by James Wallis
“Welcome to Altdorf, my brothers in Tzeentch,” Hoche said. He placed his lantern on the floor, shrinking the illumination around them, and walked forward to embrace the first man, throwing his arms around him.
The warehouse was bathed in sudden light. “Nobody move!” Bruno yelled, jumping down from a stack of crates, his short-sword drawn.
Hoche clenched his arms tight around the man he was holding and pushed himself forward, hard. They fell together to the floor, Hoche fighting to hold the larger man down, immobilising him.
“In the name of the Emperor,” Bruno shouted, “we arrest you for the worship of daemons, consorting with forces of Chaos, conspiracy to—”
The larger cultist struggled against Hoche’s weight. Hoche held him. In the corner of his eye, he saw the shorter man gesture, arms outstretched, his lips moving with arcane syllables.
“Spellcaster!” he yelled. There were cracks from across the room and two crossbow bolts buried themselves in the man, one in his breast, one in his neck. He looked shocked, and dropped, beginning the messy business of dying.
Hoche turned back to the man under him. An acre of hard forehead struck the bridge of his nose. Suns raced across his eyes. At the same moment he felt something rear up from inside the man’s cloak, twisting between their bodies. It flashed across his vision, cord-like and whip-thin, and wrapped itself fast and tight around his neck. He tried to cry out, but it throttled his shouts. He couldn’t breathe.
The cultist head-butted him again. This time his head was held by the thing round his neck and couldn’t jerk back. Bone cracked in his nose and blood spurted across his face. Whatever was wrapped round his neck squeezed harder. It felt as though his bones would break and his head burst. In his chest, a long way below, his lungs burned like a blacksmith’s furnace.
Dimly, from nearby, he heard Bruno say, “You can get up, lieutenant. He’s covered.”
Hoche tried to say something but had no breath to form words. He tried to roll off the man he imprisoned, but was held firm. He tried to slap the floor, to signal he needed help, but his hands were like soft cloth. His head was full of darkness. Something dose made the sound bones make when they splinter.
He was falling into a hot dark place. Somewhere on the other side of the world, Bruno said, “Sigmar!” A month of seconds later he said, “Get a knife!” and then, “Now!” and “Now!” again. There were people around him, hundreds of miles away, pulling at him, rolling him over. He couldn’t think any more. He was dead.
Something struck him hard on the chest, forcing the air from his lungs. He gasped, drew breath, felt traces of life returning to his mind. He blinked and saw only blurs, but they began to clear. Bruno was kneeling over him.
“Lie still. The healer is coming,” he said.
Hoche lay on his back, hurting. His lungs ached. His head felt as if it had been ripped from his body. All his senses told him he should obey Bruno and not move, but he had to know. With his hands, he pushed himself over onto his side. It hurt.
There was a length of rope on the floor beside him, cut into pieces and bloody. His eyes followed it back to the body of the cultist where it lay on the floor a few feet away. The man’s clothes had been sliced away, his bare skin exposed, and the rope snaked across him and into a strange extrusion of flesh below his ribs, weirdly veined and sinuous like the umbilical cord of a newborn babe. Not a rope, then. And not a man—a mutant, his body strangely reshaped by the powers of Chaos. Hoche had never seen one before.
Four or five more rope-like tentacles snaked out from the same lump of flesh. Two reached upwards across the corpse, to wrap tightly around the dead cultist’s own neck. Hoche could tell from the way his head was hanging that his neck was broken. That must have been the bone-crack. The man had killed himself rather than be taken alive, and had tried to do the same to him.
“Sweet Sigmar, what a foul-up,” Bruno said from behind him. “The message from Middenheim said the large one was the sorcerer.”
“Maybe they both were,” said someone else.
“We can’t ask them, can we? They’re dead!” Bruno was losing his temper. “The whole point was to take them alive so we could interrogate them. The whole operation’s a scratch. The old man will not be happy.” He kicked something on the floor, hard. “And the lieutenant’s first job at the hard end almost gets him killed. What a nightmare.”
Hoche’s night-eyes opened and he found himself in thick undergrowth. There were men around him. Beyond the circle of brush a river flowed deep and dark through the night. Across the whispering waters was a wooded island, its trees silhouettes against the moonless sky. There was no sign of movement from within them but Hoche knew that his true comrades were there, waiting. They hear everything, he thought, and they do not sleep.
The men around him were moving out, wading silently through the river, taking up positions for an ambush or a night assault, their weapons drawn and ready. He was part of this force, he realised, but he did not know why.
Then he was shouting a warning across the river in a strange voice he did not recognise. The attackers, not ready, reacted with shock and alarm. Movement came from the island, the sound of armour, the first battle-cries. Good, he thought. Sneak attacks were not the way true warriors fought. There would be blood tonight, and he rejoiced in the thought of it.
In his narrow bed, in his cold attic room above the barracks, he woke suddenly. He was damp with sweat and shaking, every muscle tense, and could not remember why.
Untersuchung barracks basement. Altdorf
Noon. 1st day of Erntezeit
“Mutations,” said Braubach. “The outward and visible sign of an inner contagion by the powers of Chaos. Which does not mean that every mutant is a worshipper of the dark gods. Mutations can arise spontaneously in the bodies of virtuous men. Nevertheless, it’s usually a sign that something is rotten within.”
Hoche held the lantern higher so its light glinted off the regiment of glass jars arranged over the shelves that lined the room. He didn’t step through the doorway. “These are all mutants?”
“Or bits of mutants,” Braubach said. “They have one other thing in common too: they’re all dead. Nothing to be scared of.”
Hoche reluctantly stepped in. Wax-skinned things gazed blindly at him with milk-white eyes from jars of yellow fluid. There was a dog with eight segmented eyes, an arm that became a crab-like pincer below the elbow, a man’s head with fangs for teeth and tentacles growing from the eye-sockets, a baby with—. He turned away. Braubach watched him.
“If you think these are horrible, wait till you see live ones,” he said. “The tentacle that nearly strangled you, that’s almost mundane. I’ve seen men with transparent skin, hair that blazes like fire, hollow people…” He collected himself. “The more excessive the change, the greater the chance it’s a gift from the bearer’s god. But even the smallest mutation will grow and spread, taking over the victim’s body and mind until he either goes mad, flees into the forests to join the beastmen, or is discovered and burnt.”
“Poor sods,” Hoche said. “Is there nothing that can be done for them? No cure? No blessing or spell to remove the taint?”
Braubach looked at him with a fixed gaze. “I’ve already told you,” he said. “We burn them. Or pickle them.” He rubbed his hands. “The morning’s lesson is over. Lunch?”
Tilted Windmill. Altdorf
Night. 7th day of Erntezeit
They were back in the back room of the Tilted Windmill: Hoche, Hunni and Bruno, and this time Anna who had been recruited from the Knights of the Blazing Sun after she’d disguised herself as a man and spent two years as a squire, and Anders, a black-bearded dwarf who was the Untersuchung’s expert on his race’s rune-magic and the cult of humans who had twisted it to their own ends. As usual they were on the dark beer.
“Vile,” said Anders. “Not fit to wash a pig. Typical human brew, not fermented a month.”
Hoche turned away; it was an old argument and
he was bored of it. On the other side of the table, Hunni was looking at him. He’d caught her doing that a lot recently.
“How are your ribs?” she asked.
“They’re mended,” he said. “They’re fine. My neck too.”
There was a pause.
“You’re quiet this evening,” she said, her gaze not shifting from his face. “A groat for your thoughts?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me,” she said. “I know when you’re lying. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Hoche was silent for a while more, looking at the trails of froth on the head of his beer. Then he said, “It’s not what I expected, you know? Not at all.”
“How so?” she asked.
“What Braubach described to me the night I joined sounded like something glorious, an elite military unit, rooting out Chaos and putting it to the torch. That’s what I thought I was joining. You know the old Reman saying—something something custodies custodeamus—”
“‘We are the guards of the guards of hell’,” Hunni quoted. “But Karl, that’s what we are.”
“No you’re not. You’re not guarding anything. There’s no honour or glory in what the Untersuchung does. You skulk around with your noses buried in books, dressing up as Chaos worshippers to infiltrate their cults, and doing it so well that you sometimes convince yourselves. Nobody’s scared of you, because nobody knows you exist.”
Hoche paused as he realised how drunk he was. He rubbed his neck. Was it wise to have this discussion now? Perhaps not wise, but important. He needed to talk to someone, to explain how he felt. This was the first chance he’d had since he’d arrived. And these were things he couldn’t say if Braubach was around.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said. “The Untersuchung saved my skin, don’t think I’m not grateful. But this isn’t what I want to do, it’s not what I’m good at, and it worries me. Last week Braubach told me that Sigmar is mad—that’s heresy. I know that there are banned books hidden in the barracks—that’s madness. And the collection of pickled mutants in the basement… We could all be burnt.”
He took a swallow of beer and a moment to think. “If I fight Chaos, I want it to be on the battlefield, staring it in the face,” he said. “I don’t want to skulk and hide and lie and learn heresies, and become my enemy to fight my enemy, to spend nine years being a scholar to chase down other scholars, and then find they’ve outwitted me. I don’t want to become…”
“Braubach,” said Hunni. “You don’t want to become Braubach. Because you don’t want to fail.”
Hoche stared at her. “Yes,” he said finally.
Hunni leaned forward, her dark eyes close and deep enough to drown him. “Karl, what the Untersuchung does is vital to the Empire. You know that. If we didn’t exist then neither the witch hunters nor the Reiksguard could take our place. I know you’re uncomfortable here. It takes a while to get used to our way of doing things. But whether you realise it or not, many people think you’re right for the Untersuchung.”
“What? Who?”
Hunni’s brow furrowed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought this through,” she said.
“Thought what through?”
“Why you had to join the Untersuchung.” Hoche said nothing. Hunni slapped the table. “Oh, for… Karl, why did Gunter Schmölling send you to the Knights Panther first?”
“They’re the highest-ranked, and it was their soldiers…” Hunni scowled and Hoche realised that was not what she wanted him to understand. A small part of his mind was telling him that she was a very attractive woman. He told it to shut up. This was more important.
“What do you mean?” he said
“Work it out, Karl.”
Hoche stared at her for a long time. “My soul,” he said. “You mean… Schmölling knew the Knights Panther would try to stop me telling the witch hunters and you. He knew they’d try to kill me, to silence me for the honour of their regiments. And he still told me to go to them first.”
“Yes.”
“So…” In his mind the chart was revealed, the network of connections and points, the links of cause-and-effect, and he felt sick. “So that I’d need a sanctuary. I’d be so desperate that I’d accept any offer if it meant my survival. Braubach saw the letter, understood Schmölling’s intent, and made me that offer. And I took it. Like a puppet.”
Hunni sat back and raised her glass to him. “Welcome to the Untersuchung, Lieutenant Hoche.” Her voice carried no irony, only a trace of sadness.
Hoche sat in stunned silence. The candle-flame guttered and drips of wax spilled onto the table. At the other end of the room, the others were discussing snotball. They could have been miles away.
He stared at Hunni. “How did Schmölling know the Panthers’ killers would fail?”
“He didn’t. But if you couldn’t defend yourself, you aren’t the kind of person the Untersuchung needs.”
“But why?” he asked. “Why me? Why at all?”
“Because Schmölling noticed you, Karl. He saw you work, and he realised that the Untersuchung could make better use of you than the army. But he knew that if he asked you directly, you’d refuse because you saw yourself as a soldier. So he forced your hand.” Hunni tossed her head and her hair fell in bright curls around her shoulders. “I can’t believe you hadn’t worked it out,” she said. “It’s one of the standard ways the Untersuchung recruits.”
“This has happened before?”
Hunni drained her beer, stood, and cast him a look of utter despairing contempt. “My dear, sweet Karl,” she said. “How do you think they got me?”
Karl looked up, speechless.
“And you know why?” she said. “Because they needed me. They need you too. You’re a special person with unique skills. It’s been a lot of work to bring you to this point, here, today. You should be flattered. Very flattered.” She picked her long, soft wool robe from the back of the chair and spread it over her shoulders. “The hour is late, and I hear you have a way of dealing with ruffians. Walk a girl back to her room?”
He wanted to, but shook his head. “I need another drink.”
Top floor, Untersuchung barracks. Altdorf
Evening. 12th day of Erntezeit
“Six weeks, Lieutenant Hoche. We are very pleased. You’ve done well.” Major-General Zerstückein looked up from the papers on his desk. His expression was hidden by his moustache and beard, but his eyes were tired and drawn. “How do you feel about it all?”
Hoche stood to attention on the carpet in front of the desk, facing the general. At the edge of his vision, outside the pool of candlelight that surrounded the two of them, he could see Braubach sitting motionless in a carved wooden chair, watching him. Was this a test? An appraisal? A rejection?
“It’s not what I had been led to expect, sir,” he said.
“So we gather.” The major-general tapped the paper in front of him. “Don’t look surprised, man. If you’re going to talk about these things in a tavern, you have to expect someone will be listening. But expectations aside, do you feel you’ve settled? Do you have a place in the Untersuchung?”
Hoche was silent. He felt Braubach’s eyes on him.
“Let me put it another way,” said Zerstückein. “I have a letter here, commending you in the highest terms for the assistance you have rendered us, and transferring you back to your old regiment. If you wish, I will sign it and you’re free to go.” He leaned forward, his shadow large on the wall behind him. “You’re a good man, Hoche. Everyone says so. But the Untersuchung is a calling more than a job. Once in, there’s only one way out. Are you with us?”
Hoche stood and thought. He thought of Braubach, and Braubach’s manner, and Braubach’s trick. He thought of the works of Chaos hidden downstairs, and he thought of what other evils might be covered by a veneer of dusty scholarship. He thought of heresies and things unspoken.
He thought of blood dripping from a regimental banner, and of the feel of a tentacle tight
ening around his neck. He thought of Hunni’s eyes and lips, and then he thought about far-away Marie, and he thought about Marie for a while. Then he thought about the Empire, and he thought of the Emperor. He thought about the camaraderie of the army camp and his men, and the spirit, zeal and energy that came with battle. He remembered Schulze, and how Schulze had died, and he thought he had decided.
But there was something else, dark in his mind, half-forgotten memories or half-remembered dreams. They disturbed him. They were not dreams a soldier should have. He had changed in these last weeks, and he didn’t think it was for better. If he went back to the army with what had happened and what he had learned, would he be a good soldier?
He didn’t think he could be.
He swallowed hard. “I am with you,” he said.
“Good. Excellent,” said Zerstückein. “In that case you’ll be glad to hear we have a mission for you. Nothing too strenuous—a continuation of your training, except you’ll be learning how to take what you’ve learned here and use it in the field.”
Zerstückein glanced at Braubach, who still sat silent. The old man gave a shrug and continued: “We’re putting you on the trail of a deserter. A renegade, one of our officers who’s failed to report in. His tracks are probably cold but your mission is to learn whatever you can about what happened to him. You’ll leave tomorrow morning. Report back here within two months. If you find evidence of his death, bring it with you. If you find a warm trail, send word back and keep following it. Understood?”
Hoche nodded.
“Good. Captain Braubach will brief you further on the man you’re looking for: appearance, mannerisms and so forth.” The major-general paused. “Lieutenant Andreas Reisefertig,” he said thoughtfully. “An officer with a good deal of promise, we thought. You never can tell.”
Reisefertig. Hoche felt tension crawling up his spine. The major-general was sending him to track down his teacher’s former protégé. Something didn’t add up. Was this Braubach’s idea? Surely they didn’t expect him to find Reisefertig, he thought, and then he realised that was the one piece of information they had not given him.