route.

  Lothar clutched his staff tightly, using it to augment the spell of illusion over the gate, willing the narrow way to appear just like a smooth, blank wall of stone. There was a limit to how effective this could be, especially in the strong sunlight. As he couldn’t see the effects of his work, it was easy to worry. Was it really hidden? Was the ward in exactly the right place? For the moment, it seemed to be working. The pack wheeled away and back into the shadows, their mounts panting and wheezing.

  Then, the last scout, a spiny, wretched-looking goblin hunched over a slavering wolf, seemed to sense something. He spat out a rough order, and the hunting pack halted. They were no more than a hundred yards from the walls, half hidden under the eaves of the first trees, watchful and alert. Lothar felt his heart skip a beat, and concentrated harder. Had they spied the gate? Leaning forwards a little, his face concealed by the shadows of the narrow window, he watched intently, feeling the sweat begin to prick his palms.

  The goblin held its skinny hand up and its companions melted back into the branches. Gingerly, the scrawny scout prodded its steed forward, its red eyes staring hard at the bare, high walls. Its long nose was sniffing suspiciously. Lothar watched it every step of the way, keeping his staff high, ready to alter his spell at any moment. Under his breath, he whispered reinforcing words to his illusionary ward. The goblin lingered just under the cover of the trees. There was no clear line of sight for the archers, who were perched higher up.

  The scout stared hard, shaking its narrow head from time to time as if trying to shake off drunkenness or sleep. It had clearly sensed something, some break or imperfection in the spell. Lothar held his breath, willing the archers to restrain themselves. He knew that the wolf riders under the trees would flee at the first sign of resistance, and there were not enough arrows to fell them all. Then more would come, and things would get much more difficult. So he stayed still, tense, waiting, willing the spell to stay in place, mouthing words of binding and support, letting the Wind of Ulgu swill across the windowsill and down over the stone walls, drowning the hidden way from view and shrouding the real world in deception.

  After a few moments, the scout shook its head again, and pulled the suspicious wolf back towards the shelter of the trees. It had given up. Lothar felt a ripple of relief pass through him. The spell had held, but more orcs would come the longer resistance at the gate continued. It was a delicate balancing act, and lime was running out. Forcing his mind to concentrate, he continued to feed the illusion, wondering when the signal would come to break out. Despite the danger, it could not come soon enough.

  “Here they come again!” cried Karsten, rallying the remaining archers on the walls. He batted a stray rock away with his shield. The force of his voice and will was all that was keeping the tired flow of arrows streaming from the battlements and urging strength of body and mind amongst the defenders.

  It was no longer easy. The hail of rocks and darts from below had become a storm. The first grapnels had been thrown against the high walls, and the goblins had started their incessant scrambling up to the undermanned parapets. Karsten’s sword was heavy and dark with blood already, and the sun was still high in the sky. Many defenders had fallen to the knives of the climbers or the missiles from below, and the steady hammering from beneath indicated that the orcs were banging their rams freely at the heavy gates.

  Karsten glanced over towards Marius, who was throwing bolts of lurid amber force into the thronged masses surging towards them, but his power was clearly waning. Even the mightiest wizard could only keep going for so long. The time had come. Karsten ran over to a grizzled archer at the west end of the ramparts. He was a veteran of Helmgart, and his scarred face was a mask of controlled hatred. Karsten placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “That’s it!” he shouted over the bellowing noise of battle. “We’ve done all we can. Signal the retreat.”

  The archer dropped his bow and took up a long brass horn. Its clear note blared into the air. It even drowned out the tumult of the orcs for a moment. In an instant, the defenders dropped their bows and drew swords. They hurried from their positions and down the winding stairs and ladders into the courtyard. From outside, a great roar of triumph rose up, and the hammering at the gate reached a deafening crescendo.

  Karsten waited until the last of the archers had left his position before joining Marius in the retreat. Goblins were quickly clambering unopposed onto the high battlements behind them, their yells of triumph and scorn screeching after them.

  “This is the test,” he hissed to Marius as the two of them tore across the flagstones of the courtyard. “By Sigmar, I hope Lothar is waiting for us.”

  The ragged stream of defenders ran quickly across the open space into the keep, followed by Marius and Karsten in the rearguard. Behind them, more goblins dropped down on the inside of the walls. They hurled rocks and hooks after the retreating men, before turning to scrabble at the bars across the gate to let their larger kin inside, but their efforts were superfluous. The mighty oak doors were blasted apart from outside. With a chorus of squeals, the goblins were crushed beneath the wreckage, and huge forms began to pile into the narrow space with bellows of rage and triumph. Karsten, slipping into the keep, slammed the door behind him, threw the bolts across and ran after his men down the hallway, deep into the heart of the cool stone citadel.

  “What was that blast?” panted Marius, tired from his spellcasting.

  “I don’t know,” said Karsten, his armour clattering as he ran. “Something threw the gates aside, but whether by magic or force of arms I couldn’t tell.”

  Behind them, a second crash told them the door to the keep was breached. The orcs were right on their heels. The men ran into a wide hall in the centre of the stone structure. The narrow passageway leading to the northern gate was in front of them, guarded by nervous swordsmen, clearly itching to be away. Lothar was waiting for them in the centre of the hall. The surviving members of the garrison stood beside him expectantly. All around them, lines of kindling stretched into the darkness, linking the little kegs of blackpowder with the dozens of others placed around the building. Piles of dry straw and wood littered every stone surface. They were at the heart of the conflagration to come.

  “Is the north gate still free?” rasped Karsten to Lothar as he ran in.

  “Yes, castellan,” replied the wizard. “There are orcs outside, but not many yet… more are coming.”

  “Good work,” said Karsten gratefully, before turning to address the surviving defenders. “You’ve done well, men,” he said quickly. The noises of the approaching orcs were getting louder all the time. “Now we go with the Grey wizard. He’ll ward us as best he can. Keep together and head north. If any of you get separated, we’ll regroup at Wolf Crag in the Skaag Hills. Go swiftly, and may the Heldenhammer be with you.�
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  They needed no second command. Following Lothar, who held his staff high to guide them, the soldiers ran quickly down the low passage towards the gate, their swords glinting in the gloom as they went. Only Marius and Karsten remained.

  “Do it,” said the castellan simply.

  Marius closed his eyes, and a bright spark of flame burst into being at the top of his staff. At the same moment, a massive orc with tusks the size of a child’s arm burst into the chamber. Karsten swung his sword in a glittering arc, spraying black blood across the chamber. More orcs sprung into the hall. Marius whirled around, hurling tongues of an outlandish orange flame against the floor and walls, halting the orcs in their tracks. The fire caught quickly, streaking along the trails of kindling towards the barrels that lined the walls.

  “Go!” roared Karsten, chopping savagely at the orc before him and turning on his heels. He tore towards the narrow exit passage.

  In an instant, the hall was filled with light as the blackpowder kindled. A series of explosions threw their pursuers back to the walls. A ball of flame rose against the lofty ceiling, curling around and falling back in a ruinous, hellish shower of fire. The blaze followed Karsten and the wizard down the tunnel. A wall of heat and pain lapped at their feet. Marius cursed heavily as the flames licked his cloak, and then they were both out in the sunlight, hurled from the open gate by the booming pressure behind them.

  Without pausing for a moment, they sprinted across the open ground outside the walls, racing to reach the cover of the trees ahead of them. It was a short distance, but it felt like forever.

  Karsten could see the forms of orcs at the edge of his vision. They were watching the fires in the castle at the moment, but it would only be a matter of time before the ragged procession of men caught their attention. He and Marius staggered up into the trees, hearing the massed thuds of the barrels as they ignited inside the building. Karsten looked around desperately. There were more orcs in the trees, their eyes advancing in the shadows, axes wielded in heavy hands. Growling, they lurched forwards. Wearily, he raised his sword.