Marks of Chaos

by James Wallis

  Above him the sky was full of stars and constellations: the scorpion, the serpent, the gibbet and the axe, brilliant in the darkness. He hoped to see a ring around the moon or another sign of good luck, but there was nothing like that this night. Sigmar’s birth, so the priests said, had been heralded by a twin-tailed comet blazing in the heavens. Hoche had never even seen a shooting star.

  He stayed on the main road, eager to put miles between himself and Altdorf. Later, he decided, he would take one of the tracks through the Reikwald forest, to avoid pursuit. It would be safe enough. After all it was Mondstille, and even bandits had families, homes and a need to celebrate the passing of the year.

  The air was cold in his lungs, his face numb from the wind and the night, the horse warm and vital as it cantered under him. He wrapped his cloak around him and grinned into its woollen folds. The world outside the prison felt so vivid. It filled him with the strength of its sensations and the energy of freedom. He wanted to stand in the saddle and shout. He could sense every muscle in his body wanting to be used and stretched, tested and exercised, and he laughed out loud: let the witch hunters come. He could dodge their bolts, parry their spells, duel armies and leave them broken and beaten.

  He felt as if he could run alongside his horse for miles, leap trees, chase the deer and outpace it, catch it up and lift it over his head, tear its neck open and let its blood pour over him, bathing in its heat, letting it splash into his upturned mouth and drinking it down as the beast thrashed its life out.

  He stopped abruptly, his horse standing in the road. Where in hell had that thought come from?

  The moon set and an hour later the sun rose, staining the eastern clouds with pink. He stopped by a stream and splashed freezing water on his face, gasping, then scrubbed fiercely at his skin with his cloak. After two months underground he would be filthy and he did not want people to remember him. He rummaged in the saddlebags, finding bread, boiled eggs and cheese, and ate while the horse grazed on frost-rimed grass.

  He knew his horse was tired, and so was he. His muscles had atrophied while he was in prison and it would take work to rebuild his strength, no matter how energised he felt from his escape. But every mile he put between him and Altdorf widened the circle that pursuers would have to search. He kept riding.

  Not long past noon, past the village of Rechtlich and with the foothills of the Hagercrybs rising above the forest to the south, he turned a bend in the road and saw a coaching inn. There was still plenty of daylight but he had to rest a few hours. If the moon was as bright tonight, he could travel on later.

  No groom ran from the stables, the windows were shuttered and the door closed, but smoke rose from the chimneys and he was hopeful. He tethered his horse, and walked to the door on legs that felt like aspic. I am Leo Deistadt, a traveller, he thought, carrying urgent news to Grünburg. No, Kemperbad. He rattled the heavy iron ring fixed to the door.

  There were faint sounds from the other side, bolts were drawn back and the door swung inwards. Even before he could see the fire and feel the heat of the room spill out, he could smell the meat. Then a great round figure stepped out to block the doorway, carrying a curved knife.

  “Come in, traveller, come in! Mondstille greetings to you!” it boomed. “No greater blessing than a stranger to share the Mondstille feast, and we’re sitting down to carve this very moment. This year my wife has stuffed the goose with chestnuts and cherries, and you won’t believe its succulence. Welcome! Welcome! Sit! Sit! Sit!”

  Hoche let himself be pulled into the inn and sat at the table. A glass of hot sweet wine was pressed into one hand, a cloth napkin into the other. The fire was at his back, drawing the cold from his bones. The landlord who had greeted him was introducing himself as Stefan Kanonbach, his wife Olga, their children—one daughter was comfortably fat, the image of her mother with her face creased by smiles, the other lovely with sly dark eyes, and the son was sent to deal with the horse—and the only other traveller in the inn, a brandy-merchant from Kemperbad, who rose from his seat brandishing two bottles of his stock to toast the feast-day and the meal. Hoche didn’t pay much attention. He couldn’t take his eyes off the food.

  There were roasted potatoes browned to perfection, chipped swedes, a dish filled half with rich purple sauerkraut and half with steamed cabbage, a great tureen of thick dark gravy, sauces of wild berries, a long loaf of nut-bread made with rosemary and raisins, two roasted pheasants and a great goose resplendent on a silver platter, basted in butter and its own fat, its skin as crisp as an autumn leaf, layered with bacon and surrounded by tender dumplings.

  At the centre of the table, with the dishes of vegetables and poultry clustered around it as if in supplication, stood an oval dish-cover of silver, rounded and swollen like a pregnant belly, covering a white china plate more than two feet long, hinting of wonders. From beneath it the smell of rich roasted flesh rose above the rest of the food, crowning it gloriously, filling Hoche’s whole body with a fierce, wonderful hunger. It was as if the heat of this room and the warmth of the Kanonbachs’ hospitality had thawed him out, letting all the pain, fear and horror of his recent experiences melt away. He felt fully, truly human again.

  Stefan appeared before him, his red face jovial with cheer, wine and years of happy life. “Herr Deistadt? Would you do us the honour of carving the meats?” he asked, proffering the knife handle-first, the sharpening-steel in his other hand. Hoche tested the sharpness of the knife against his thumb and gave it a couple of strokes along the steel. Everyone gathered round the table and bowed their heads as the brandy-seller recited a prayer to Rhya the mother-goddess over the food, then chairs were pulled out, napkins flapped open, and the chatter of anticipation filled the room.

  Stefan leaned over the long table and grasped the handle of the silver dish-cover. “The centrepiece!” he proclaimed. “What our Bretonnian cousins would call the piece of resistance!” He whipped the cover away with a flourish and a grin.

  There lay fat sausages, black and white puddings, thick slabs of salt beef, mutton, pork, ham and venison. A heap of kidneys, liver and sweetbreads dewed with drips of white fat. Meatballs in jelly. Tripe in breadcrumbs. Oxtail. And at the centre of the dish, nestled like obscene lovers, sat two fat organs, their surfaces thickly veined, their orifices stitched closed with black thread. It took Hoche a moment to recognise them.

  “That one is a bull’s heart, stuffed with mushrooms, onions and bacon and seasoned with thyme, roasted whole,” Stefan was saying, “and the other, on the right, is a stag’s heart pickled in sweet cider vinegar with rosemary and pearl onions, preserved this six-month.”

  All Hoche could see was two other hearts lying on a blood-soaked cloth on a makeshift stone altar, given faint texture by summer moonlight. For a second his senses were filled with that night, the smell of human blood congealing. The horror of the moment poured back, the feeling of the world he knew dropping away from beneath his feet and letting him fall. He was, he realised, still falling. With a clatter he put the carving irons on his plate and stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do… I—” He stopped. Leo Deistadt, he remembered. “I was riding all night and I’m near dead from lack of sleep. I have to rest an hour. Eat without me, please.”

  “Are you all right, Herr Deistadt?” the landlord asked.

  “Nothing an hour’s rest won’t cure, I assure you,” he said. “I can only afford a cheap room, a simple bed…”

  “Nonsense! Nonsense! It is Mondstille and the hospitality of the house is yours,” Stefan declared. “You’ll take the finest room we have, and may your dreams be as sweet as the food you’ll be missing.”

  It was a fine room. The bed was a four-poster with two mattresses, the sheets recently laundered. There was a carpet on the floor, an ewer of fresh water on the mantel, and thick brocaded curtains over the windows. Most luxurious of all was a looking-glass almost a foot in diameter on the dressing-table.

  He lay on the soft bed and c
ould not sleep. The sight of the two hearts had disturbed him and cast doubts into his mind. The plan that had seemed so simple last night now looked like the scheme of a fool. What kind of refuge was Grünburg? It would be the first place the witch hunters would look for him. He had even dreamed of going back into the army. Maybe he could change his name and identity, become a new soldier. The great Thomas Recht, hero of the Arabyan campaigns, was said to have done that…

  It was no good: his mind was too busy to sleep. He sat up and went over to the mirror, peering at himself, shocked by the length of his beard. It did not suit him. He dug out the dagger Sister Karin had given him and tested its sharpness. Not ideal, he reckoned, but he had shaved with worse. He poured water from the ewer into the bowl on the table, sat in front of the mirror, wetted his face and began to shave.

  It took almost half an hour of concentration, during which he cut himself twice and did not think of hearts, cultists or dark cells once. When he was done he sighed and looked down at his feet. He didn’t want to know how bad the damage was, but he knew he must. Under his boots, the bandages were dark and stiff with dried blood. He emptied and refilled the bowl, then dipped his left foot in, let it soak, and began unwrapping the wet cloths. They came away in strips, exposing pale skin beneath.

  There was no blood, no open wounds. All his toes were there, their nails gleaming like wet pearls. He could see cuts and scars, but nothing worse. Gingerly he lifted his leg, twisting the foot to study its sole. No gaping holes. How could that be? He remembered the agony, the searing pain, the strange grating as a blade had been dragged across a bone. He was sure his feet had been turned to bloody lumps by Gamow’s tortures. Either the witch hunter was a very skilled inflictor of pain, or something curious was afoot.

  The other was the same, its flesh tender, the nerves still raw, but it was whole. Hoche ran his fingers over it, wondering if his mind could have tricked him, if perhaps he had been given some pain-amplifying drug. No matter now. They were healed and he could walk on them if he had to.

  He scratched at his newly bare chin and brushed his shirt collar. He had never seen the scar on his neck, the one that had interested Lord Gamow so much. Moving back to the mirror, he pulled the shirt down. The mark was towards the base of his neck, an inch above his left shoulder. It was an odd shape, strangely swollen, as if something was trapped under the skin.

  It looked somewhat like a mouth, he thought. Yes, the edge of the scar was a little like a lip. It was still new, it would go down in time. He reached up to touch it.

  It moved.

  The lips parted.

  He stared at his reflection, terrified, unable to move. In the gap between the lips, he could see the gleam of teeth.

  It was a mouth.

  He fought down a scream, but could not tear his eyes away from the looking-glass. It seemed to be shaking. No, he was shaking, his whole body juddering with tension and fear. In a second Hoche was on his feet, staggering away from the table and the glass, bumping into the bed.

  It was in him. The stuff of Chaos was in him. The dark gods had placed their mark on his body and it was changing under their power.

  He was damned.

  So many thoughts crowded into his horrified mind, demanding attention and priority, that he couldn’t make sense of them. He was a mutant. He was cursed. He was an exile, no longer human. He could not go home. No regiment would ever take him. He could never show himself to Marie, never. He was not fit to be among people, lest he infect them too.

  Braubach had told him about the marks of Chaos. Even the smallest mutation will grow and spread, he had said.

  Had it been the Marienburg cultist’s blade that had infected him? The tentacle of the mutant who had strangled him? The work of Gamow—the voice from the other cell had warned him not to eat the food. But what if the fault was his? “Something is rotten within,” Braubach had told him. He had consorted with heretics and blasphemers, and they had made him doubt his faith in Sigmar. He had touched damned books, had read their words. The sin of Chaos was in his soul.

  The Shallyan monastery. That must be it. The healer had touched his wound and it had burnt. No, the wound had been touched with holy water and a blessing from an honest priest. It was he, not the monastery, that had been unclean. And dear god, he had sent the witch hunters there.

  He was defiled. He was a mutant.

  He had to flee. He could not bear to stay in this place, these people, making merry with their Mondstille feast. They would be waiting for Leo Deistadt to return, but he knew he could not keep up that deception any more, nor any other. The truth was too horrible for any mask to hide it.

  He glanced out of the window. It faced the road in front of the inn, a drop of around twelve feet. He could not get out that way. Ramming his feet roughly back into his boots, he left the room, crossed the corridor and pushed open the opposite door. That room had a window with a view over the courtyard and stables. He threw it open, crouched on the sill and slipped out, hanging from the window-ledge before dropping to the hard ground. He landed awkwardly, pain shot through both feet and his ankle and he staggered sideways, knocking a bucket at the foot of the wall. It clattered over.

  His horse was stabled, its saddle and tack hung beside its booth. Hoche was strapping it back on when he heard a noise behind him. It was Stefan.

  “Herr Deistadt, what is it?” he asked.

  Hoche tried not to meet his eyes. “I have to go,” he said. “I cannot stay.” I dare not risk tainting you, he thought. If the witch hunters find that a mutant had stayed here and eaten at your table, they will burn it to the ground and you with it.

  “But why?”

  “I can’t explain.” He dug in his pocket for the purse that Sister Karin had given him. He thrust it into Stefan’s hands. “Take this as payment. For all your trouble.”

  Stefan looked startled. “Herr Deistadt, are you well?”

  Hoche stared at him. How must he look, he wondered: wild-eyed, tousle-haired, his face cut and his hands stained with blood from the bandages. He realised his shirt collar was hanging open, and turned away to hide his neck.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not well. I’m very unwell. Keep the money. I don’t need it where I’m going.” Where was he going? Away, far away from everyone. More than that he did not know.

  Stefan had loosened the neck of the leather pouch and was staring at the coins in his palm. “I—this is too much,” he said. “I will keep them here for you, in case you change your mind.”

  Hoche let out a sound that was half laughter and half sob. “Stefan,” he said, “you are a good man, and there is a shortage of those in this world.” He reached forward to clasp the landlord’s hands, but recoiled. He must not touch him. He was unclean. Instead he swung himself into the horse’s saddle, tugging on the reins to turn it towards the road. His eyes met Stefan’s. There was nothing but confusion in the man’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” Hoche said. He didn’t know what he was sorry for, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He geed the horse and cantered towards the gate and the road.

  “Sigmar go with you!” the landlord called after him. “Blessings of the season! May the new year bring more joys than the old!”

  Fat chance of that, Hoche thought. Too late for that. Too late for anything. Too late for him.

  He rode away, leaving the inn and humanity behind him.

  He was terrified. Of discovery and arrest; of the thought that he might have infected the people at the inn by his presence; most of all by what he had become. His image of himself had been shattered. The Karl Hoche he thought he was, the identity that lay at the core of his soul, was destroyed.

  He rode with no thought to direction or destination. At every branch in the road he took whichever fork looked wilder, more desolate, until there was no more road and the last track ran out, and then he rode on through the forest. He ate rotten apples he found fallen beneath a wild tree, their mushy flesh made crunchy by crystals of frost. When
night fell he huddled beneath the thick branches of a fir tree. At dawn he rode on into the depths of the Reikwald forest, the horse’s hoofs crunching through drifts of dry leaves between bare trees.

  He drank from puddles, ate moss and fungi, acorns and rose-hips, watercress grubbed from the banks of sluggish streams and the few sweet chestnuts that the forest’s squirrels and wild boars had left uneaten. Once he found a hazel tree with nuts still on its branches and ate them, cracking their shells between his teeth. When a thought about his past or his future emerged he pushed it away, keeping in mind only the journey through the forest, the search for food, and survival. By day he rode with fear and despair at his back, by night he dreamed of fire and damned figures writhing and twisting in its heat, transforming into vile things, and he would wake cold and scared, and ride on.

  After four days he reached the Reik.

  He heard it before he saw it, a low rushing sound like wind through wheat fields. He did not see the river until he was almost at the edge of the forest. The trees had been cut back a few yards to form a footpath and beyond it lay the water, wide and flat, grey-brown, cold and desolate, flowing endlessly away to the north. On the other bank, the forest continued. The sun was low on the horizon, wintery reds and yellows above the skeletal trees.

  Hoche scrambled down to the edge of the muddy water and cupped his hands to drink. He stood and looked around. The river was wide here, so he must be downstream of the point where the Reik and the Teufel joined in the shadow of Castle Reikguard.

  Grünburg lay upstream, perhaps only forty miles, but the mass of water flowing endlessly away blocked him from it, taking his desire to go home and dragging it downstream. He would never hear his mother’s voice again, never see his father preaching from the pulpit of the temple, never kiss Marie, never gaze into her eyes and feel her trust and love. Never marry her. Never raise children. Never be happy. Die alone.