by James Wallis
Him.
Karl Hoche. The old Hoche. The Hoche of grief and revenge, of emotions and frailty. The man.
He had played the role of Hoche too well in the camp. The mask fitted too well and felt too comfortable. He had become his old self again, with his old doubts and fears, commanding men, thinking like a soldier. That was what had brought him here. No, they had brought him here. This had been planned. He didn’t know for how long, but this was what Karin had meant. This was his place in their scheme.
Karin and Gamow intended to die here, to be the sacrifices for their own plan, to create the army of Khorne. They needed him to kill them in bloodlust and fury. And he wanted to, more than anything he had wanted before: to sate his boiling rage and kill Gamow, and then to kill Karin too, Gamow’s lover and the second heart.
It must not happen.
He fought down his emotions and lowered his blade.
“What are you doing?” demanded Karin.
“Defeating you,” he said. “Without this, you do not have an army. Your warriors are tearing each other to shreds. I will not be your tool to bring about the final change. I am not the man you think I am.”
He turned away. Behind him, Gamow rose to his feet. “You are not a man at all,” he said and charged.
Karl spun and parried, expertly. They traded blows, neither breaking the other’s defence. It was not easy. Gamow was a better swordsman than he had pretended.
Karl tried to remain detached, not to think about what the man he was fighting had done to him. That version of himself was dead and buried in the Great Forest. There was no place for vengeance or fury in his new life. He could lose this fight in two ways: by dying, and by losing his control. But he did not know how he could win it.
“Let your head rule your heart,” Reisefertig had said.
Reisefertig.
Karl locked eyes with Gamow across their clashing swords. “Andreas Reisefertig sends his regards,” he said.
Gamow’s eyes blazed. “Reisefertig! You know him?”
“He is here. He helped me,” Karl said.
“That traitor!” Gamow exclaimed and Karl knew he had him. Anger was a weapon that could be turned both ways. Now he was in control, and Gamow was out for vengeance. His sword deflected Gamow’s frenzied attacks, as he let the man wear himself down. Around them, Sister Karin and the witch hunters watched them, unmoving. The low chanting continued.
He still needed strength to win. Unbidden, Braubach’s words came back to him, from a rainy afternoon an age ago. “Not a strong god, and not a wise god,” he had said. “But in the stretch, he and your sword are the only true allies you have.”
Gamow swung, a hard blow a fraction of an inch too high and a fraction of a second too slow. Karl’s blade slipped under it, through the armour under the priest’s robes and into his heart. Gamow froze, eyes wide, his sword falling. Karl watched as the witch hunter slumped to his knees, sliding down the blade to collapse on the ground. His body cried out with the urge to rip Gamow apart and wallow in his hot blood. He resisted.
“Die in the name of Sigmar,” he said, and as he did he felt an inner calm spread through him. His desire for revenge, the fury of the man he had once been, slipped away and was gone. But as it fled he grasped one last shred of it and held it back. He still had a use for that.
Slowly, with awful deliberateness, he turned his face to the other figures. Karin looked shocked. The witch hunters had stopped chanting.
“It is over,” he said.
Sister Karin ran at him, a knife in her hand, a clumsy charge. It would be easy to let her run onto his sword and die beside her lover because he sensed that was what she wanted. Instead he sidestepped, swiping her arm with his blade, knocking the knife into the night.
“Kill me!” she screamed.
“No!” he said. “Is this all you learned from the Untersuchung and the witch hunters? Was this your new path, to die to raise an army of Khorne?”
“You don’t understand!” she howled, falling to her knees.
“I understand,” he said. “I know the ways of Chaos better than you ever can.”
He left her there, by Gamow’s body. The witch hunters had gone, the ritual was broken, and he had other things to finish.
Beyond the ruins, the officers’ tents blazed. In the semicircle of flames two figures stood and fought, hewing at each other. One danced and spun in silver armour, twisting away from blows and darting in with feints and clever attacks, the other stood like a mountain of red and black, his broken axe thrashing like a tree in a storm. Duke Heller and Sir Valentin were fighting to the death.
Karl marvelled. This was swordsmanship in its purest and most elemental form. There was no overlap between the way they fought and yet they were evenly matched, completely absorbed in the fight. Every thrust, dodge and parry was perfectly judged and perfectly met. It was beautiful and terrible to behold. Below them, on the slope of the hill down to the river, the camp burned.
Karl walked closer. They were unaware of him, wrapped completely in their duel. If either of them faltered, even for a second, they would be lost.
The weapons clashed, sending up sparks. He was yards away now and still they had not seen him.
“My lord duke!” Karl shouted. “Your promotion is refused!”
Heller’s head jerked round in horror. His eyes met Karl’s, and the Chaos champion’s axe passed through his neck like a hand through mist. A fountain of blood shot into the air, glinting with firelight. His body fell, his head a moment later.
Sir Valentin studied the corpse of the man who had wanted to take his place at the head of the Chaos army, and then turned to look at Karl. Karl knew with awful certainty that his mutation would not save him this time. The knight was a giant in armour, tireless and unstoppable, driven by the power of the dark gods. His armour was studded with arrows, broken swords and bits of pikes where others had tried to stop him and failed.
Karl lifted his sword. The two faced each other for a moment, then the giant took two steps in. The great breastplate he wore was decorated with the eight-pointed star of Chaos. Under it, the joints of his armour moved, sleek and organic. Was a Chaos warrior’s armour a part of their body, a new hard skin, like an insect? It moved more smoothly than any metal armour Karl had ever seen. It was as if every joint had been oiled.
Oil, Karl thought, and then the knight was at him, the axe swinging down. He dodged back from its sweep but the Chaos warrior’s great forearms twisted the blade’s parabola and he had to meet it with his sword to knock it out of the way.
He noticed a wooden shield on the ground and grabbed it, sliding it onto his left arm. Better than nothing, he thought. Then the axe-blade swept in again, and in seconds the shield was nothing. Karl backed away, giving ground, trying to buy time. With his left hand he groped in his belt-pouch to find the flask of lamp-oil that Kurtz had given him earlier, before the night-attack and the massacre.
The axe crashed down and he stepped under it, inside its reach, right up to the great steel bulk of Sir Valentin. With the sword in his right hand he thrust clumsily. The warrior blocked it easily, but while the giant was parrying Karl had pulled the flask of oil from his belt. He swung his arm up, smashing the container against the neck-rim of the champion’s dark armour.
The flask shattered. Oil poured over the armour and inside it.
He ducked and dropped. The axe-head thudded into the earth beside him as he rolled away, and the great figure stepped after him. Karl was back on his feet, sprinting away, trying to find a torch on the plateau. He had left his sword behind. It didn’t matter.
He could feel the thud of Sir Valentin’s footsteps behind him. The champion bellowed, a sound of elemental rage, calling for his blood. There were no torches here, only the blazing remains of the tents all around him. That would be enough.
Karl charged into the roaring flames, closing his eyes, feeling his flesh burn as he pumped his legs in a sprint. The Chaos warrior followed him into the in
ferno, bellowing above the sound of the blaze. He ran on until he felt cool air on his skin. Then he threw himself down and rolled to extinguish his clothes, and lay still.
Behind him, Sir Valentin exploded out of the fire. He was burning. Flames leaped from every joint of his armour and he was tearing at himself, trying to rip the steel plates off his body. Chunks of flesh came away with them, but the oil had soaked in too far and he was roasting in his metal skin. His head was on fire, his short hair blazing. He bellowed like a dying ox, fell sideways with a ground-shaking crash, and flailed at the flames that enveloped him.
Karl fetched his sword. It was a poor thing now, its blade blunted and dented by impacts with the axe. He threw it away. Duke Heller had a sword he wouldn’t be needing, and Karl took that. Valentin’s body was burning and his hands were still scrabbling at the flames as Karl approached, though the movements were becoming smaller and slower.
The dying figure sensed his approach and rolled onto its side towards him. Valentin’s face was a blackened ruin, bone visible through the burnt flesh and his eyes were gone, but the jaw still moved.
“Blood for the blood god,” it whispered.
“Vengeance for Rudolf Schulze,” said Karl and sliced through its neck. The skull dropped and rolled free, its empty eye-sockets staring up into the black sky. Karl looked at it. With this last exercising of duty, this final ritual, he felt the last shreds of the man he had once been slip away like a snake’s old skin. Karl Hoche was gone forever. The process that had started on the banks of the Reik at Mittherbst was complete, and he was something new and powerful.
He left the bodies and strode back into the camp, to speak with Andreas Reisefertig.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Loose Ends
The battle was all but over. The Chaos knights had been unhorsed and destroyed one by one, but at awful cost to the army. Those soldiers who had felt the warping power of the Khornate ritual had been cut down by their comrades. Men were extinguishing the burning tents, bringing aid to the wounded, dragging away the bodies of the dead. There were a lot of dead.
Reisefertig lay four yards from where Karl had left him. He had pulled himself into the shadow of an overturned wagon and lay there. He had lost a lot of blood, but he was still alive. The sword through his chest moved slightly as he breathed, and his eyes flickered open as Karl approached.
“You came back,” he said.
“I keep my word,” Karl said.
“Is it over?”
“It is.”
Reisefertig lay silent and still for a moment. Then he gestured to the sword projecting from his chest. “I’m in a bad way,” he said.
Karl shook his head. “That wound won’t kill you.” He leaned back against the side of the wagon. “Where is Braubach’s journal?”
Reisefertig slowly unbuttoned his jerkin and pulled the leather book out from where it lay over his heart. “Sir Valentin thrust the wrong side, or it might have saved my life.”
Karl took it. “Now this is over,” he said, “which side were you on?”
Reisefertig smiled. His teeth were red with his own blood. “You haven’t heard of us,” he said.
“Not working for Gamow?”
“Not for years. I was a witch hunter once, and he trained me. Then he sent me into the Untersuchung, to report on their work. Undercover.” He laughed weakly. “All the training in subterfuge Braubach gave me, and it didn’t occur to him that I was using the same techniques against them. I was the reason so many Untersuchung operations failed.”
“Including Braubach’s?”
“Yes. When that collapsed I realised the witch hunters had tipped off the cultists, to make the Untersuchung look bad. They were letting Chaos worshippers escape to score political points. That night I knew I had to leave, and left.”
“Where did you go?”
“Marienburg. It was after the Library had flooded, and the sects were fighting for control of what was left. I joined a group of former witch hunters and scholars, disaffected like me. The Cloaked Brothers. Research is what they do, Karl. Discovering the true nature of Chaos so it can be beaten—not the short-term victories of battles and burnt cults, but learning how to force it from the world. They knew Duke Heller was plotting something and sent me to infiltrate. It wasn’t till later I found Lord Gamow was involved.”
“You were here to observe? To report back on how the plan went, whether it succeeded or failed.”
“Yes.”
“You would have let thousands die to form a Chaos army?”
“Yes. For the greater good. We needed the information.”
“Then the Cloaked Brothers are insane and you are no better than Lord Gamow.”
Reisefertig said nothing. Karl wanted to think the man agreed with him, but he knew he did not.
“Why did you send me to Altdorf?” Karl said. “Why did you force me to join the Untersuchung?”
“Because I thought it would do you good.” Coughing jolted Reisefertig’s body, and he gripped the sword to stop it shaking in the wound. “You needed to be set on a new path, Karl. You were destined for more than the army.”
The horrors of the last year flickered past in Karl’s mind. If he had known how any of this was going to turn out, would he still have gone out to the wood that hot summer night? Yes, he would. Even the old Hoche was not a man who would have turned away from his fate.
“Yes,” he said. “Destiny. Was I meant to be a part of this plan? Was my place in tonight’s ceremony set last summer? Did you know I would be here?”
“You or someone like you,” Reisefertig said. “You were meant to be here. But it was not mortal hands that guided you back.” He coughed. “We’re alike, Karl. Even Braubach said so. Go to the Cloaked Brothers. They can use men like you.”
“Everybody wants to use me,” said Karl. “I’ve had too much of that. From here I follow my own path.”
“We share a common enemy.”
“Being the enemy of my enemy does not make you an ally. It just means you’re another unknown quantity, another unturned card. I need fewer of those.”
Reisefertig smiled ruefully. “What are you going to do?”
“I will hunt the things of Chaos: its cults, its worshippers, its trappings and its schemes. I will destroy them with no mercy. Including the Cloaked Brothers, if I find them.”
Reisefertig pulled himself up and stared out over the ruins of the army camp. He was silent for a moment. Then: “At what cost, Karl? How many people will die to sate your revenge?”
“No revenge. This is what I am now. I swore an oath. And I keep my word.”
“Yes,” said Reisefertig. “You do. And you have sworn to kill me.”
“I had not forgotten.”
“Last time you said, ‘Not yet’.” Reisefertig tried to smile. “Do I get another stay of execution?”
Karl said nothing for a while, then: “Very well. But the next time I see you, I will kill you.” He sheathed his sword, took the book in his right hand, and walked away up the hill, towards the castle. He did not look back.
“Do well, Karl,” Reisefertig shouted weakly. “Be true to yourself. Fight the good fight.” His voice faded in a spasm of coughing.
The ruined chapel was quiet and still. One of the torches was still alight, making long shadows. The body of Lord Gamow lay slumped where it had fallen. Karl dragged the blood-soaked cloth from the altar with the silver bowl and the knife, and piled them on top of the corpse, followed by the torches and their wooden poles. Lastly he threw the one remaining lit torch on top of the pyre, and stepped back as it burnt.
He looked at the book he held. It was last remnant of the Untersuchung, and of the thoughts and teachings of Gottfried Braubach. He had tried to pass on his knowledge to three apprentices, and they had all proved false: one had betrayed him; one had turned to Chaos; and one had become a thing of Chaos.
What lay within the book? What ideas and insights, what secrets, what details of schemes unearth
ed and cults destroyed? How much had Braubach written of his own life, his hopes and dreams, the things that drove him? Did he talk of Sister Karin and Andreas Reisefertig? What else had he written about Lieutenant Hoche? Did he have insights that could help Karl learn more about himself?
So many possibilities. So much that the book could teach him. But he was an apprentice no longer. He had passed the final test. He did not need it any more.
He threw it onto the flames and watched until it had burnt to ash.
Andreas Reisefertig tried to push himself back up against the wagon. He dared not move the sword that bisected him in case the wound started to bleed harder. He could feel blood pooling in his punctured lung and knew he needed help if he was going to survive. But he was confident. Survival, sick leave, possibly a promotion. All things considered, it hadn’t gone badly.
“Injured man! A surgeon here! A priest!” he called weakly.
There was no answer. After a minute he called again. A figure stepped out of the night, walking towards him.
“Thank Sigmar,” he breathed.
“Sigmar will not save you,” said Karl, and drew his sword.
Reisefertig looked at him in horror. “Damn you! Damn you!” he cried.
“We are all damned,” said Karl and pushed the sword through Reisefertig’s throat.
He stood looking at the corpse for a moment, then turned away. There was nothing left here for him, and there was much work to do.
He walked into the darkness, his sword drawn and ready.
CHAPTER ONE
Meetings
He came out of the darkness like a lion onto dogs, crashing out of the leafless trees beside the rough earth road, his sword raised and swinging. The first of the group half-turned towards him and fell with his face bisected in a spray of blood. The second lifted an axe to defend himself but the sword darted low, a flash of blue steel like a kingfisher over a stream, slicing through leather and cutting flesh. The third stared at the sudden stump of his arm as he dropped, his legs cut from under him. The fourth parried the thrust aimed at his heart, took the hilt of the sword in his face, staggered back a pace and was decapitated, his head falling to the frozen ground, followed a second later by his body.