“I’ll tan your hide,” he promised, “and just why do you think I have to leave?”
“Because Dad’s back.”
Frau Beetman drew the covers around her as Rudolph sprang to his feet. He pulled on his breeches and picked up a belt. The mood was spoiled anyway, which had obviously been the little brat’s intention.
“Stay there, you little liar,” he snarled as he stumbled towards the door.
But when he opened it, he discovered that his nephew hadn’t been lying at all; far from it.
“Told you he was back,” the boy said, and stood back as Herr Beetman lurched forwards to reclaim home and wife both.
As the night wore on, more and more of Altdorf’s graves disgorged their contents. Many of them returned to their homes, or to their workshops. The resultant screams brought the neighbours to the streets, and their screams brought others. Soon, the whole city was as wide awake beneath the moonlight, as it would have been beneath the light of a market day sun.
It was soon as busy, too. For the most part, the dead showed little aggression towards their living brethren. They lacked the malignity that those who summoned them usually bore, and because of this, they were content to wander, or to wait.
The same could not be said of the citizens of Altdorf. At first, it was horror that sent them out to do battle, but as the night wore on, and as wits cleared, many began to see the night’s events as the opportunity they were.
After all, bodies intact enough to be walking about were also intact enough to carry jewellery. Even the coins in their eyes were worth the effort of recovery, and many a pauper spent the night plucking silver from twice battered skulls.
Other citizens, especially those of a more spiritual bent, found their god’s work in these truant corpses. The priests of Morr especially were busy that night. Black cloaked and fierce eyed, they prowled the streets, incantations ever on their lips as they ushered the dead back into their god’s embrace.
Then there were those, both living or dead, who sought revenge. Seizing the opportunity of that bustling night, they stalked through the darkness, eager to settle old scores and to right old wrongs.
More than one murderer awoke to find himself locked in the impossible horror of his victim’s grinning embrace, and more than one swindler found warmer fingers around his throat, his executioner secure in the knowledge that he would not be blamed.
Elsewhere, panic blossomed in the darkness, and on its heels, fire.
Soon, the night was lit with the cheery red glow of burning buildings. When the warm glow reached the docks, one of the whores, goaded on by her satiated clients, started dancing with the corpses that lurched past. She whirled them around as if to rekindle them with the heat of life, and the debauched crowd that gathered around her clapped a rhythm as they spun through the light of the flames.
As the moon set and the stars faded beneath a rosy dawn, the dead slumped back down. Whatever energy had lifted them fled before the sunlight, leaving them strewn about the streets like the wreckage of some terrible carnival.
None of the Altdorfians spent much time wondering who had awoken the dead. They had known right from the start. With hardly a word spoken, the activities of the night gave way to the activities of the day. The fires were put out, stones were gathered, and the citizens made their way towards the colleges.
The sun was hardly in the sky before the first of the riots had started.
CHAPTER THREE
Prince Regent Gustav of Altdorf had requested and commanded that the heads of all the colleges assemble at the palace an hour after dawn. The fact that they had actually arrived almost in time for lunch was a measure of the worry that the night’s events had caused them all.
The prince regent reminded himself of this reality as the last of them sauntered into the audience chamber. He was a flabby little man swathed in a padded silk robe that made him look like a sausage roll.
Not that any of them were much to look at, not really. The flamboyant colour of their finery only served to make them look even more sickly than they already were. Their pallid skins and hollowed eyes contrasted so starkly with their bright robes that they looked like failed experiments in taxidermy.
Gustav fought to keep his contempt off his face. As Regent of Altdorf, he knew that the Emperor expected him to play the politician. Even so, after a lifetime spent hacking his way from one battlefield to the next, the old warrior found it difficult to shrug off his prejudices.
Steel and muscle, strength and cold, clear honour: that was where virtue lay, not in the unnatural practices of the colleges of magic. And yet, despite their lack, the colleges commanded respect. How could they not? Between them, they commanded as much sheer power as all of the Emperor’s armies combined.
The regent’s fingers drifted to the Sigmarite charm that hung around his neck. He had every sympathy with the mob that had taken to the streets outside. He had even more sympathy with the witch hunters, who had been straining at their leashes ever since the horrors of the night before. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to unleash them. It would be a fine thing to remove the scourge of magic, of all magic, from this city.
Frowning, he fought the temptation. If the Emperor wanted the colleges protected from the mob, then so be it.
He watched the latecomer settle himself into one of the chamber’s twelve wooden chairs. Apart from the candelabras, they were the only furnishings in this audience chamber. It had been Gustav’s decision to use this stripped room: no room for spies to hide in such a simple room, or for assassins.
“Gentlemen,” he said, and the wizards turned towards him. “I’m very grateful that you all agreed to meet me here at such short notice. I know that, as arch magisters of your colleges, you are busy men, and I thank you for your time.”
A polite murmur ran around the room.
“As you are all no doubt aware, there was quite a disturbance last night, quite a disturbance.”
He paused, waiting for somebody to own up. Instead, they all looked shifty.
No honour at all, Gustav thought. He swallowed his disgust and carried on.
“The dead, it would appear, came back to life, and so, here I am. It isn’t only the good citizens of Altdorf who want an explanation, the Emperor does, too.”
“Good citizens.” One of the assembled mages laughed bitterly. “That’s a good one. Some of the filthy swine almost set upon me whilst I was making my way here.”
“Almost?” the prince asked.
“I frightened them off.”
“Did you now?” Gustav studied the metallic embroidery that shone against the blackness of the wizard’s robe. Unbidden, the memory of the Siege of Geint sprang to mind. It had been ended by a rain of molten lead, the stuff dropping from nowhere onto the heads of the defenders, and also onto the heads of the defenders’ families, of course.
Curse all wizards.
“Well, let’s just hope that you didn’t frighten them too much. I have my hands full with the riots that already exist. Half my men are already tied up in the Tilean quarter. Whatever the cause, riots always seem to gravitate towards the wine importers first.”
“I must say,” a cadaverous looking wizard in turquoise robes interrupted, “I don’t think that it’s very fair to blame us for what happened last night.”
Gustav looked at him for a moment before he replied.
“In the middle of the night, for no apparent reason, the dead claw their way up from their graves. They then proceed to dance around the streets, terrorising the town and causing Sigmar alone knows how many crowns’ worth of damage, and all this before Morrslieb has even risen. Now, where do you think I should be looking for the culprits? The candle makers’ guild?”
“No need to be sarcastic. Anyway, I can put your mind at rest on at least one point. This certainly wasn’t the work of anybody in any of the colleges.”
A murmur of assent greeted this comment.
“How can you be so sure?” Gustav a
sked.
“Because such magic is not allowed.”
Gustav looked at him blankly.
“I know it isn’t allowed, but, and call me cynical if you will, just because such magic isn’t allowed doesn’t mean that it hasn’t been practised. Or perhaps I’m being slow. I am, after all, only a soldier. Who do you think has been practising this revolting magic if not magicians?”
The twelve men shifted uneasily. It was Arch Magister Grunwalder, who broke their silence.
“You say magician, prince regent, but what does that truly mean? On the way here today I saw a man calling himself a magician setting up a street show. Quite an unwise decision, as it turned out. One can only assume that he somehow slept through the events of last night. Anyway, assuming that the charlatan is still alive, it is as linguistically accurate to describe him as a magician as it would be to apply that sobriquet to one of our own number.”
The prince regent felt a twitch beginning in the corner of his left eye.
“Then again,” Grunwalder continued, pleased to see it, “consider the smith in his forge. He can turn iron bars into the finest horse shoes. Is that not a sort of magic? And then there are other alchemists and practitioners, thousands of them and not a single one regulated by the colleges of magic. In fact, it is as Rudolphus of Nuln once said, ‘We are…’”
The prince regent had heard enough.
“So what you are saying,” he interrupted, “is that this was the work of someone outside the colleges. A hedge wizard? A rogue sorcerer? A necromancer?”
“Well… In so many words.”
“I thought you were supposed to prevent such… such people from entering the city.”
Grunwalder shrugged.
“We are. That isn’t to say that we are always successful.”
The prince regent sighed.
“So we have a necromancer at large. We also have an even bigger problem.”
“What could be worse than that?”
“The rioting; most of the warehouses have been emptied already, which means that they’ll soon turn on your colleges.”
“Our colleges are well protected.” Grunwalder waved his concerns away. His own robes were as heavy and grey as a storm cloud, and Gustav decided that he looked a little like a necromancer himself.
“Yes,” Gustav said, “I saw that when I first arrived in this town. Not even my horse wanted to walk though the wall that serves as your gate. The problem for you is that the mob’s hatred of you won’t go away, and the problem for me is that I have to protect you.”
“The populace,” another wizard, red cloaked and bejewelled, sneered with contempt, “what of them? They are no more dangerous than a herd of cattle.”
One of his colleagues snorted.
“You’ve obviously never seen an Estalian bull ring.”
“And you obviously lack faith in your art.”
“This from a man whose abilities consist of setting fire to things.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Gustav cut in. Much as he enjoyed a good fight, now was hardly the time. “I’m not sure you realise the severity of the situation. There are a great many people in the Empire, a great many influential people, who think that the colleges should be closed.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of such talk,” Grunwalder shrugged. “It will never happen. We are as valuable now as we were when the Great Sigmar founded us. After all, magic will exist, with or without the colleges, and if it wasn’t for us, who would regulate it?”
“The witch hunters,” Gustav told him, and a thoughtful silence filled the room. “In fact, I have men within my own employ who would be the equal of the task. Their methods may be fairly indiscriminate, but…”
Gustav trailed off, and let the shadow of the threat do its work. The assembled wizards stared thoughtfully at the empty spaces between the chairs.
“Now that you mention the populace,” Grunwalder broke the silence, “I have given the matter some thought. It is unfair for them to blame us. Perhaps we should balance things out by taking the credit.”
“The credit?” Gustav asked. “For what?”
“For undoing the work of the necromancer. For sending the dead back to wherever they came from. They do all seem to have gone.”
“I see,” the prince nodded slowly. “So we put it about that your good selves were the solution, not the cause, but would we be believed?”
“Oh, I think so. They just need a lightning rod for their outrage, somebody to torment.”
“The strigany, perhaps?” suggested another of the wizards. “They usually make excellent decoys. I remember once, when I was a novitiate attached to one of the regiments, one of my water purification spells went wrong. The soldiers, ungrateful swine that they were, started to get angry, so I told the survivors that… well, never mind.”
Gustav’s attempt to kept the contempt from his face had finally failed. The wizard’s anecdote withered beneath the fire in his eyes, and it was only with a supreme act of will that he kept his words civil.
“No,” he said, “you have to find the necromancer. If you don’t, and if things are repeated… Well, Sigmar alone knows what will happen.”
“As arch magister of the Grey College, I am pleased to say that we have already discovered who the necromancer is.”
All eyes turned on Grunwalder, and he savoured their jealousy while he could. He knew that it wouldn’t last long.
“Really?” Gustav made no effort to hide his surprise. “You found him? You should have said so. Who is he?”
“In the Grey Order,” Grunwalder said, waving his arms in a grand gesture, “confidentiality is our watchword.”
“In the Empire, obedience is our watchword,” Gustav countered. “Who is he?”
“It would be wrong of me to divulge my sources at such a delicate time.” The wizard shook his head. “Our investigations are already under way, and our most capable man is on the case.”
“I see.” The prince regent looked at the wizard as if he was a lock to be picked. “One of yours, was he? Gone rogue?”
Grunwalder felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He licked his lips, and started to waffle, but it was already too late. The guilt on his face had been there for all to see.
The other wizards frowned and shook their heads in happy disapproval. All of the colleges suffered from defections from time to time. It was just pleasant that, today, at least, the embarrassment wasn’t theirs.
“No need to be so humiliated, Grunwalder old man,” said the wizard whose blue robes marked him as a Celestial, “although, right after your misfortune with that escaped daemon, I can’t blame you. Maybe you should visit us some time. Divination is always a useful counterbalance to bad luck.”
“You’re very kind,” Grunwald nodded, “but we have our own methods of divination. In fact, as I said, the matter is already in hand. We already know where this malefactor is.”
“Well then, let’s get him,” the prince regent exclaimed, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.
“Our best man is already preparing for the task. As soon as the meeting is finished, I will set him to it.”
“This meeting is finished,” Gustav said, and stood. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us, Arch Magister Grunwalder and I need to discuss exactly where this damned necromancer is. I have some men of my own who I’m sure would be glad of the exercise.”
And at the mention of the witch hunters the wizards, powerful as they were, hurried to leave the room.
“Interesting night,” Kerr said as he carried Titus’ breakfast tray into his chambers. He set the tray down and went to open the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, illuminating the clutter that filled it, and turning the dust motes that filled the air to gold.
“Interesting morning, too.”
The wizard sat up in his bed, blinking sleepily. With a yawn, he stumbled out of the four-poster, which groaned with relief, and wrapped a fur cloak around his nightgown. Combined with the black buttons of his eyes, i
t made him look like a bear newly awoken from hibernation.
“Interesting?” he mumbled as he made his way to the food that Kerr had laid out on his table. “How so?”
“Lots of ways,” Kerr told him, and took the lid off a tray of steaming kippers.
“Don’t be obtuse,” Titus growled.
“Obtuse: lacking quickness of perception or intellect.”
His master glared at him.
“Anyway, about last night,” Kerr continued hastily. “It seems that the dead got up out of their graves and started walking about, looting, killing and burning things down, by all accounts.”
“Talk sense,” Titus told him. “Only necromancers can bring the dead to life, and there are none of their filthy sort in Altdorf. The witch hunters would never allow it.”
“Well, somebody brought them to life. They were dancing around all over the place.”
“Were?” Titus asked through a mouthful of porridge.
“They seem to have all died again.”
The wizard snorted.
“Sounds like so much hot air to me, and anyway, what would a reanimated corpse be doing looting?”
Kerr, who had spent the early hours picking through the chaos left in the wake of the dead, shrugged.
“Force of habit?” he suggested.
“No, take it from me, somebody’s been pulling your leg. If there had been such a disturbance, I would have known about it. The college would have had me woken up. You might not guess it to look at me, but I cut my teeth on the battlefield before I made my name in research.”
“I think I remember you mentioning it,” said Kerr, anxious to avoid another retelling.
“Yes, those were the days,” Titus gesticulated with a half-eaten kipper, “heady days. Terrible thing, battle magic, terrible; damned interesting though.”
“I don’t think they got around to that.”
“What? Who?”
“The wizards the chancellor assembled when he got news of the emergency.”
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