Marks of Chaos

by James Wallis

  “Neutralised,” Rhinehart said. “Six bloody months it took, but now we can question—”

  “Fire!” Kratz shouted from atop the cart, slashing his sword down.

  “No!” Holger cried. Crossbow bolts filled the air, thudding into the prone and helpless figures of the two sorcerers, pincushioning their bodies. Rhinehart gave a strangled groan. The men’s blood seeped through their robes and flowed over the cobbles around them in a red pool, and they lay still.

  By the time the burning house had been extinguished and searched, the corpses had been removed, the wizards from the colleges of magic thanked, the watchmen dismissed, the locals allowed back into their houses and the blood cleaned from the street, some of Rhinehart’s fury and frustration had abated, but much remained. Holger watched him simmer over the next hour, impressed with the man’s ability to remain professional despite his obvious rage at Kratz.

  Finally they were sat around a table in The Fist and Glove tavern, surrounded by the dark atmosphere of the room where witch hunters had gathered for centuries to drink to forget the horrors they had seen. At last Rhine-hart could hold in his anger no longer, and he started in on Kratz before the pot-boy had brought their first beers.

  “You had no right to give that order.”

  “I had every right.” Kratz sat back with the smug half-grin of a man convinced of his own supremacy. “I was the ranking officer and in my opinion the renegades presented a threat and had to be killed.”

  “Ranking officer? Anders and I were standing in front of you!”

  “You were compromised. You’d been in the same building as the sorcerers, so you could have been under their influence. I had no choice.”

  The beer arrived. “Of course you had a bloody choice,” Rhinehart said, his pint in his hand. “But you saw a way to snatch the glory for six months of my work, and you couldn’t resist it. You son of a bitch.”

  Kratz put his tankard down carefully. “Two renegade spell-casters are dead. The Empire is safer than it was a few hours ago. I do Sigmar’s work.”

  “You do your own work, pleasing your high-born friends close to the Grand Theogonist. Maybe they told you to have the wizards killed?”

  “Magic channels the stuff of Chaos,” Kratz growled, “and men who misuse it are as dangerous to Sigmar’s empire as the mad army that sacked Wolfenburg in the autumn. The law is clear: they must die.”

  “They were my prisoners!”

  “You were compromised!”

  “What I don’t understand,” Holger interrupted before the argument went any further over old ground, “is why they came back to Altdorf.” There was a momentary silence from the other two and he ploughed on: “They fled from here originally, I’m right? So why would they return, especially if they knew there was a witch hunter on their trail? All in all,” he concluded, “it would have been useful to question them before they were killed.”

  The other two stared at him and he felt pleased that he had been able to defuse the argument, drawing its aim onto him, before his two colleagues tore each other apart. Rhinehart had every right to be angry, but there was something in Kratz’s defensiveness that was disturbing. He was about to continue his train of thought, hoping to distract the two from their argument, but someone was standing by the table. It was one of the novices from the Order of Sigmar. Holger had seen the boy before, in the hallways of the Altdorf chapter-house, their headquarters. He couldn’t have been more than twelve.

  “Brothers,” the novice began, “I have a message…” He paused and swallowed. Holger guessed he was intimidated by having to address two witch hunters whose hair and clothes were still scorched and smelling of smoke from the house-fire, and a third widely known to be among the more notoriously zealous members of their order.

  “Spit it out,” Rhinehart said. “Who’s it for?”

  “All of you, brothers.”

  “All of us?”

  “Yes, brothers.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Brother Karin… wishes to speak with you in the upper library at ten bells.”

  The three exchanged a look of surprise. Rhinehart drank his beer. Kratz’s face was blank. It was left for Holger to smile at the boy. “Thank you for your message, brother,” he said. “Tell Brother Karin that we will be there.” The novice nodded and left them to their beers.

  “Ten bells,” Holger said. “Late for a meeting.”

  Kratz spat in his half-empty tankard and rose to his feet. “Excuse me. I must scourge myself and pray.” Holger and Rhinehart watched him leave.

  “We should finish our beers and go too,” Holger said, “and wash the day’s filth away.”

  “Filth is right,” Rhinehart said. “Ashes and bile. I hate him. Six months of my work destroyed for an ounce of his patron’s favour.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s transparent,” Rhinehart said. “His zeal and ambition have found favour with our new Lord Protector, Lord Bethe, and Bethe’s master Johann Esmer, the Grand Theogonist. He’s their creature now. Bethe’s as hard-line as Kratz is, and Esmer hates all wizards because he believes them a threat to his power.”

  Holger shook his head. “Theo is ambitious, I grant, but he’s not a political animal. Being political implies an ability to negotiate and compromise, and Sigmar knows he has neither of those. Besides, interrogating the two renegades might have brought us information that would embarrass the colleges of magic, weakening them that way.” He supped his beer, thinking. “It’s possible that he was just following the law: it says renegades must be put to death, and his zeal is unmatched among our contemporaries. But…”

  Rhinehart drained his tankard and waved the pot-boy over for a refill. “What do you mean?”

  Holger shrugged. “I don’t know. A suspicion, nothing more. I pray I’m wrong.”

  A huge man strode towards the cathedral of Sigmar through the noonday crowds. Plated with armour, a heavy warhammer on a strap at his hip, muttering imprecations under his breath, he was an incongruous sight but nothing was so strange as the human form he carried in both arms. It was man-sized, stiff and gold. People moved out of his way fast.

  “Luthor Huss,” people whispered to each other. “Huss the warrior-priest. Huss the outspoken. Huss the renegade. Huss the prophet.” He heard them. Let them whisper. They would have more to whisper about by the end of the day.

  He mounted the steps that led up to the massive metal doors, closed for the service within, and turned to face the good citizens of Nuln in the square below. Not all of them were looking at him. Clutching the figure of the man with one hand, he unhooked his warhammer with the other and swung it, striking the doors with a crash that rang out across the city like a bell. Now he had their attention.

  He held the golden figure up for all to see, his bear-like hand around its neck. Its wooden limbs dangled loose and its head lolled.

  “Do you see this man?” he demanded in a voice like a landslide. “This is Johann Esmer. This is the Grand Theogonist! The protector of our faith! The representative of Sigmar!”

  He struck the doors again, and again the sound reverberated across the square.

  “See how he is tarnished? See his lust for gold made visible on his flesh?” He shook the effigy and its limbs rattled. The wood-carving had taken him all night. He had never actually met Johann Esmer, nor seen the man’s likeness, so he had no idea if the dummy’s gold-painted face resembled the Grand Theogonist at all. But the crowd didn’t know either. Esmer had never been to Nuln.

  “The hospice at Wartenberg. The blessed forge at Blauenthal. The brotherhood of the holy spring at Lüdenscheid. The monastery at Oberwil. For his first act, the leader of our church has ordered the closure of these holy places and more. Fourteen in all. Fourteen temples to Sigmar! And at this time of darkness, of famine and the encroachment of Chaos, he has done this—to save gold for his coffers in Altdorf!”

  The crowd was silent before him. From the corner of his eye he saw unifor
med figures emerging from doorways and archways around the cathedral square, the colours of Templars bright on their armour. He knew these men: he had joked with them, eaten with them and prayed with them. Now they had their jobs to do. His time, he knew, was short.

  “How much longer must we endure this? How much longer will we be forced to swallow this diet of worms? Can you not see the darkness descending on our souls? How long before this downward spiral into devilry is the end of us all?” he roared, shaking the wooden mannequin. Then he turned, held it up to the metal of the door and brought his hammer crashing down against it. There was a gasp from the masses behind him. He let go, and surveyed his work.

  The nail he had positioned at the figure’s heart had done its job. The effigy of Esmer was held in place, hanging limp like a corpse, the word “Esmer” carved into its golden forehead.

  He turned back to the crowd. There were more Templars taking up positions, but they made no move towards him. What he had done was treason and sacrilege, defacing the cathedral and demeaning its highest priest. As holy knights the Templars should arrest him, but he knew that many of them secretly agreed with his views, and they would let him leave the square as long as he kept walking. With Chaos such a potent force in the land, no city could tolerate the presence of such a heretic within its walls—but with Chaos a potent force in the land, a city was no place for a warrior-priest like him. And besides, he had a new god to find.

  He walked away from the cathedral, towards the west gate of the city, knowing he was leaving the first part of his life behind him. He prayed to Sigmar that he was doing the right thing.

  The high windows of the upper library of the Order of Sigmar, the headquarters of the witch hunters, looked out over the sleeping city. The bright architecture and whitewashed walls of Altdorf lay dark and cold in the greenish moonlight. The sound of ten bells had rolled out across the quiet streets from the high tower of the cathedral of Sigmar a few minutes before, and now the gothic limestone bulk of the largest temple in the Empire stood silent, outlined against the night sky like a great gaunt tree, its high spiked branches reaching up towards the moon. Inside the library, the room was empty, the tables plain, the chairs simple, the bookshelves largely bare. There were few books that the witch hunters trusted.

  Brother Karin was waiting for them. Dressed in the austere black uniform common to all witch hunters, their brother officer in the Order of Sigmar stood silhouetted against the window, gazing out over the night streets below. Hearing their approach, the dark figure turned to face them.

  “Brothers,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Holger had heard about the transformation of Sister Karin Schiller, and the reasons for it. She had been a part of one of the armies that had travelled north last summer, alongside Lord Gamow, her mentor in the order and her unacknowledged lover. They had been ambushed by forces of Chaos and their troops slaughtered almost to the last man. Gamow had died in single combat against a traitorous mutant in the Empire’s army, and she had watched it happen. By the time she returned to Altdorf Karin had reinvented herself in Gamow’s image and memory. She abandoned her femininity, denying weakness of any kind, demanding to be treated like a man.

  The Order of Sigmar was overwhelmingly, relentlessly male-dominated. It had female members, but they were few, and inconspicuous. But Brother Karin’s mind was iron and her will was ruthless. Amidst the changes that had happened in the Order of Sigmar since the violent death of the Grand Theogonist Volk-mar the Grim and the troubled installation of his successor Johann Esmer, she—he—had proved herself and had advanced within its ranks to become the confidante and advisor of the order’s new Lord Protector, Lord Bethe, the man appointed by Esmer to the post her late lover had held.

  She was still a startlingly beautiful woman. The austere lines of the witch hunter’s uniform were not tailored for a female figure, and its contours were shaped and filled by hers, swelling at her breasts and hips, and tight around her waist. Her hair had been cut short in a manly style that served only to accentuate the length of her pale neck. No lack of kohl, rouge or powder could make her eyes, cheekbones and lips any less womanly. Despite herself, Brother Karin was very attractive. Even her voice, lowered an octave, had a huskiness to it that was half purr, half growl.

  “Karl Hoche,” she said. “Find him.”

  “The renegade mutant? Why? Why now?” Rhinehart asked.

  “And why us?” Holger said.

  “There is something happening out there,” Karin said, gesturing to the world beyond the window, “and Hoche is a catalyst. Where he goes, things happen.” She moved from the window to the central table and leaned against it, her pose disquietingly masculine. “Often people die. Many people.”

  “Brother Karin.” Kratz’s tone was conciliatory, diplomatic. “We are all aware of the death of your friend and mentor Lord Gamow at the hands of Karl Hoche last year, but—”

  “This has nothing to do with that. Hoche is a danger to us all. Maddened by his past and his taint, he is taking the law in his own hands, interpreting it according to the twisted rules taught him by the Untersuchung. His existence undermines our authority, and he intends to continue his perverted crusade against those he decides are agents of Chaos.”

  “How do you know that, brother?” Rhinehart asked.

  “He writes me letters,” she said. “He sends them by the coach-mail, routed through different towns so by the time they reach Altdorf their origin cannot be traced, liven if we could find where they were sent from, he would be long gone when we got there. You three will have authority to use whatever force necessary to find him and stop him.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “Preferably dead.”

  “And why us?” Holger prompted.

  “You have met him.”

  Holger blinked. Kratz gave a short, barking, “Ha!” Rhinehart looked sceptical.

  “Fifteen months ago,” Karin said, “the three of you spent an evening in The Fist and Glove drinking with a pious merchant from Carroburg called Herr Frei. A tall man, blind in one eye, with black curly hair. He questioned you about the arrest of the Untersuchung. That merchant was Karl Hoche. I was there; I saw you and him together. We captured him later that night, after he had killed one of our brothers.”

  “I remember him. He seemed nervous,” Holger said.

  “Do you remember enough to recognise him again?”

  “His manner, his movements… yes. I would know him if I spoke to him.”

  “Good.” Karin took a few steps to stand in front of them, the hard soles of her shoes rapping against the bare wood floor. “Brother Theo, the Lord Protector tells me you are already bound for Nuln to look into the Huss matter. Judging from his last few letters, Hoche seems to be travelling in that direction.”

  Kratz bowed.

  “Brother Erwin, his last known point was Averheim; see if you can pick up a trail from there.” Rhinehart dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “Brother Anders, you will stay in Altdorf.”

  “Altdorf?” Holger said.

  “Altdorf. All reports of Hoche’s activity will come here, all sightings, all news. You will sort it and send word to our brothers in the field. And when Hoche comes here, you will know it, and you will be ready for him.”

  “Why would he come here?” Rhinehart asked.

  “To kill me,” she replied. “This is why he writes to me. Each letter is an accusation and a warning. I know he will come to Altdorf, sooner or later, but we will be ready for him.”

  “When do we begin?”

  “It has begun,” she said. “You leave tomorrow morning. I will pray for your success.”

  “You cut off Father Darius’ hand?” Frau Farber asked incredulously.

  “He could not risk corruption,” the tall man said, and shifted in his chair. “Even if the Chaos-thing’s essence had not entered his body, he could never be certain that he was safe from the infection in its blood, that at any time his body mi
ght begin to mutate. My sword gave him that certainty. He is more whole with one hand than he would be with both.”

  “If he survives the wound,” Frau Farber said. “But you speak like a man who has dealt with Chaos at first hand before.”

  He saw the suspicion in her eyes and smiled ruefully, but said nothing. So this was the woman he had travelled so far to find. She was not what he had expected: tall and slim, in a simple high-collared dress that accentuated her figure. The lamplight made her pale skin glow like porcelain. Her face seemed still, calm and ageless, but the wrinkles on the back of her hands could not be disguised as easily.

  The two of them sat in silence for a while. Firelight illuminated the parlour of the modest townhouse, a street away from the market-square of Oberwil. It was small and tidy, with tapestries on the walls and every shelf decorated with ornaments of china, porcelain and hone. Only one thing was out of place here, he thought, and that was him.

  “So, Frau Farber,” he began. “I would ask…”

  “You would ask another roundabout question that wastes our time and gets us nowhere,” she said. “Stop this. Tell me your name and why you have travelled so hard to find me, or leave me in peace.”

  “If I do,” he said, “will you help me?”

  Her eyes were as cold as a statue’s. “I make no deals without hearing the terms first,” she said, and then, “Tea?”

  He lifted a hand to scratch at the dirty bandage that encircled his neck. “Frau Farber,” he said, “I will lay out all the cards I hold, though they are few and of little value. My name is Karl Hoche. I was a member of the same organisation of Chaos-hunters as you, the Untersuchung. We fought the good fight until a corrupt witch hunter realised we were a threat to his schemes, denounced us and had our order arrested and burnt. Few of us escaped, and most of them have changed their names and fled, or gone to ground. As you have.”

  She said nothing, but hung a tin kettle over the hearth to boil.