Masters of Magic

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Then, everything went grey. It was as if a mist had suddenly descended. It crept over Marius too, shrouding them both in sweeps of insubstantial, ethereal raiment. Karsten looked up into the forest. There were other figures in the mist, his men, huddled together under a tall oak grove, dim and insubstantial in the unnatural fog.

  “I underestimated him,” whispered Marius. “This is a mighty feat. We must get close, or he will tire quickly.”

  Ignoring the muffled booms from behind them, the two men scrambled up the hill. The trees closed in around them. When all of the survivors were assembled, Lothar spoke, his voice trembling from the effort.

  “Stay with me. There is a ward around us. Come quickly; it will not last long.”

  Then he broke into a halting run, and they followed him, passing like shades of death in the night. Even though the spring sun burned fiercely, Karsten was cold, chilled by the swathes of magic circling around him. He could dimly see the dark forms of the orcs as they blundered around the edges of the ward, but none penetrated it. The men moved swiftly, and soon the orcish silhouettes faded and were left behind. They passed on up the hill, climbing far from the battlefield. After what seemed only a short time, Lothar fell to his knees with a gasp, exhausted from the effort. The mist ruptured and scattered, the tatters of unearthly substance dissipating like steam. The view behind them cleared.

  Karsten turned around. They were high up the hillside to the north of the keep. Through a gap in the trees, he could see the way they had come. The river was now some way below them to their left. Black smoke was pouring from the castle. Orcs were flying in every direction, their roars of triumph turned to cries of confusion and anger. There were more explosions, muffled thumps as if the hammers of the underworld were ringing beneath them, and bright columns of flame shot into the sunlight sky.

  Heedless of the danger, the castellan stood and watched. With a rolling crash, more powder ignited, and the topmost tower toppled. The plan was working. The castle was collapsing, walls falling in, arches tumbling, crushing all beneath them. Another boom and the fire really took hold, sweeping across the battlements. The desperate forms of goblins became visible from a distance as they hurtled to their deaths from the walls rather than burn in the inferno.

  The column of smoke rose high into the air. More cracks and shuddering booms rang across the wide valley. With an almost dreamlike slowness, the keep dissolved into rubble. Piles of dust, stone and burning matter were flung into the sky. A shuddering, throbbing tide of noise rose into the air, and then subsided, leaving a cracked, broken ruin behind it.

  “Was the shaman inside?” breathed Lothar, his voice a hollow shell.

  “I don’t know,” replied Karsten.

  Then the smoke cleared a little, and a new peril emerged. With the passing of the ward, they were exposed once more. Orcs on the fringes of the horde, creeping upwards through the trees, had spied them again, and with blood-freezing cries of malice they surged towards them.

  “We’re not out of danger yet!” cried Karsten, snapping back into alertness despite his fatigue. “Run up the hill. We muster at the Wolf Crag! Sigmar be with you!”

  The men turned on their heels once more, driven from their defences just as they had been at Helmgart, but this time the price paid for victory had been higher, and Karsten had a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he ran. They had bloodied them. He had done his duty.

  * * *

  General Erhardt sat slumped in his tent, pondering his options. Within the space of a day, his plans had been shattered. His failure seemed complete. Katerina was gone, and he still wasn’t sure whether he hated her for it or not. Now even his own troops barely acknowledged his commands. He had been a fool, a credulous dupe. Taking another swig of wine, he sank back further into the furs, the heavy pall of depression settling over his brow. If the orcs came now, he would welcome them. Fair, honest combat could hardly be worse than living in such a self-inflicted hell. He raised the near-empty glass high in mock salute and then drained it. It was only as he reached to pour more that he noticed the figure sitting opposite him, calmly watching. With a lurch of horror, he dragged himself out of his slouch, before the world spun around unpleasantly. He sank back down, the wine having its usual effect.

  “Who…?” he began, his speech slurring slightly.

  “Who am I?” said the intruder helpfully, his thin voice clipped and precise. “A good question, general. Perhaps you should ask your guards, who were lax enough to let me slip in here with the minimum of violence. This is not a taut regime, is it?”

  The speaker was a slight, thin man with a balding pate and curls of brown hair hanging to his shoulders. His eyes were set deep into a grey face and the black lines around them spoke of fatigue, harrowing experiences, or both. His pinched features were calm and assured and he carried himself with an easy confidence, rather as if he owned the camp and all that was in it. He wore thick leather boots with expensive spurs and a long dark coat with the marks of travel on it. A beautiful pistol rested on his lap, inlaid with silver and marked with the twin-tailed comet. So that was it, thought Erhardt, a witch hunter. He struggled to clear his head, and made to speak, but the intruder continued talking.

  “You need not fear for your safety, general,” he said smoothly, fingering his pistol. “I’m not here for you. Whatever your sins may be, heresy is not one of them. As you’ve no doubt guessed, I serve the Temple of Sigmar, one of its many agents. My name is Ernst von Huppelstadt, witch hunter, and I’m after more interesting quarry than a simple soldier, however many medals he wears.”

  The shock and fear abating slightly, Erhardt felt his wits gradually creeping back. He cleared his throat, suddenly concerned for his dignity. He was at a significant disadvantage, which was never a pleasant state to be in.

  “Herr Huppelstadt,” he said, as authoritatively as he could, “give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you drummed from my camp and clapped in irons this minute.”

  He jutted his chin out in what he hoped was an intimidating way, but his aura, whatever it might have been in the past, had faded badly. Huppelstadt merely laughed, an unpleasant, slightly effeminate sound.

  “You could try, general,” he said coolly. “Or you could show some sense and listen to what I have to say. There is a wizard in your entourage, a woman, Katerina Lautermann. I gather you and she have been… closely associated on this enterprise.”

  Erhardt merely nodded, his sense of shame rising once more. He hated witch hunters; they always knew more than they let on, and what they knew was rarely pleasant.

  “You may not be aware,” continued Huppelstadt, “but Fraulein Lautermann, as she calls herself now, is of a very noble family indeed. Let me tell you a little more about her. She was once the only daughter of Adolf Kohl, the courtier and banker, of whom I’m sure you’ve heard. They were close, very close, before a tragic family dispute left her disinherited and barred from the ancestral estates. As you’ll recall, Kohl and his wife died soon afterwards in circumstances that have never been adequately explained. All very unfortunate, amid so much that remains mysterious. In any case, the daughter passed from view, and the Kohl name vanished from the Altdorf landscape. Their estates were broken up and dispersed according to the immutable laws of greed and circumstance. She would like, perhaps, that none of this be known or talked about, but little escapes the determined ears of the Temple of Sigmar, and it’s foolish to try to hide from us for long.”

  “Very interesting,” said Erhardt, resignedly, feeling he had thought quite enough about Katerina recently. “Now I’m sure you’re going to tell me why I should remotely care about any of this.”

  Huppelstadt smiled again, his thin lips pursing unpleasantly.

  “Quite so,” he said. “As we both know, young Katerina had not quite disappeared. She found a home in the strangest of places, the Colleges of Magic, and of all the colleges, she chose—or was chosen by—the Amethyst Order. Perhaps your magical lore is not what it mig
ht be, general, so let me enlighten you. The Amethyst wizards deal in death, in the Dark Arts, in the line between the bright light of the real world and the shadowy realm of souls. Many good, faithful people would say that such dabbling has no place in the Empire of men, for the ministrations of corruption are ever whispering at the hearts of us all. Who can tell what temptations and perils the practitioners of such arcane lore are subject to? And so, even though the Emperor in his wisdom has determined that such practices may be tolerated under strict mandate, we are charged with keeping tight watch over all that they do. It is a lonely, arduous, and yet blessed vocation.”

  Erhardt felt his stomach turn a little, either from the decanter of wine he had drunk so quickly, or from the unwholesome whiff of piety emanating from in front of him.

  “Let’s get straight to the point,” the general said, distastefully. “You’re telling me that Katerina is a witch?”

  Huppelstadt raised an eyebrow in a noncommittal fashion.

  “The only true tests are those of the instruments of agony,” he said in an offhand way that made Erhardt shiver. “It may yet come to that, but there is already much that leads me to believe she has fallen from the light. Her mentor is a man called Gunther Klaus, someone in whom the Grand Theogonist has taken an interest. There are gentlemen of great subtlety and power, even at the heart of the Empire, whose hearts belong to the Dark Gods. We believe he is one of them, may his soul rot in torment forever, but we cannot move against him yet. He is influential, and we need more information. He is collecting artefacts of power, by theft and by stealth, for what purpose we do not yet know, and Katerina is his most trusted agent. I’ve been on her trail for weeks, although I think recently she has begun to suspect something. She is a dangerous and intelligent adversary, someone I might admire were her intentions not so black.”

  He leaned forwards, his eyes glittering with a strange, unsettling intent.

  “Now things have come to a head. It is my mission to expose her, to arrest her, and to take her back to Altdorf in chains. I plan to do it before the battle commences. But now that I’ve tracked her down to this miserable place, I may as well make use of those who have been close to her. One is never free of doubt, after all. You are one such man, Erhardt, and a righteous servant of the Empire. Tell me, what do you think? Are we right to be concerned? Speak without fear; I only wish to know the truth.”

  Erhardt thought carefully. What the witch hunter said was nonsense. Katerina was no more a witch than he was; amoral, avaricious, duplicitous, vain, quick-tempered and disloyal, certainly, but no sorcerer. To inform on her would, he knew, condemn her to the slow torture of the rack and irons, where even her adamantine will would be broken in the end, condemning her to a miserable death, extinguishing her bright and irreplaceable flame from the world forever. She did not deserve that, despite the way she had treated him. She had ruined his career, dragged his name through the mud, and shamed him before his own men, but even he was not so low as to falsely accuse her of witchcraft.

  But then, as he thought back over her actions, his anger rose once more. Whether it was the wine, or some deeper-seated malice, awakened through humiliation and failure, he changed his mind.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, thoughtfully. “There have been a few things… Maybe I should have been more vigilant.”

  As he spoke, he felt a thrill of vengeance rush through him. She may have brought him low, but he would be revenged.

  “I think you may be on to something, Herr Huppelstadt. After what you say, I believe she could be involved in some secret activity. Yes, the more I think about it, she has been acting very suspiciously lately. How could I have been so blind? A witch! Oh, the shame of it…”

  Huppelstadt gave him a searching look, holding his eyes for a long time before releasing them. Only after several moments did he seem satisfied.

  “Very well,” he said, almost sadly. “My suspicions have been confirmed. We must move quickly when the time comes. Neither of us would wish the Emperor’s Champion to go into battle with a traitor by his side. You will aid me, and Sigmar will bless you for it. Should your efforts assist me faithfully, I can ensure that reports of your conduct will be passed to some very influential ears in Altdorf. Give me what I need, and you can yet salvage something from this campaign.”

  He got up in a snake-like single movement.

  “I’ll call for you at dusk. We must confront Schwarzhelm when he’s alone and gain his support. Until then, stay silent, and stay watchful.”

  He slipped out of the tent, stepping delicately over the unmoving form of the guard outside. Erhardt sagged back into the chair once he was gone, unsure whether to feel pleased or disgusted with himself. To help him make the decision, he reached for the wine once more, and poured a mammoth glass.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The afternoon sun was low in the sky when the men finally stopped marching. Their legs were aching and their throats were parched. Lothar was weary to his bones. His efforts in summoning the ward had drained him even before the forced retreat from their pursuers. Thankfully, the race had not lasted long. The destruction of Grauenburg had broken the cohesion of the horde, and their half-hearted attempts to catch up with them had soon fizzled out. Karsten had driven them hard nonetheless, pushing his diminished and exhausted band until they had cleared the thick woodland and passed on to a ridge of high, rocky ground. Some of his men, scattered in the flight from the castle, had found them, but many others were still missing, perhaps slow to escape the orcs, or simply lost in the maze of hill country around them.

  Lothar sat heavily, throwing his staff onto the ground beside him, grateful for the break in the endless marching. Marius sat down next to him. The Amber wizard scrabbled around for a filthy-looking gourd, half-full with something that might once have been water. He took a swig before offering it to Lothar. Despite his raging thirst, he declined. There was bound to be a stream or river soon. In any case, it was food he needed most. There had been precious little of it since the days of waiting at Grauenburg and he was beginning to feel his stomach ache with emptiness.

  “That was a powerful spell you used,” Marius said, gruffly but sincerely. “We’d have struggled to get here without it.”

  Lothar nodded weakly. He was too tired to take much pleasure in the escape.

  “It ought to have been, I’m suffering enough for it,” he said, smiling grimly, feeling a fresh swell of nausea pass through his exhausted body. He waited for it to pass.

  Karsten came over to join them.

  “So, castellan,” said Marius, “what’s your next move? You’ve given them something to think about, but once they’ve got over their shock, they’ll come again.”

  “Aye, that they will,” Karsten said, the fatigue evident in his voice, “but it was worth doing. There must have been hundreds of orcs in the castle by the time the blackpowder was set off. Even if some of them got out, that’s a lot of soldiers to lose. We may even have got the big one.”

  Lothar shook his head.

  “I don’t think so,” he said thoughtfully. “Ever since Helmgart, I’ve felt as if I’ve got some kind of link with the monster. I think I’d know if it had died. Don’t ask me how, I just do.”

  Marius raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Karsten shrugged.

  “Perhaps it would be too much to ask. Nevertheless, the shaman seems at least to have learned to stay away from the forefront of the attack. That may be something worth knowing.”

  Marius sighed, and stretched his long legs out on the grassy surface of the ridge. They were facing south. In the gathering dusk, it was hard to make out much movement in the valley. Away in the distance, a thin column of grey smoke still rose into the cooling air, the mark of their destruction.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” said Marius at length. “What are you going to do now? There’re only a few dozen of us left, and your men are exhausted. You can’t fight the horde a third time.”

  Karsten nodde
d.

  “Our duty now is to get to Altdorf, to pass on what we know. With any luck the city will be prepared. They may even have raised an army by now. We’ve done all we can here. When we’ve rested, we must move again. It’s a long march, but we’ve got to keep ahead of the orcs.”

  Marius grunted in assent.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll come with you for a day or so, just to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed stupidly, but then I’ll leave you. I won’t go to Altdorf.”

  His expression looked final. Karsten smiled a little through his tiredness.

  “Why not, Marius?” he asked. “I know you look a bit odd, but you’re no worse than most of the people who live there. There are many inhabitants who dislike washing just as much as you do.”

  Marius didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Sorry, no debate. Once we clear the hills, I’ll head west. I’ve helped you as much as I can, and I have other things to do. Even killing greenskins gets boring after a while.”

  There was an awkward pause, before Lothar lifted his head from his knees.

  “I know why you won’t go,” he said quietly.

  The other two men looked at him in surprise. Marius said nothing, but Karsten was clearly intrigued.

  “You wizards are strange people,” he said, his voice half amused, half irritated. “Can you tell a lowly non-mage like me, or is this secret knowledge?”

  Marius stayed silent. Lothar looked at the Amber wizard keenly.

  “I know who you are,” he said, evenly. “I wasn’t sure at first, but it’s gradually become clear to me. I thought the name was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Perhaps you think that the colleges have forgotten your exploits? They haven’t. When I was an acolyte studying under Reiner Starke, your story was still being whispered down the corridors. You certainly left an impression. I can remember wanting to meet you when I was much younger. Now I’ve got my wish, although not in a way I’d have expected.”