“At least I don’t creep around other people at night,” muttered Erhardt, coming round a little. He pulled himself upright in the chair. He was in his tent in the middle of the camp. He must have fallen asleep seated, fully clothed. He felt disgusting. Every movement he made seemed to amplify the banging in his temples. “I’m fine, really. What time is it?”
“An hour after nightfall,” whispered Huppelstadt, looking around the tent carefully. “Our time is running out. More soldiers have arrived this evening, flying before the orcs. The assault may come tomorrow. If we hesitate, all will be lost.”
“What do you propose doing?”
“The Emperor’s Champion has just dismissed his captains for the night. If we go to his tent now, we can demand an audience. At all costs, that witch must be removed from his side before the Council of War at dawn.”
“Council of War?” said Erhardt, the sharp pain in his temples being replaced by a low, thumping agony at the top of his skull. “Attack tomorrow? You’re very well informed. Why haven’t I been included in any of this?”
Huppelstadt gave him a withering look.
“You’ve been incapacitated all day, but there’s time to put all to rights. You’re still a general, after all. Come with me. We must expose our friend Fraulein Lautermann for what she is.”
The witch hunter made to leave, but Erhardt hesitated. His insides felt like they were trying to rearrange themselves into new and horribly impractical configurations.
“Wait, we can’t just barge our way in there. This is Schwarzhelm; he doesn’t tolerate anyone disturbing his private time.”
“Do you not think a heretic and a traitor in our midst a good enough cause to disturb him?” hissed Huppelstadt. “Besides,” he said, brandishing his pistols with the twin-tailed comet motif, “witch hunters have a licence to enter the most private of domains. Don’t be such a coward. We have work to do.”
Grudgingly, feeling a fresh wave of nausea well up within him, more nuanced and chronic than the initial bouts, Erhardt stood up shakily, his forehead clammy and eyes red-rimmed.
“Anything you say,” he muttered, pulling a cloak over his shoulders and trying to ignore the astonishing variety of pain coursing its way through his body, “but I think this is a mistake.”
The two men strode out of Erhardt’s tent and into the night. Without provoking more than a glance from the lines of soldiers huddled around smouldering fires, they went quickly towards the centre of the camp. Soon, Schwarzhelm’s tent loomed before them. The vast Imperial standard, its heavily embellished surface covered in ornate script recording great victories of the past, hung limply in the cool, airless night. An armoured figure, the guard captain, stepped up to meet them. Behind him, half a dozen soldiers rose and placed their hands on their swords. Schwarzhelm, as might have been expected, had a heavy guard.
“What do you want?” asked the captain in a flat, impassive voice. “The commander is not to be disturbed.”
Huppelstadt stood confidently before him, ensuring that the pistol at his belt was visible. Erhardt swayed slightly in the gloom, wondering why the earth continued to move long after he had stopped walking.
“He will want to hear my news,” said the witch hunter brusquely. “I am an envoy of the Temple of Sigmar. Stand aside and let us pass.”
The captain stepped forwards ominously.
“You could be the Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard, and I still wouldn’t let you in. He’s not to be disturbed. That’s very important. Now go back to your Temple and petition for an appointment tomorrow. This is not the time.”
For a moment, Huppelstadt’s eyes locked with the guard’s in the low light of the campfires. Then he turned his gaze towards Erhardt.
“I am with General Aloysius Erhardt, perhaps you recognise him at least. This is important business.”
Erhardt, realising at last what his role was in all of this, stepped forward as authoritatively as he was able. When the guard captain saw his face and uniform, his expression betrayed his sudden uncertainty.
“I’m not sure about this, general,” he said, uneasily. “We have clear orders.”
Erhardt made to speak, but Huppelstadt was quicker and more impatient.
“We have no time for this, captain,” he said brusquely, pushing his way past the hesitant figure before him. All around them, the other guards drew their weapons, clearly torn between their orders and their natural deference to a general.
“Stand back!” ordered Erhardt, remembering his position, and the two men pushed their way through the soldiers, towards the tent. Quickly, Huppelstadt strode through the tent entrance, thrusting the flaps aside with a brisk flick of his wrists. Erhardt hurried after him. For some reason, his heart suddenly warned him that something was wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the guard captain reach to pull him back, so he plunged forwards, under the low canvas and into the tent.
A few candles still burned within, illuminating the interior with a dim, suffused light. It took a moment for Erhardt’s eyes to adjust. Next to him, Huppelstadt was similarly peering into the gloom.
“My lord,” he said, nervously, “May we…”
He never finished his sentence. His vision clearing, Erhardt took in the full sight before him. Schwarzhelm lay on his long camp bed, partly covered in furs. He sat up quickly, his expression a mixture of confusion and anger. He had not been asleep.
He was not alone. As Schwarzhelm’s heavy figure rose from the furs, something else was revealed behind him, the dark form of a woman. Another face emerged from the shadows, smiling. One Erhardt knew very well. It was Katerina.
“Oh, by the Lords of Ruin,” he groaned, his misery complete. She must have known her danger and moved swiftly to neutralise it.
“Mother of Ulric!” roared Schwarzhelm, erupting from the furs like a force of nature roused from some elemental imprisonment. “Who are you?”
Huppelstadt, caught like a fox between hounds, quailed for an instant, perhaps considering whether to brazen it out, then turned on his heels and fled into the night. There was the sound of a scuffle outside, and then the discharge of a pistol. It sounded like he had let it off into the air to buy himself time, and then made his escape. Erhardt was not so lucky. Slowed clown by his curiously thick head, he lurched unsteadily to one side, and tried to run, before working out that he had fallen into the mud and straw on the floor of the tent. Raising his head painfully, he found himself staring right into the eyes of an enraged, bristling, naked Emperor’s Champion.
“Erhardt? Is that you?”
“It’s not what it looks like,” began Erhardt, his voice draining miserably out of his tortured mouth, but he instantly knew it was no good. From the corner of his eye, he could see Katerina looking at him from the bed with detached amusement. She collected the furs to her and blew him a kiss. She, at least, seemed to see the funny side. The next moment, he had been hauled to his feet by his collar. Schwarzhelm’s face was in front of his, the commander’s incandescent anger burning through even his thick, bleary vision.
“Listen to me, you miserable worm,” he spat, his voice terrifyingly cold and low, “this is the last army you will ever command. For the rest of your career you will be on duty patrolling the frozen border of the Northern Wastes with a hand-picked bunch of cutthroats, murderers, heretics and other assorted scum. I shall see to it personally. Now, get out of my sight and crawl back to your tent before I have you clapped in irons and thrown to the orcs as a token of my goodwill. And, believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do.”
With that, Erhardt was flung from the tent with a force that nearly snapped his spine. Schwarzhelm stalked back to the bed, yanking the flaps of the tent closed as he went. From inside there came a fresh bellow of rage, followed by the cascading sound of a woman’s laughter. Erhardt gingerly rearranged his limbs into their normal order, and painfully clambered to his feet. His head felt like it was possessed by an overactive blacksmith, his stomach by a whole famil
y of unidentified slimy creatures. Katerina was as safe as she could possibly be, and there was no possibility either of revenge on her or redemption for him. Huppelstadt, the craven bastard, was nowhere to be seen. All around him, guards looked down at him with amusement, any remaining hold he had over them shattered.
“Well, that went well,” he said bitterly to himself, before staggering awkwardly back to his tent.
On the far side of the camp, Marius and Lothar walked aimlessly through the huddled bands of men, most already snoring by the embers of their meagre fires. The moon had risen, casting a gentle sheen over the hillside. The air was chill, but not unpleasantly so. For an army on the brink of battle, it was a surprisingly tranquil scene.
“I guess I should feel glad we’ve got here in one piece,” said Lothar as they walked. He felt gloomy and preoccupied.
“You’re a morbid one, Lothar,” said Marius, sounding faintly amused. “Most wizards in your position would be boasting about their accomplishments by now. It’s almost like you’ve got no pride. What’s wrong: did your tutor beat it out of you?”
“I don’t have a tutor. Helmut Anselmus was my last, and one of the few who would take me. After all this is over, I doubt I’ll find another. I was Malgar’s pupil, you see.”
Marius raised an eyebrow.
“You worked with the Traitor?” he said, and gave a low whistle. “No wonder you’re so unsure of yourself. Were you there when he turned?”
“No,” said Lothar. “He sent me away before the battle. Some stupid assignment. Perhaps he still had enough pride not to want me to see his treachery for myself. I heard the news when everyone else did, after the carnage was complete. I often wonder what would have happened, had I been there. Nothing, probably. He was far stronger than me.”
“Maybe,” mused Marius. “The treacherous have their own weaknesses. But don’t be too concerned about it. There are many powerful Grey wizards plying their trade in the service of the Emperor. In time, there’ll be an opening for you again.”
Lothar sighed, and shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Maybe,” he said, resignedly. “There’s not much value in having an acolyte with my history. And there are so few Grey wizards actually in Altdorf: most of them are wandering all over the Empire on some secretive mission or other. It’s a wonder that Starke can keep on top of it all.”
Marius stopped walking, and placed a hand on Lothar’s shoulder.
“Listen, I like you,” he said in a surprisingly tender voice. “You have more subtle power than you realise. You need to learn confidence, but that will come. When this is over, go back to your college. Reiner Starke is a good man, one of the few good men in that nest of vipers. Who knows, he may decide you no longer need a teacher. There are many battle wizards in the Empire who could not have done what you did at Grauenburg.”
Lothar appreciated the words, but failed to hide his disappointment. Even if he survived the coming encounter, the future seemed as bleak for him as ever. He was about to reply, when Marius suddenly stiffened.
“I don’t believe it,” the Amber wizard breathed, his gaze fixed ahead of them.
Lothar turned. A fat man in expensive robes was walking towards them, followed by a man carrying a long, narrow box. The lead figure had a golden aura around him: a wizard. As he came close enough to see them, his face suddenly creased in fear, and he grabbed his staff in both hands, dropping whatever it was he had been carrying.
“Kalliston!” cried Marius, his staff raised also, his voice thick with hatred. “By what chance?”
Lothar stayed at his side, unsure how to react. The fat wizard before them looked terrified.
“What are you doing here?” he stammered, his face pale. “The Amethyst wizard is the only other…”
Marius stormed towards him, his eyes blazing. With his wizard’s sense, Lothar could detect the powerful forces pooling and boiling around him. This was dangerous. He began to prepare to intervene, though the thought filled him with dread, since both were wizards of more status and power than him.
“Why aren’t you cowering in your palace, you fat fool?” cried Marius in a mocking voice, full of bitterness. “I was only telling of your treachery yesterday!”
Ambrosius visibly quailed, but held his ground, his flabby jowls wobbling as he brandished his staff, now glowing with a dull golden sheen.
“The lies you’ve told them are none of my concern, Joachim,” he said, his face inches from Marius’. “You may not assail me here. I am the appointed battle wizard, master of all mages assigned to this campaign.”
Marius laughed scornfully.
“How much gold did they have to give you to get you out of the city?” he spat.
With a sudden flick of his wrists, his staff sprung up towards the portly figure. Ambrosius, with surprising speed, moved to parry the blow, but it was a feint. Marius’ staff swung hard and low along the ground, catching the robed figure with a crack against his ankle. With a cry of anger, the Gold wizard unbalanced and lurched backwards. Marius gave him a savage push to help him down, and then stood over him as he lay on his back in the grime.
“Where you belong,” he said with malice, and spat on the struggling form of his old adversary.
Ambrosius’ face was purple with rage and fear. With an almighty heave, he pulled himself up.
“How dare you,” he hissed, laboriously standing again. “You think you know about me, but you know nothing. You were a shameful embarrassment then, and you are now. By the Wind of Chamon, look at you. You’re a disgrace.”
Marius’ eyes glittered brightly in the night with fury, his breathing heavy.
“I hoped I’d never see you again,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion, “at least not until I’d discovered your final trick, but fate has played its hand once more, and we both know what that means.”
Ambrosius looked blank for a moment, and then grasped it. He went pale, as if trying to think of a way out, but then nodded fiercely.
“If that’s what you want,” he said, his voice dripping with poison.
“It is,” said Marius, his whole form shivering with anger. “Find a suitable place. I’ll come to you.”
With that, he stormed away, back down the path towards the centre of the camp. His ragged cloak swirled around him as if consumed by a rage of its own. Ambrosius was left to brush himself down, his enormous form flushed and shaking. His servant cowered in the shadows.
Lothar hesitated, unsure whether to follow Marius or try to pacify the figure before him. Something told him that Marius would not want company, so he stayed, keeping a respectful distance. Absorbed with rearranging his elaborate robes into some sort of order, Ambrosius initially failed to notice him at all. Then his eyes flickered towards him, giving away his barely concealed panic.
“And who are you?” he asked acidly, calming himself down, his wounded pride evident.
“Grey Wizard Lothar Auerbach,” he said simply. “I arrived this evening from Helmgart.”
Ambrosius gave a small, thin smile.
“Seems to be an evening for chance meetings,” he said, without humour. “First that snake Joachim, now you. I heard you’d survived the rout at Helmgart, and was on my way to find you. I shouldn’t have bothered, and waited for daylight. For some reason it seemed important to find you tonight, before the Council of War. Not that I care one way or the other whether you’re alive or dead, but there are soft hearts in the Grey College who do. Here, I was bringing this for you. It’s from Master Starke, in the hope you would find your way to us. I’ll be glad to be rid of it.”
He beckoned to the servant, who cravenly presented him with the box. Ambrosius handed it with distaste to Lothar, who took it uncertainly.
“How did you—” he began, before Ambrosius cut him off.
“I can’t stand here gossiping with half-trained boys like you,” he snapped. “I was just the messenger. You can thank whatever gods you worship that we met here. I’ll call it luck, perhaps
good, perhaps bad.”
He sighed heavily, looking anxious and flustered.
“Take it and leave,” he said. “I’ve got things to do. Don’t try and find Joachim, he’ll be busy, and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
With that, he turned heavily in the mud, and waddled back the way he had come, heading for a brightly decorated carriage that stood some way off under the shelter of some trees.
Lothar looked down. The long, thin box, nearly his own height, was ornate, carved in dark wood and bound with iron. It looked notched and battered, as if worn by years of use and travel. Near the top, it was inscribed with an arcane device, scored deeply into the smooth, dark wood. A chill passed through him. It was the sign of his old teacher, Hadamus Malgar, the traitor.
CHAPTER NINE
Marius laboured up the narrow ridge, his cloak and robes flapping wildly as the wind took them. The weather was turning. During the night, heavy rain clouds had begun to pile up on the western horizon, driven across the Reikland from the far-off sea, their tall, dark crowns hidden in darkness. The wind began to pick up. Far below in the camp, the Imperial standards were rippling strongly, the soldiers beneath them grumbling in their sleep and pulling their ragged blankets tighter around their necks. On higher ground the air was chill and sharp. When the dawn arrived it would be cold and shrouded in grey, but that was still hours away.
Mannslieb, the healthier of the world’s two moons, shone steadily, though its light was dimmed by the encroaching storm. Not that the Amber wizard cared much whether there was light to see by. He was in the mood to set the entire hillside aflame if necessary.
He went quickly his staff plunging before him. As he climbed, he reflected on his feelings. There was no fear in him. Years of bitterness had burned away any nerves about the encounter. But there was that nagging doubt, the insistent concern over the secret spell, the one that had undone him before. He had rooted through every library he could find, questioned the oldest and most secretive loremasters, often with the threat of force, and still the nature of the counter-spell eluded him. It was not surprising; the Empire was vast, and he had barely travelled across a fraction of its territory. In addition, there were lands beyond the borders, including mythical realms of magic and lore beyond the dreams of the colleges, but he would never live long enough to see even a fraction of them. So the mystery remained. Where could the knowledge have come from? And would it still retain its potency after so long?
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