by James Wallis
It was Pronk. He was kneeling on the floor before a bearded man in filthy rags stained by soup, vomit and spittle, cradling the other’s head on his shoulder, his hands wrapped in the man’s grease-matted hair. He was sobbing helplessly, words spilling from his mouth in incoherent syllables as he rocked back and forth.
“Who is that man?” Hoche asked the priestess. She shook her head.
“We don’t know. We call him the Useful Idiot,” she said. “His mind has gone.”
“How long has he been here?”
“A year, perhaps a little longer. Is he the one you’re after?”
Hoche said nothing.
The other people in the temple were moving away from them, disturbed by Pronk’s sobbing. The beggar’s blank eyes stared ahead as his body rocked in time with Pronk’s movements. He was grinning a huge brown-toothed smile as if he was enjoying the experience, or possibly just the unaccustomed attention. Hoche realised how much the man stank of his own filth. His face was unfamiliar.
Pronk’s words were becoming clearer. “Gunter,” he cried, “Gunter, Gunter, Gunter,” over and over. His face was red with the effort of weeping and his body shook.
The idiot’s mouth lolled open in a big dog-like smile, making strange guttural sounds with his throat as he lifted his head to gaze at the ceiling. Hoche could see deep inside his mouth, down to the strange twisted lump of scar at the back where his tongue had once been rooted.
There was little else to do. The priestess had checked the temple’s records and confirmed that the Useful Idiot had been living on its charity for a few weeks over a year. Hoche left the two of them, Pronk and the husk that had once been Gunter Schmölling, at Pronk’s town-house. Pronk had tried to help him analyse the situation, to work out what might have led to the crippling and abandonment of an Untersuchung agent, but the little old man had been too distraught to focus his thoughts.
Besides, there were too many unknown factors to be able to work out exactly what had happened. The only thing Hoche could be certain of was that Reisefertig—if it had been him—would have left Marienburg after abandoning Schmölling at the temple, and therefore he could return to Altdorf. The long journey back would give him the chance to think through all the possibilities, and sort the information he had into a picture of Reisefertig’s movements and motivations. He would report back to his superiors, and then he’d insist on taking his overdue leave. Now, more than ever, he wanted to go home, to be himself for a few days. And he wanted to see Marie. Would one of her letters be waiting for him at the barracks? She couldn’t write so what she dictated to one of the junior Grünburg priests was necessarily circumspect, but each letter still made his heart surge with emotion.
The Reik barge docked at Leydenhoven and Hoche disembarked, pushing his way through the busy streets to the watch-station where he picked up his horse from the stable-boy, tipping the man a few pennies. He rode south east, passing a steady flow of carts on their way into town, laden with wares to sell to the river-traders. It’s all about currents and flows, eddies and tides, he thought. The Reik flows to the sea, the traders follow their own streams, letting money lead them wherever they will find the best market for their cargo, and the gold they receive flows backwards against the current, passing from hand to hand, flashing gold and silver like a bright stream in sunlight. One could not predict the path of a twig on the current, but the direction of the river was as old and as changeless as time.
Fate, too, was an unpredictable current, throwing men from bank to bank along the course of life’s stream, now drifting slowly through a slow pool where big fish moved below the surface, unseen and unsuspected; now tossed in rapids; now beached, waiting for the next flood to move them on.
What strange tides had carried Gunter Schmölling to Saint Olovald’s temple, mind-raped and tongueless? Pronk had said that the brothers of the Ancient Order would have done worse to an agent of the Untersuchung than merely killing him, had they found one trying to infiltrate their library. Yet there was no evidence that Schmölling had done that; he could not have left the clues in the New Apocrypha, since the note clearly referred to him. Had Reisefertig written it? And if he had, was he the person who had ruined Schmölling’s mind and body before dumping him at the temple, or had he recognised the destroyed agent and taken pity on him? Or was there another Untersuchung agent at work within Marienburg, unknown to Pronk, following another agenda?
For that matter, how far could he trust what Pronk had told him?
And while he was thinking about it, who was the man who had signed Schmölling’s name to the letter that had started him on this journey, an age and an era ago, and thereby convinced Braubach to save his life? If Johannes Bohr was not really Gunter Schmölling, as he had claimed, then who was he and what part did he play?
It was no good. He needed more information before he could reach any kind of answer, and that meant Altdorf, the barracks, dusty papers, and probably a long night drinking with Braubach, Bruno and Hunni. Hoche shook his head. Under the poultice on his neck the knife-cut twisted, sending harsh pain through his mind. It must be inflamed, he thought. I should take Pronk’s advice and find someone to heal it.
The Sacred Ground of Blessed Shallya monastery lay two miles outside the market-town of Scheinfeld, a relic of the days of plague. Hoche had seen many like it and knew their story; the horses that pulled the carts filled with the infected becoming so familiar with the route that they no longer needed drivers to guide them, but could plod to and fro on their own. The healers of the monastery could do nothing to halt the illness and often became infected themselves. But that was all history. There hadn’t been a serious outbreak of plague for at least eight years.
It was nearing dusk as Hoche took the track from the Carroburg road towards the monastery’s low buildings, their uneven roofs casting long shadows in the dying sunlight the graveyard obvious and sombre outside the walls. The track was muddy with late autumn rains, and on the overhanging trees the last few leaves were brown and crumpled. The long dark months were not far off.
As he drew near he could tell the monastery was well fortified: its high outer walls protected by a steep-sided double ditch, able to see off a raid by orcs, beastmen or outlaws. The sense of security gave Hoche solace: even here, dose to a large market-town and a week’s ride from Altdorf, it was not safe to travel after nightfall.
The clatter of the heavy iron ring on the main gate was answered by an initiate in the order’s traditional white robes. She showed Hoche to a small room with a simple bed in the west block of the building, told him a bell would sound for the evening service in the temple and again for the start of supper in the great-hall, and left before Hoche could ask to see a healer. A few minutes later the bell called him to worship and he walked across the open yard to the small temple where the order had gathered.
He should have felt glad to be back in a country that followed gods that he recognised, not the foreign Manaan and Haendryk of Marienburg, but for some reason he didn’t. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of the Shallyan rituals, but he had hoped to feel calmed and spiritually refreshed. Instead it made him disquieted and uneasy. The temple was simple, with whitewash and wood carvings, and the chanted hymns and blessings of the service were pleasing to his ear, but something here felt wrong.
At the evening meal in the monastery’s great hall, Hoche found himself seated next to the temple mother, an elderly woman in a white headscarf who spoke with long pauses between her sentences. Hoche never learned her name, as everyone addressed her as ‘Mother’. They spent the meal exchanging the latest news: Hoche bringing the word from Marienburg, the priestess from Altdorf.
“How is the capital?” Hoche asked and then, thinking of Pronk, “What news of the Emperor’s son?”
The thick lines around the old priestess’s eyes crinkled in thought. “No news of the Emperor,” she said, “but I hear Chaos has been at work in the city.” She paused. “They say a great cult of worshippers of the vile gods
has been unearthed within the army.”
“Oh?” Hoche said, trying not to look as interested as he was. “Which regiment?”
The priestess shook her head. “I know little of armies. But it was close to the Emperor, I do know that.” Pause. “They say the bodies of the heretics were burning for three days and three nights.”
Hoche finished his bowl of vegetables quietly, thinking. It sounded as though the Untersuchung had moved against the Knights Panther. The news should have cheered him, but it did the opposite. Something in the place’s atmosphere was still unsettling him. The palms of his hands were slick with sweat.
As the meal ended and the priestess stood to leave, Hoche touched her arm. “Mother, I have a wound on my neck,” he said, “and it is not healing. Would it be possible…?”
She smiled. “Of course. I will send someone to your room, to clean and bless it for you.” She gestured to a tall young man a few places down the table. “Brother Tobias is a gifted healer. I will ask him.”
The way back to Hoche’s room led across the square between the buildings. Above, the stars glittered down from a clear sky and a full moon glistened with cold light so sharp it cast shadows across the ground. He shivered. It was chill, and there could be a frost on the ground in the morning, the first of the season. But more than that, it reminded him of another well-lit night, when he and Schulze had gone walking by moonlight. It felt like it had been years ago.
He gazed into the heavens, wondering where he would be if fate’s guide had led him down a different course. Promoted? With Marie? Gutted by an orc raider? He’d heard Duke Heller’s army had met an orc army three weeks after he had left, and had not fared well. Perhaps their morale was low, he thought. But with winter coming on the army would have returned home; no army campaigned after the Mittherbst festival, with the weather to add to their list of adversaries.
It was peaceful, and he stood a while, trying to understand what it was about the place that made him feel so ill at ease. There was no rational reason, like the cultist’s knife in Marienburg; this was simply a feeling that had lodged deep in his gut and would not be shifted. I’m safe here, he told himself. Be sensible: there is no need for concern. He breathed deeply, tasting the freshness of the night air, stretching the muscles in his arms. Then the wound in his neck started to hurt again, and he walked on.
Brother Tobias was waiting in his room, a shallow bowl of water and a bag of herbs, preparations and bandages at his feet. He stood awkwardly as Hoche came in. “The temple mother asked me to attend to you,” he said. His voice was young and nervous.
“Thank you,” Hoche said, sitting down on the bed. “I was wounded in the neck some days ago. It does not seem to be healing, and it gives me pain.” He indicated the ragged poultice. Tobias peeled it away and made a small noise of concern.
“Is it bad?” Hoche asked.
“I can see no sign of rot, but the wound is inflamed and filled with pus. The skin around it is strangely puffed up. I’ve not seen one quite like it.” Tobias moved to his equipment.
“I’ll wash it and apply a fresh poultice with a blessing.” He hummed for a moment, sorting through wilted herbs and jars. “What kind of weapon did this?”
“A dagger,” Hoche said.
Tobias stood up, holding a dampened cloth. “Just a dagger? It must have been sharp. Was the blade serrated? I see marks of that.” He touched the cloth to the wound and a dart of unexpected pain made Hoche flinch. He forced himself to think himself away while the young monk cleaned the filth from his injury.
He hadn’t seen the knife that cut him, but he had seen the one on the belt of the greybeard who had watched him in the library, and all the scholars—the cultists—had worn similar weapons. What had it looked like? He remembered its strangely curved handle, almost serpentine in its irregularity, and there had been a black stone high up on the handle, like an eye. Now that he thought about it, the shape of the weapon reminded him of something. Something from one of Jakob Bäcker’s lessons.
Tobias finished cleaning the wound. He reached into his bag and brought out a flask of water. “From the holy spring at Vorsfelde,” he said, dabbing a fresh bandage, “and I’ve added burned seaweed to purify the wound.” He began to chant in a low voice, giving it Shallya’s blessing to heal and restore the flesh.
Hoche, distracted, nodded. In his mind he was back in the long room of the Untersuchung barracks, watching Bäcker leaf through his books. His memory shifted and he knew what the shape was: the symbol of Tzeentch, the Changer of the Ways, one of the unholy quartet of the Chaos Gods. The dagger was longer and thinner than the vile lord’s sigil, but was unquestionably the same shape. Further proof that the librarians had been cultists. He had been lucky to escape with drowning. Torture and sacrifice was not an unusual fate for those caught infiltrating or stealing from such groups.
“I’ll put a blessing on the wound now,” Tobias said, holding the bandage he had prepared. “This may sting a little.” He placed the cloth on Hoche’s neck.
The explosion of pain was instant and all-consuming. A blazing lance ran through his body, filling his mind with unspeakable agony, as if someone had poured burning oil into his blood and acid on his thoughts.
He was on his feet, screaming and roaring. With one arm he backhanded Tobias and the young man flew across the chamber, crashing into the stone wall and dropping, stunned. Hoche staggered around the room, clawing at the bandage and ripping it off his flesh, but the ruinous pain did not ebb. He grabbed the bowl of water, pouring it on his neck, scrubbing at the wound with his hand, trying to remove whatever the monk had placed there.
He realised he was still shouting in pain, and forced himself to stop. His heart was racing and he was panting as if he had sprinted a mile. Brother Tobias lay slumped on the floor, not moving. A small pool of blood was forming around him. How had that happened, Hoche wondered? I only meant to push him away. Maybe he fell badly. He began to move towards the fallen figure, but then he heard voices. People were moving in the corridor outside.
Hoche grabbed for his sword with one hand, and snatched up his pack in the other. Something was wrong here, something rotten and decaying. He had sensed it when he entered the monastery, but now he knew for sure. The dark powers were at work in this holy place. Their fingers were everywhere he looked, now that he could recognise the signs. He didn’t want to show it, but he was scared.
There were too many people here for him to take on alone. He had to get out, get back to Altdorf to let the others know. The wound in his neck throbbed and ached as if it was alive.
He yanked the door open and stood, sword raised against the group of unarmed Shallyans who were gathered outside. “Get back!” he demanded. “Get out of my way!”
They moved, but not fast enough. Hoche grabbed a youth little more than a boy, pulling him close like a living shield, and put the sword to his throat. “Nobody move!” he demanded. “Get my horse prepared and brought to the door. No trickery, no weapons, no spells. If I see a glint of steel or hear one word of a chant, the boy dies.”
He hoped it worked. It felt like he’d taken them by surprise, that they weren’t ready to find a warrior in their midst. Maybe they’d hoped Brother Tobias would have finished him off.
They shrunk back against the wall. Someone at the back began a prayer to Shallya, but was silenced by the others. A novice scrambled down the corridor and out of the door at the end, presumably towards the stables—or possibly to raise the alarm. Hoche began edging down the corridor, his back to the wall, scanning for any sign of movement or hostility. There was none. The boy at his side whimpered.
The door at the end opened and the temple mother stood framed against the night. “What is going on?” she demanded. “What has happened?”
“There is corruption here,” Hoche said. “I felt the signs as I entered. Now your brother has tried to harm or kill me as he tended my wound.” He paused, summoning part of the old Karl Hoche, the part of him he thought ha
d been left on the battlefield, remembering his tone of command. “Get me my horse!”
People scattered to do his bidding.
There were no swordsmen waiting for him outside, no archers at high windows, but he kept close to the walls just the same, holding the boy as a shield in case of sudden attack. His horse was at the front gate, saddled and ready. A few Shallyans remained in the courtyard and others gathered in doorways, watching, muttering in low voices.
He let the boy go, swung into the saddle and rode away as fast as the rough track would let him. It was not far to Scheinfeld, and he would find an inn there, where he would wash and bandage his wound himself. With one hand he reached up to feel it. The flesh was raw and soft, and it ached with a dull throb.
The monastery of Shallya receded into the distance, but his sense of unease did not leave him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Heretic
Rain was spattering against the hard city stones as Hoche rode back through the north gate into Altdorf a week later. It was a cold miserable rain that permeated the thick wool of his riding cloak, dampening his clothes and his spirits. The gate guards were subdued, huddled under their wet-weather cloaks like fattened geese waiting for the Mondstille feast. The whole city seemed muted. The streets were emptier than usual, and there were fewer traders in the marketplaces, and fewer barges at anchor in the river. At least the place didn’t stink as badly in this weather.
He heard the temple bells striking to call worshippers for the afternoon service, first the booming call of the Cathedral of Sigmar, and the answering chimes of the other temples ringing out across the city. His friends would be finishing work soon and heading to the Tilted Windmill to start the evening’s drinking. Although he was supposed to return to the barracks and begin his debrief at once—and, he reminded himself, there was urgent news to be passed on—the official stuff could wait until morning. He had been on the road a long time, and he was powerfully hungry.