Marks of Chaos

by James Wallis

  Hoche considered. He knew nothing about the voice; it could be a prisoner desperate for information, or a witch hunter informant. He wondered how much it was safe to say. “My order was arrested and burnt. I was out of the city, and captured on my return.”

  “Are you clean?” the voice rasped.

  It seemed a strange question. “As clean as any man,” Hoche said.

  Silence from the other cell.

  “And what of you?” Hoche asked. “What brought you here? How long have you been in this sunless pit?”

  More silence. “Are you clean?” he asked.

  The silence stretched until Hoche turned away. He felt his path back across his cell, lay down on his bed and tried to sleep again.

  A commotion awakened him. Light shone in from the corridor outside. Blinking, he went to the cell door to see what was happening.

  The cells’ builders had done their job well: it was impossible for him to see further than a few feet in either direction, but from the sound of the activity there was a struggle going on. Shadows leaped and there were shouts of activity, the smack of thrusts and parries, and snarls of pain. Hoche listened intently; he’d heard enough brawls to know what was happening. Three people with swords, he guessed, trying to subdue an unarmed man. There was a smack and a crunch, and he revised his opinion: now two men with swords against a strong unarmed man.

  The swordsmen won. The sounds of fighting died, there was a rattle of chains and a few seconds later two figures walked past his cell, pulling a bowed figure after them. Its wrists were shackled behind its back, its ankles hobbled and its head hidden by a rough hood. Behind it a third witch hunter moved slowly, holding a torch in one hand and his bloody forehead in another. The light dimmed as they walked away.

  The noise had come from the direction of the voice that had called to him. Was that his mysterious questioner, he wondered? The cells around were silent, probably out of fear that the escorts could come for them. Hoche felt tense. The cell had seemed bad enough, but now he suspected there were worse things to come.

  Why had he killed the witch hunter, he asked himself? Logically he should have hidden or run, to get out of the building as soon as he knew it wasn’t empty. Instead, almost without thinking, he had stabbed the man in the throat. It had been unnecessary and dangerous.

  No, it had been fear and hate, he told himself. He had been far more tired and scared than he had dared to admit to himself. His experiences in Marienburg had unsettled him more than he wanted to acknowledge, disturbing his image of himself as a man who could cope with anything. Even before that, since he came to Altdorf, he had been shocked out of his sense of self and forced to acknowledge how little of the world and its workings he understood. His self-assured soldier personality was no more than a memory now. Those had been simpler times. He wondered if he could ever go back to them.

  The long journey from Marienburg had exhausted him. He had been on edge, and the events of the day had thrown him even further off-balance, with no chance to rest and calm his nerves. Then the conversation with the witch hunters in the inn, their smugness and nonchalant arrogance at the deaths of his comrades, had fired him with a hatred and anger that he could not show at the time. Because of that, because of all those things, he had glimpsed a man in a witch hunter’s uniform and had killed him in a single blow. And it had felt good. Better than good: it had felt purifying.

  The unhealed wound on his neck throbbed under its filthy bandage. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

  Something changed. Outside, someone with a torch was moving down the corridor. Hoche felt himself drawn to it, like a moth. Anything to relieve his senses from the awful, unending night.

  He could not see anything except the wall opposite his cell, but he could hear other inmates calling out, howling and yelling. The sounds echoed, distorting off the stone walls until they sounded like the gibbering of beasts.

  The light grew brighter. He strained to see down the corridor. A bald man in rough clothes was pushing a hand-cart, with pieces of black bread, chunks of meat and apples. A ewer of water hung from it, and a strange two-handled cup. Hoche was suddenly aware how thirsty he was. He watched as the man stopped at the cell before his, thrusting bread and fruit through the bars, and holding up the cup so the inmate could drink from it.

  The man wheeled the cart towards Hoche’s cell and past it. Hoche watched in disbelief.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “What about me?”

  The man stopped and turned to look at him. His face was ravaged with scars, his eyes dark pits in the flickering light. “Nothing for you,” he said.

  “Please! Some water! Please!” Hoche shouted, but the man was already pushing his cart away and out of view. He did not look back. Hoche stood at the door, his hands through the bars, watching the light recede and fade to nothing, as if it had never been there.

  Some while later, he realised the hooded prisoner had not come back. It was hard to gauge time down here, but he guessed it must have been at least a day, maybe two. Maybe he had been asleep when the witch hunters had returned the man. Maybe he’d been freed, or moved to a different cell. Or escaped. Hoche knew the prisoner could have found other less optimistic fates but he didn’t want to think about them.

  He woke with a start from a dream of night and fire and fighting. The details were not clear, but images of twisted people and the faces of friends flitted in his mind before they faded. Since what happened in Marienburg, he thought, I have not dreamed of drowning. Now I only dream of fire and blood.

  In the darkness he whispered prayers to Sigmar for strength, to Verena for justice, to Shallya for mercy and to Morr for the souls of his comrades. As far as he could tell, nobody was listening.

  “We’re reasonable people, Lieutenant Hoche. Give us what we want and we can make things easy for you.”

  They had come for him at last, chaining his wrists and leading him through a maze of passages and the shouts of other inmates to this large, high-vaulted room. The light from the oil-lamps hurt his eyes. On the table in front of him was a goblet of wine, but his hands were tied behind the back of the chair he sat in. A platter of fruit lay out of reach: apples, plums, even an orange.

  On the other side of the long table sat two people. One was Sister Karin, the other a tall, elegant man in his early thirties. His hair had the same dark lustre as the priestess’s but his eyes and lips could not have been more different: the former a piercing ice-blue, the latter a thin, terse line. His complexion was white-pale; there was no blood in his face. He wore the tunic of a senior witch hunter. The order’s badge of office, a gold warhammer, hung around his neck. They looked healthy, serious, concerned and powerful. They looked like reasonable people.

  “What do you want?” he said. His voice rasped dryly in his throat. For a moment he was aware how he must look to the witch hunters: his filthy merchant-robes, still spoiled with white plaster and blood, now with a layer of grime from his cell; his hair matted, his face unshaved, his skin slack from lack of food and water. He wanted so much to be anywhere except here. Anywhere except back in his cell.

  “Information,” said the man, and clasped his hands in front of him. His voice was filled with the rich, stretched vowels of a noble upbringing, and his fingers were long and elegant, almost elf-like. If he ever got his hands dirty, he only did it metaphorically, Hoche thought. “We want to know about three things. Firstly, the Untersuchung. Secondly, your recent mission. Thirdly, the matter of a sect of Chaos-followers among the Knights Panther, the details of which”—he glanced at Sister Karin—“remain unclear to us.”

  “What do I get in return?” Hoche asked. He knew he was in no position to make bargains, but he felt he had to try, if only to show some bravado in the face of these smooth, superior, supercilious beings.

  The man smiled. “That depends what you want.”

  “I want my life back,” Hoche said with feeling.

  “Your life as a soldier? I see no reason why not. If we
receive your co-operation, we can return you to your command under Duke Heller, and no questions asked.” The man smiled. “Don’t look startled. The point is, Lieutenant Hoche, that you were only with the Untersuchung for a short time. A matter of weeks. Not long enough for them to get their claws into you, we believe. If we are satisfied that you are clean of the taint of Chaos, then of course we will arrange for you to be returned to your former life.” He smiled with seeming sincerity. “I am Lord Gamow and my word carries much weight. If I ask for it, it will be done. The death of a witch hunter notwithstanding.”

  Lord Gamow. So this was the man who had ordered the death of the Untersuchung. Hoche could see why Braubach had disliked and distrusted him: even from these few minutes he could tell the man was the polar opposite of the Untersuchung captain, whose sardonic and cynical exterior had concealed a core of humanity. The offer Gamow was making seemed generous, but something dark and sinister lay below its surface and Hoche felt wary of accepting it. What kind of a man would write off the murder of one of his men in exchange for some information? Nevertheless, he was out of options.

  “I will give you what I can,” he said.

  Gamow smiled. “Very well. Let us start with your recent mission. What was it?”

  Hoche stared at the goblet on the table, saying nothing. He felt incredibly thirsty. “Let me drink,” he said. “I have had no water since I came here. I must drink.”

  “No water? None at all?” Gamow said. He sounded shocked. Sister Karin walked round the table and lifted the goblet to his lips. It was good wine and strong, but Hoche would have drunk it if it had been horse-piss. He did not stop until the goblet was empty, feeling the cool liquid sluice through his dry mouth like a summer storm, and when he breathed in the air smelled clear and fresh.

  A full goblet on a tired empty stomach, a part of his mind noted, you should watch your words now. He ignored it.

  “Your mission,” prompted Gamow.

  “I went to Marienburg on the trail of a deserter who fled the Untersuchung a year ago. I was not expected to find him.”

  “His name?”

  “Andreas Reisefertig.”

  Gamow nodded, as if Hoche had confirmed something he already knew. “Start at the beginning. What were your orders, and when did you leave Altdorf?”

  He told them everything. He told them about the slaughtered soldiers and the bloodied battle-standard, about the meeting with Duke Heller and his discussion with Bohr, his journey, his meeting with the Knights Panther, and the rest of that night. He told them about Jakob Bäcker, Hunni, Bruno, Anders, Major-General Zerstückein and Gottfried Braubach. He told them about his training, about the books in the shelves, and about the two cultists killed in the warehouse. He told them about Braubach’s demand that he swear he would kill Andreas Reisefertig.

  He told them about Marienburg, about Father Willem and the cultists, the library and the message. He told them about Gunter Schmölling and the damage to his body and mind. He told them about the knife shaped like the symbol of Tzeentch, and the incident in the temple of Shallya.

  Through it all Gamow watched him, nodding in acknowledgement and agreement. Sister Karin refilled Hoche’s goblet twice, lifting it to Hoche’s lips herself.

  Finally it had all been said. He sat back, exhausted and light-headed. He must have been talking for hours. His throat was raw. His buttocks ached from the hard chair seat.

  “Thank you, lieutenant,” Gamow said slowly. “You have an astonishing memory for detail. This fills in much that we suspected but could not prove. It has been a useful morning.”

  Morning? To Hoche it felt like the middle of the night. He paused, looking at the platter of fruit. “I am starved,” he said. “Please, an apple.”

  “Of course. Let us call in the guard to unfasten your wrists so you can eat it yourself. Sister, would you oblige?” Sister Karin rose and went out of the room. Hoche realised she had not said a word throughout the entire session.

  “One other thing,” Gamow said smoothly. “The name of your Untersuchung contact in Marienburg—what was it?”

  Had he not named Erasmus Pronk yet? He must have gabbled past that part. How stupid of him. Of course Gamow would want to know it. He opened his mouth to reply, and then he halted. It would be easy to tell everything he knew about the strange man, but was it right? Pronk had saved his life. Was Gamow testing him? Did he already know? Pronk was a deep-cover agent, the people it would have been hardest for the witch hunters to find. And he was in Marienburg, outside the Empire and their jurisdiction.

  “We used cover-names,” he said cautiously.

  “What was his address? What did he look like?” Gamow demanded.

  Hoche stopped. Nothing would be simpler than saying ‘Pronk’. One word, a funny little name for a funny little man, and he would get to taste that apple, that beautiful green Oma Schmidt like the ones in the orchards around Grünburg, and feel its crisp flesh and its juices in his mouth. He knew how his teeth would pierce its skin, and how it would crunch as he bit into it. He could remember nothing in life he had wanted more.

  Pronk had saved that life. He had showed Hoche kindness, and now his own life was ruined because of what had happened to Schmölling. He was a strange man, Hoche thought, but strangeness is not inimical to goodness. Deep down, beneath the tiredness, the hunger and the fumes of wine, he knew that naming Pronk would be wrong; it would be a betrayal. Not just of friendship, nor of the Untersuchung, but of who he was.

  Could he do this? He had changed so much. Surely one more shift in his personality wouldn’t matter. He stared at the apple. He was so hungry. It would be so easy.

  Such a little thing. One word. One word and he was a free man. The wine encouraged him, making it all seem simple. Say it. Say ‘Pronk’. Don’t think about it. Just say it.

  But he was not a man who gave his friends to his enemies, and he could not become that. It was a matter of honour, of sense of self. Surely Lord Gamow would understand that. He was, as he had said himself, a reasonable man.

  Hoche licked his dry lips. “I cannot,” he said. “I owe him my life.”

  There was a pause, an uncomfortable silence.

  “It is a matter of honour,” he added.

  “A soldier’s honour,” said Gamow, rising to his feet. He crossed his hands behind him and walked around the table to where Hoche sat. “I thank Sigmar for it, because without it our armies would fail, our troops would falter and run before our enemies, the Empire descend into civil war. It is a soldier’s honour that holds it all together. However,” he moved behind Hoche’s chair, “the good soldiers are the ones who understand there is a point when honour is not enough.”

  Hoche plunged forward towards the table, the chair yanked from under him. He yelled, twisting in his seat to stop his head ramming into the hard edge of the wood. He was partly successful. His face did not smash down on the sharp surface, but the edge caught the side of his skull. There was a crunch, then a jarring shock as the chair hit the floor, crushing his right arm beneath it.

  He lay dazed, his vision and sense of balance shaken by the blow to his head. He was sideways, his hands still bound behind the chair, his head partly under the table. It was confusing. What had happened? How had he fallen?

  Above him Gamow’s face appeared, looking down at him, it seemed, from a great height.

  “Loyalty!” Gamow said and kicked him in the stomach, hard. He gagged, vomiting wine, and tried to double up, raising his knees to protect his groin and gut. The heavy chair held him down.

  “Loyalty is more important than honour!” Gamow said and kicked him in the stomach again. “Loyalty is what keeps this empire together! Loyalty to your emperor!”

  Hoche twisted and yelled. Gamow kicked him in the gut.

  “Loyalty to your country!”

  Kick to the ribs.

  “Loyalty to your race!”

  Kick to the neck.

  “Loyalty to your blood!”

  Kick to the hea
d.

  “Loyalty—”

  Kick,

  “to—”

  Kick,

  “your—”

  Kick,

  “god!”

  There was a rap at the door. Gamow stopped, panting, his face sheet-white with anger and adrenaline. “Think about what I’ve said,” he said. “We will continue this discussion later.” Then, to the door, “Enter!”

  Hoche lay on the floor, aching and bleeding, his head too filled with pain to think. From where he lay he could see the bottom of the door as it opened and a pair of high black leather boots with silver buckles and a slimmer pair of boots under a dark robe enter.

  “Take this man back to his cell,” Gamow ordered. “Give him water now, but keep him off solid food.”

  “A doctor?” asked Sister Karin’s voice.

  Gamow spat on the floor. “Get him out of my sight.”

  They dragged Hoche down the corridors, to the shouts and screeches of the other prisoners, pushed him into his cell and bolted the door after him.

  He crawled to the bed and huddled there. His head roared with pain. His chest and belly ached so hard he could hardly breathe. His mouth was filled with the taste of blood. He would be pissing blood for a week, if he had anything in his bladder to piss with. Why hadn’t he given them Pronk’s name? He would still be in the room if he had, drinking wine and eating fruit and talking like civilised people. Like reasonable people.

  He tried to laugh, but it hurt to even think of it. Reasonable people. Reasonable people negotiate, they don’t pull the chairs from under their prisoners and kick them almost to unconsciousness. Hoche had the measure of Gamow now, and he agreed with Braubach’s opinion of the man.

  He moved, trying to find a position that didn’t mean lying on his wounds. There was a hard lump under the ragged blanket. It hadn’t been there before.

  With careful, slow movements he sat up and pulled it out. It was a rectangle of wood, about six inches by ten. One side of it was covered in a waxy substance. Marks were scratched in it.

  Slowly he let his fingertips trace the marks. Words in block capitals, inscribed into the wax with some sharp point. He felt it out, spelling it letter by letter: