by James Wallis
Then the kneeling figure unclasped his hands, stood up and turned around, and the moment was broken. Luthor Huss was just a man. A tall man—Karl had a few inches on most men but he had to look up to Huss—and not a handsome one, but undeniably human, and familiar. Karl had met him before.
“Brother Oswald,” he said. “I am glad to see you safe. You know my lieutenants, Dominic and Martinus?” He indicated the two armoured men who flanked him. Dominic was muscular and shaven-headed, his blue eyes unmoving and intense below his strangely scarred scalp. Martinus was slim and bony, his eyes dark pits in his sallow complexion, with bushy eyebrows and a shrubbery of thick hair on the back of his hands.
Oswald acknowledged them with nods. “Brother Luthor, I bring the news from the World’s Edge Mountains. There is much—”
“There is one word.” Huss’ voice was the rumble of a landslide. “Give me that word.”
“It is no. I am sorry.”
Karl detected a moment’s pause, not for thought but for sorrow. “I am sorry too,” Huss said, “But part of me exalts. For if Sigmar has not been reborn, then perhaps the Empire’s peril can not be as grave as we fear.” He clapped his hands to rub them together and the slap rang out across the camp. “Have you eaten?”
“No, brother.”
“Then breakfast with me and tell me news from east of the Reik.” He paused, gazing down at Karl. “This is your companion? He looks like he has seen a ghost.”
Karl realised he was staring, lost in memories. Luthor Huss was a ghost, a resonance from a past that Karl thought he had left behind and that he tried not to remember. Ten years ago, when he was in his early teens, a travelling warrior-priest had passed through Grünburg. His father Magnus, the senior priest of the town’s temple of Sigmar, had invited the man to stay at their house and to preach at the temple. Karl remembered nothing of the sermon, but he recalled the dinner afterwards, his father and this tall man in fierce argument about man’s will versus Sigmar’s will that had lasted long into the night. The visitor’s intensity and the strength of his emotions and his faith were vivid in his memories, though the young Karl had been more interested in the priest’s warhammer. Now the same weapon lay on the altar a few feet away.
The connection was unexpected, vivid, and painful. Grünburg and his family were both a long way behind him. The old Karl Hoche would have reminded Luthor of the history that connected them, and Luthor would have asked him how his father was, and Karl could not answer that question anymore. How had his father received the news that his son was a traitor, a heretic, a mutant and a servant of Chaos? He did not want to know that himself.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, pulling his eyes away from Huss, and turning with an effort to Oswald. “I’m not hungry. I will talk with you later,” he said, and walked away.
Karl was sitting beside a fire, staring into its depths when Oswald came to find him an hour later. He looked up as the older man approached and sat down beside him. His mind was full of confusion and distress. He had not expected to have his past thrust in his face, and had not been prepared for it. He could defend himself against cultists and creatures of Chaos, but memories were another matter. Once again, he had become his own enemy.
Oswald dug in his pocket and brought out a piece of black bread wrapped around some hard cheese. Karl took it and gnawed it absently. He was too wrapped up in thoughts to be hungry.
“Excuse me for saying so,” Oswald said, “but you seemed a little overwhelmed by Brother Luthor.”
Karl stared into the stony sky, following the track of a lone raven as it coasted from wind to wind on wide black wings. He could not look at Oswald, or meet his gaze. “I wasn’t overwhelmed,” he said. “I was… he reminded me of someone.”
“There aren’t many that say that,” Oswald said. “One of a kind he is.”
“You made your report?” Karl asked and took a mouthful of bread so he couldn’t talk for a while, making Oswald do the work. Oswald, it seemed, was happy to.
“He has my news now and I have his, and neither is good. He says that word is spreading and the crusade grows daily, but that makes it harder to move and feed—and to control too. He fears there are infiltrators and agents from other sects and schisms here, spreading their own doctrine and risking a split. The news from Altdorf is gloomy: Huss is excommunicated, declared an enemy of the church, barred from entering any temple of Sigmar, and there are rumours of Templars, holy knights, on the road, and a reward for the man who brings Huss down.”
He sighed and shifted his seat. “And there is no word of the risen Sigmar, only false reports. Huss’ greatest fear is someone else should reach him first, and guide him away from the path he is meant to follow. Or worse.”
“So he believes Sigmar has been reborn?”
“He knows it. He does not speak of it, but he has had a vision. Sigmar is here, in the Empire.” Oswald looked sideways at Karl, as if expecting a response. Karl took another bite. Oswald nodded at some silent inner thought.
“Anyway,” he said, “I came to get you. He wants to talk to you.”
Half-chewed bread and cheese shot from Karl’s mouth, propelled by shock.
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t meet him.”
“He wants to meet you.”
“Did you tell him who I am?”
“No, but I told him what you did, and now he wants to meet you.”
“Oswald.” Karl dropped the bread, its purpose forgotten, its taste ash in his mouth. “You know who I am. You know what I am. How can I meet Luthor Huss? I am a thing of… of…”
“The other side? No, Karl. You look at yourself and you see your tragedy and your dishonour. I look at you and I see a man who went to fight two beastmen, single-handed, and saved a village because a stranger begged for his aid. I have been all over this Empire, and men who would do that are scarce, even for glory or money. You didn’t do it for either of those, you did it because it was right.”
Karl wanted to deny it, to explain his complex reasons for the choice he had made, but found he had no voice. How could he describe the depths of his hatred for the things of Chaos, and its roots in the hatred of the thing that Chaos had made him, his sense of isolation, his frustration at the way things had gone in Nuln?
Could he explain the strange moods he felt, and his confusion as he found it harder to tell which were his thoughts and feelings, and which ones inspired by the seeds of Chaos in his blood? Could he admit that the reason he had accepted the old preacher’s plea was that he had felt a desperate urge to kill anything—to rid himself of a little of the pain and suffering by making another being feel the same way?
He looked over at Oswald, confusion on his face. “I didn’t do it because it was right,” he said.
“Then why did you do it?”
“I can’t say.”
“Well, if you have forgotten, then Luthor Huss is the man to help you remember.” Oswald stood up. “He’s waiting for you at the crossroads.”
Karl went to him.
One of the few things Karl remembered about Huss’ visit to his house was how big to him, a boy of thirteen years, the warrior-priest had seemed. He had been a giant. The rest of the world had shrunk, but Luthor Huss was still a giant. The hand he held out to Karl was the size of a gauntlet. After a second Karl took it and shook it. It was like gripping a wrought-iron ring that has been warmed by the sun, and its size made him feel like a child again, shaking hands with an adult. How long was it, Karl thought, since he had last touched another human being? His fear of transferring his infection to another person was too strong. Huss’ skin was old leather against his own. It reminded Karl of many things he thought he had forgotten.
Huss’ eyes were dark and sharp. “Oswald has told me much about you,” he said. “A priest’s son, a soldier, a warrior and a saviour. But he would not tell me your name.”
Karl looked around. The crossroads was away from the main camp, out of earshot but not bow-range. The four roads stret
ched away from the two of them, coming together over the flat land. Four cords meeting in a knot here, at this time. What skeins would-be tied together in this place, Karl wondered, and whose broadsword would part them?
“My name is dangerous,” he said. “The witch hunters claim I am a criminal, and worse. If they knew you had spoken to me, knowing who I am, it would give them the excuse they need to arrest you. My presence puts you in danger.”
Huss grunted. “There are plenty who would see me dead with no excuse at all. I am capable of seeing off my dangers, though whether my crusaders are is another matter. But first, if I may not use your name, what shall I call you?”
Karl thought of all the names he had used and discarded along with their disguises, mannerisms, mind-sets. None of them were him. “For now, Magnus-son will suffice,” he said. “When I know the rest, I will tell you.”
“Magnusson,” Huss said. “Well, Magnusson, I wanted to speak to you of armies. Oswald says you were a soldier once, an officer. Tell me, what do you think of my crusade?”
Karl looked at the disordered camp and the dishevelled marchers, smelled the woodsmoke and the filth, heard the chants and arguments. He felt nothing but despair. “Their faith is strong,” he said.
“Magnusson, you say much with few words. A rare skill in this world of talkers and time-wasters. Yes, their faith is strong. They believe in their cause with such intensity that they’re willing to die for it. And if the Templars come for us, or we meet one of Archaon’s armies, die is all they’ll do.”
Karl nodded. Huss put the butt-end of his warhammer on the ground and leaned his rear against the head, like an impromptu stool. “I never wanted this,” he said. “I did not plan it. I left Nuln to follow in the steps of Sigmar, roaming the Empire, spreading the word of the true testaments. When two or three asked to walk with me, I did not say no. When more asked, I could not turn them away, having accepted the first. A few followers here, a few there, and I learn that I am leading a crusade to tear down the orthodox church and hang the Grand Theogonist from the high spire of the cathedral in Altdorf.” He sighed. “It is not a burden I wanted, but I feel I must carry it. But I need men to help me.”
“I am less than a man,” Karl said bitterly.
Huss’ dark eyes fixed him in their gaze. “I remember,” he said. “Oswald told me that you have lived through hell, and that you believe you have lost your soul.”
“What?”
“The part of you that makes you human. You believe you have lost it, I know not how.” Huss placed a heavy hand on Karl’s shoulder. “Magnusson, we stand at the crossroads and I wish with all my heart I could give you back your soul. I cannot. But if you pledge to walk with me on this crusade, I will give you power over men, and the power to save their souls.”
“What are you saying?” Karl asked.
Huss raised an arm to point at the field of men. “Whatever Altdorf may say, this is not a crusade. It is a pilgrimage without a destination, led by a man who may be on a fool’s errand to find the risen Sigmar. But we have powerful enemies and the Empire has powerful enemies, and the holy faith needs all the soldiers it can muster. I want you to train them.”
“Train them?”
“Not every one. Find the ones among them who have the strength and will to handle a weapon. Show them how to fight in battle, to defend their comrades and to trust them to do the same. I’m not expecting Templars from you,” he said, “but if they want a crusade, then we’ll give them a crusade.”
Karl hesitated. The offer was enticing. He found himself believing and trusting Huss: the man had a simple honesty that complemented his faith. But against that there was the discomfort he felt about being here, among these zealots, and the fact he knew his presence was putting them in danger. And he had trusted men of the gods before, and regretted it. But to be able to put together a force of men to fight Chaos and the ungodly… Huss had greatly tempted him.
“I need time to think,” he said.
“No, you don’t,” Huss said. “Stop listening to your head. What does your gut tell you to do?”
“It tells me to listen to my head,” Karl said.
“Then what does your heart tell you?”
“My heart…” Karl paused, considering the question. “My heart wants to be at peace.”
“So do we all.” Huss stood and picked up his warhammer, brushing the mud of the road from its handle, then swung it up on to his shoulder. “But when life gives you war, it’s best to make warriors.”
For a moment there was no sound but the cawing of crows. Karl said nothing, staring away down the north road at a black shape on the horizon. A man on a horse. Huss followed his gaze.
“He’s still there,” he said.
“Who?”
“The witch hunter. He’s been following us for a month, watching where we go and what we do. We’ve sent emissaries telling him to ride with us and join us in the camp, guaranteeing he will come to no harm, but he will not even speak to them.”
Karl narrowed his eyes, bringing the silhouette into focus against the grey sky. “Lend me a horse,” he said. “He’ll speak to me.”
While a horse was found and saddled, Karl went back to Oswald, retrieved his pack and took what he needed from it: hat, cloak and shaving-knife. He walked down to the stream that flowed at the bottom of the field and several hundred yards up its banks, beyond a tangle of willows and brambles, so he would not be seen. He wanted some privacy for this.
The stream flowed fast and weedless over a bed of gravel and sand, about ten feet wide. The water was cold and clear, and sky was bright enough to show him a clear reflection of himself in the ripples. His hair had grown long and unkempt, his stubble almost to the length of a beard, the dirt of the journey still on his skin. He washed himself and shaved, checking the results. His face felt raw but clean.
Then he wetted his hair, slicked it down and studied its reflection. Its shape reminded him of the wings of some dark bird, too long and too wild for a figure of authority. He cocked his head, working out how it should look, gripped a handful of it in his hand, and carefully took the knife to it, slicing it off with a single movement.
It took a moment to register a curious pain he had never felt before, dull and abstract. Moisture dripped over his fingers. He lowered the knife, puzzled, and saw blood on it. Perhaps I nicked my scalp, he thought. No, this was a different pain. And there was quite a lot of blood.
He looked down into the stream and saw little swirls of red forming in the water, whipped away by the current.
He looked at his left hand, still holding the shank of hair he had severed. There was blood there too. It was on the hair. No, it was the hair. His hair was bleeding. He could see the blood flowing out of the cut ends, like sap from spring twigs, running over his hands.
That feeling of pain, he thought. Like when you slice a finger in cold water, it’s numbed till you realise what’s happened. He reached up and touched the area of hair he had cut. His fingers touched the severed ends and involuntarily he jerked his head away. It was like touching a raw wound. His hand came away covered in blood.
Chaos continues to change me, he thought. Random, purposeless and pointless, but each new alteration driving my despair, reminding me that my body and my life are not mine, not under my control. Even in this holy place, surrounded by the faithful, it will not leave me.
Alone, I am in hell. With a bad haircut.
He pressed his sword-cloth to the side of his head, waiting for the flow of blood to cease, so he could wash the dried crust from his hair and continue with his plan. The first time he had discovered the marks of damnation on his body it had sent him mad for weeks. With each new change he had become inured to the horror of the mutation, but that lack of fear did not lessen the hatred he felt towards the forces that were changing him, or towards himself.
He rode out along the south road. A dim sun was high in a heavy grey sky. When he was away from the camp, at a dip in the road, he put on t
he witch hunter’s hat and cloak that he had stolen in Nuln. The hat was creased from where he had folded it to fit in his pack, but there was nothing he could do about that. He took care to tuck his hair up under his crown, so the lopsided coif and the scabs forming on the cut ends were not visible. The dark figure and his horse stood in the road and did not move as Karl rode up. The witch hunter was of medium height, wrapped in a winter cloak that hid his uniform and reached up to cover the bottom half of his face. His head turned slowly to watch Karl’s approach. Karl raised a gloved hand in greeting.
“Hail brother, well met,” he said. “They told me I would find you here.”
The witch hunter lifted his hand slowly and pulled down the edge of his cloak to reveal his mouth and chin. His skin was pale and his face was familiar.
“Hail brother,” he said. “Do you have any brandy or strong wine?”
“I have a little kvas,” Karl said, digging out his hipflask. The witch hunter reached over for it and took a long slug. He handed the silver flask back, and was convulsed by coughing.
“You are ill, brother,” Karl said.
“I have been sick for three days,” he said. “My head aches, my body sweats and my limbs are weak. But while the crusade does not move, I cannot move.”
“Go back to Alfwald and rest at the inn. I will take your place till you are well.”
The witch hunter shook his head. “Your offer is kind but my orders come from Brother Karin of the Council, and I must obey: I watch the crusade. Besides, I believe I felt the infection begin to shift this morning. Why have you come?”
Karl straightened his shoulders. “I am Brother Adolphus Schrader from the chapter-house at Kemperbad. Have you any news?”
“You’re from Kemperbad? I sent you a letter as I passed through Diesdorf. Did you not receive it?”
“I must have left before it had arrived.”
“From Diesdorf? It’s only a day’s ride.”
“I ran into some trouble on the way.” Karl indicated his battered hat.
A silence, each waiting for the other to say something. The witch hunter narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Do I know you?” he asked.