by James Wallis
Karl had no idea what that meant, but wasn’t going to interrupt. Lutz paused, exchanging a look with Dagobert.
“About a fortnight ago,” Dagobert said, “word came through the Oldenhaller network upriver, probably from Altdorf, that influential people felt Luthor Huss was making a nuisance of himself. The implication was clear enough. We assume Baum received word of this from his brother.”
“So it was an ordered assassination,” Karl said, “but you can’t tell me either the client or the motive.”
“We didn’t say that,” Dagobert said.
“But we will,” Lutz said. “A free answer: we don’t know. Not something we admit often. Now our turn to ask: show us the hand-gestures you mentioned.”
Karl lifted his right hand to touch his left ear with the little finger. Then he raised his left hand to stroke his hair back. It felt coarse and oily against his skin. Lutz watched him, then looked at Dagobert and raised his eyebrows. Dagobert gave an almost imperceptible nod in response.
“What?” Karl said.
“Is that a question?” Lutz asked.
“Yes. No,” Karl said. He felt frustrated: he wanted straight answers, but felt he was revealing more than he was learning, and despite their promises of truth he still wasn’t sure he could trust these Cloaked Brothers. They seemed so smug and assured, as if they already knew the answers to the questions they asked, whereas he was still lost in the dark. In their world information was the only currency that mattered: if he gave away too much with his questions, he would have nothing left to use for answers. But he needed to know, and soon.
“I’m looking for a man called Herr Stahl,” he said. “I met him in Nuln, where he led a secretive sect. I was told he left the city on an Oldenhaller boat called the Eider. He was the man I was seeking in Grissenwald. He may be travelling with a man called Herr Scharlach. Do you know who they are, and where they are?”
Lutz and Dagobert stared at him, their faces still, eyes unmoving. Karl guessed they were working hard to appear so calm, and desperately wanted to know why.
“Herr Stahl or Herr Scharlach?” Dagobert asked.
“Either of them.”
“Herr Stahl is in Altdorf, and that is not his real name,” Lutz said.
“Herr Scharlach does not exist,” Dagobert said.
“How can you know these things?” Karl asked.
“You’re asking out of turn,” Lutz said, “and it is a question I cannot answer for you, not here and now. But I know that last year Andreas Reisefertig asked you to consider joining the Cloaked Brotherhood. The invitation remains open. There is a place for you among us, Karl. You are a good man, and you risk being led astray. Join forces with us, and you will understand how we know what we know.”
“I thank you for the invitation but we do not think alike,” Karl said, “and we do not work alike. Andreas was a twisted man who would have let a whole army be massacred if it helped his research. I could not do that.”
“And we all know how that turned out,” Dagobert said. There was a pause while he swigged from a water-flask. “Karl, has it occurred to you that most people in the Empire believe what’s printed on the handbills, that the Untersuchung were followers of the Chaos-gods?”
“I know that. Of course.” Karl thought hard. Why had they mentioned that, and why now? Were they trying to distract him from getting to a greater truth? He tried to work through the strands of ideas, weaving the new information into the woof and warp of what he already knew, but Lutz interrupted him.
“Our question. When you were in Nuln, did you come across a corpse?”
“Two,” Karl said. There was silence, and Dagobert and Lutz looked at him reproachfully. He relented. “One was the body of a former Untersuchung agent, shot and dumped in a pond. The other was a man I didn’t recognise, his head beaten in.”
“Medium height, flecks of grey hair, ‘Karl Franz’ across his knuckles?”
Karl nodded.
“Damn!” Lutz said. “Damn and damnation!”
“One of yours?” Karl asked. Dagobert shot him a look.
“Is that a question?”
“Only a rhetorical one.” He could guess the answer. “My turn. How do you know Stahl is in Altdorf?”
“Because you told us he sailed down the Reik.”
Karl scowled. “Try harder.”
“Very well.” Dagobert shifted his posture, flexing his legs. “You said Stahl was the leader of an organisation in Nuln. You may not have heard that the Emperor called a great meeting in Altdorf. It is known as the Convocation of Light. All his generals, all the elector counts, the heads of all the colleges of magic, leaders from other countries, even kings from the dwarfs and the elves are there. They are discussing the threat from Archaon and the armies of Chaos forming in the north.”
“It seems unlikely Stahl would be on the guest list.”
“Hear me out. At the same time, many other groups have called similar convocations. Our own brotherhood, for example, is also meeting in Altdorf at the same time to discuss and work out how we should react to the Convocation’s decision.”
“And,” Lutz cut in, “there is movement among the Chaos cults too. A truce has been called. Factions and sects that have been at each others’ throats for centuries—Slaanesh worshippers and disciples of Nurgle, Tzeentch’s followers and Khorne’s fanatics—have agreed to meet under the greater banner of Chaos. Their representatives, their high priests and leaders are moving towards Altdorf. We do not know what they are planning. We assume it’s a meeting, a Convocation of Darkness to rival the Emperor’s, but details are scarce.” He paused, wetting his lips with his tongue. Karl read the signs of nervousness on his face or body, and they did not seem to be false. “With Archaon to the north and the cults like a canker at the heart of the capital, this is the biggest threat the Empire has faced since the last Incursion of Chaos. Possibly bigger.”
“So you’re saying Herr Stahl has gone to Altdorf for a meeting of his organisation, or to infiltrate this second convocation?” Karl asked.
“Something like that,” Dagobert said. There was a note in his tone that Karl did not like. He stored it away for further examination. “Karl,” Dagobert said, and Karl looked up. The man’s tone of voice had changed again, as if the self-aware, supercilious tone of his questions and answers had dropped away like a scab, revealing new pink flesh below. “Karl, this is important, vitally important, to our cause and to yours too. If you hear anything about this Convocation of Darkness, if you learn anything that sounds like it’s related to this in any way—please bring it to us.”
“Only if you promise to share your information equally with me,” Karl said, “and I feel you will not make that promise.”
There was a silence. Karl took it for agreement.
“Are you a worshipper of Chaos?” Lutz asked suddenly.
“No,” Karl said. “Has Sigmar been reborn?”
“We don’t know,” Dagobert said, “but a number of groups including ones aligned with Chaos believe that he has, and are looking for him. This crusade is the most visible, but far from the only one.”
There was another silence.
“I feel we are almost done,” Lutz said. “We have one more question, and that will bring us square and fair and finished.”
“Were you responsible for the death of Andreas Reisefertig?” Dagobert asked.
Karl stared at him. The night was dark and moonless, even the stars blocked by cloud and there was no firelight, but he could see every detail of the man’s face: its tense expression, eyes focused and intent, mouth taut with anticipation. Reisefertig’s death was history to Karl, but clearly it still mattered to his listeners. “He brought it on himself,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all the answer I’ll give. One last question, if you’ll permit it?”
Lutz grunted. “We’ll hear the question. Whether we answer is another matter.”
“How many lies have you tol
d me this evening?” Karl asked.
Dagobert grinned. “One, if you count this answer.”
A lie and a paradox. Karl hated them. “I counted three,” he said.
“What about you?” Lutz asked.
Karl smiled. “Goodnight, gentlemen. You go away clockwise. I will go anti-clockwise.”
He turned and walked away around the camp’s perimeter, thinking about the evening’s conversation. The news about the two great convocations in Altdorf was disturbing, but something else worried harder against his mind.
Why had they mentioned that the Untersuchung were seen as Chaos-worshippers? Abruptly it came to him: Frau Farber had said that the letter she had received from Nuln had asked if she wanted to continue the work of her old organisation. Perhaps the writer had not meant hunting down and exterminating cults, heretics and traitors, but something more sinister. Perhaps the writer had believed the witch hunters’ propaganda. Perhaps it had been an invitation to join a cult.
On the other hand, Dagobert and Lutz had as good as admitted to him that they had lied all through the exchange. Some of what they had said had fitted in with what he had known, but much of it had been filled with holes and deliberate omissions. There was one point they had been definite about, even though he could not understand their logic in reaching it: Stahl was in Altdorf. Karl was no longer sure that he wanted to join the man’s organisation, at least not until he knew more about it, but he had questions that he wanted Herr Stahl to answer.
A figure rose up in front of him, out of the night. Karl’s sword was drawn and thrusting faster than his conscious thought. The figure leaped backwards, tripped and staggered, and Karl recognised the ungainly gait.
“Oswald!” he said.
Oswald failed to regain his balance and collapsed, landing on his arse. Karl stood over him, sword pointing at him.
“How much did you overhear?” he said.
Oswald stared at the tip of the sword hovering near his face, and Karl saw his adam’s apple move as he swallowed. He didn’t say anything.
“Come on. I can tell if you’re lying,” Karl said. “I was in the Untersuchung, remember.” Though the Cloaked Brothers had been good at masking the outward signs of their inner duplicities, he thought. He had only caught them in two direct lies, but they dealt in half-truths, elision and avoidance. He glared down at Oswald. The last thing he needed was another faction in the camp, with unknown allegiances and loyalties.
“Why were you listening?” he demanded.
Oswald tried to creep backwards away from the sword. “Brother Huss,” he whispered.
Karl lowered his weapon. It made sense: even though he had saved Huss’ life earlier that day, the man still wanted to be sure of him. If their roles were reversed, he would have done the same thing. “So you heard it all?” he asked. Oswald nodded.
“Walk with me a while,” Karl said, sheathing his sword. Oswald scrambled to his feet, brushing wet earth off his robes. “So have you heard of this Convocation of Light?”
“I heard that it had been called, and convened. More than that, nothing. Slow down, please.” Oswald was falling behind, picking his steps carefully and deliberately, as if unable to see clearly. Karl stopped and looked back at him, then at the ground. There was plenty of light, and he could see every footprint and tussock. He had not noticed the older priest was so close-sighted.
“Do you believe what the brothers said about the Convocation of Darkness?”
Oswald shrugged. “I don’t know much of the ways of Chaos. But it seems to me that if the Cloaked Brothers wanted you to leave the crusade, telling you that Herr Stahl was in Altdorf would be a good start.”
“True. But they also asked me to join them. Either one could have been a bluff. They’re difficult people to fathom.”
“Perhaps they have another reason for asking you to go to Altdorf?” Oswald suggested. Karl stopped, the words his damned mouth had spoken in the woods in his mind. “Take word to Altdorf,” it had said. But what word? And where or who in Altdorf? Was it urging him to join the second Convocation? He dreaded the thought of returning to Altdorf. It was a place that held nothing but bad memories and associations for him: dead friends, smashed dreams, imprisonment, betrayal and pain.
“Leave me. I need to think this through,” he said and Oswald nodded. “And don’t spy on me again. I understand Huss’ reasons, but I tend to over-react when surprised.” He tapped the hilt of his sword and was going to say more, but stopped. Oswald was peering into his face, his expression puzzled and fearful.
“Karl,” he said. “Is there something wrong with your eyes?”
Karl shook his head. “Nothing. My sight is clear. Why?”
“It’s just—” Oswald looked away. “There is something in your eyes.”
“What? Blood?”
“Fire,” Oswald said. “A faint glow, like embers or the shine of an animal’s eyes reflecting firelight. The first time I saw it I thought that’s what it was, but now I see you here I know it’s more. You should be careful at night, Karl. This is a camp full of superstitious men and zealots. I can live with your secrets because I know what kind of man you are in your heart, but others…”
Karl was silent. Hair that bled was one thing, but this was another, and much more dangerous. He knew his senses had been growing more acute, and cursed himself for not realising that no gift of Chaos came without its price.
“Tell nobody. We will talk again soon,” he said. Oswald bobbed a nod and walked away, treading his careful path through the darkness between extinguished fires and sleeping crusaders, towards the bivouac where Luthor Huss and his lieutenants slept. Karl watched him go, then crept through the camp, squinting through half-closed eyes to find his way, to his bedroll. He lay down on his back, staring up into the night sky. Below the still clouds, the silhouette of some dark bird swept above the camp on wide silent wings. He put his hands over his eyes, and a red radiance filled his sight, as if he was staring at the morning sun through closed eyes.
Thoughts raced through his mind: too many for rational consideration. He had seen and heard too much today, and had had too many old memories awakened. He wished he could sleep: a few hours of escape into safe oblivion would do much to restore the equilibrium of his troubled senses. But he could not.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mantra
They had marched for three more days and the weather had become steadily worse: wetter and colder. Spring flowers dotted the dark edges of the old road with splashes of white, yellow and purple, and the thick white blossom of the may-trees disguised their long thorns. Now and then a tall chestnut stood beside the road, its candle-like pillars of blossom beginning to emerge. The Empire ought to have been beautiful at this time of year but the rain darkened and dampened everything, including the spirits of the marchers. It slowed their progress and made their nights sleepless and miserable.
After the first day, when one of Huss’ lieutenants cast an augury and declared that the weather was not going to break for the rest of the week, word went out from the leadership that each night they would stop at a village, finding accommodation and sleeping space in temples, halls, barns, cottages and anywhere with a roof and amenable occupants. Anything was better than sleeping outdoors.
Despite the conditions, the crusade continued to grow: a handful of bedraggled men and women every day; some fanatical, some desperate, some clearly insane. Nobody was turned away. Karl reckoned their numbers were over a thousand now. His defence force had also grown, though it was still less than eighty men, badly equipped and ill-prepared for fighting. The rest of the crusaders had grown used to seeing them and no longer treated them with hostility or fear. Sigmar was a martial god, after all, and it was right for his followers to come bearing not peace but warhammers.
On the third night after Grünburg they stopped at the village of Rottfurt, at a point where the road forded the River Rott, a minor tributary of the Teufel. The village’s fields and farms spread out across the
valley and the community seemed prosperous, contented and reasonably welcoming. The thousand tired crusaders had entered through the gate in the wooden stockade, and while Huss negotiated with the local landowner and the priest, the others were left to find their own places to eat and sleep among the close-packed houses within. Karl called Kuster over to him and instructed him to commandeer the outbuildings of a farm he had seen on the other side of the narrow river at the bottom of the valley, a few hundred yards outside the village. It would give the guard force somewhere to graze their horses and to practise their weapons drill till nightfall and evening prayers.
Kuster accepted his orders and rode off with the other horsemen, splashing through the river towards the farmhouse. Karl watched him go. The man was a good officer, and of the three divisions the cavalry were shaping up the fastest. The pikemen too were coming along nicely, working as a unit, understanding that unless they fought together they were nothing. They were beginning to look like soldiers too, if you ignored their lack of uniforms and their habit of breaking into plainchant in the middle of drills.
The only people who worried him were Pabst’s brigade. He had watched them drill night after night and his sense of unease had grown. Their morale was high and they had taken to calling themselves the Hammers of Sigmar. Their zeal and their appetite for combat were both strong, but their coherence as a unit was not growing as it should in a young unit. Karl had spoken to Pabst about it twice, but there had been little change. On top of that, Pabst seemed to be relishing his position as an officer too much.
Belatedly Karl had realised that when he was selecting the troops, he should have asked if any of them wanted to die as martyrs in the service of Sigmar, and weeded those men out too. Prospective suicides and people with a death-wish were often fanatical fighters, but they made very bad soldiers. Pabst wasn’t just a bad officer, he was a dangerous one. An army’s strength lay in its ability to work together. Without that, with Pabst in charge, they were nothing.
And me, Karl thought, am I part of this army too? He didn’t feel it. Though he enjoyed the role Huss had given him, the training of men and the ordering of their lives, he knew it was a vestige of his past, the army officer he had once been, comfortable in its old familiarity. It was not part of who he was now, and had nothing to do with the task he had sworn for himself. Fighting for Sigmar, being around men who believed passionately in their cause and in the corruption of the Empire that he knew existed—it was energising, but their calling was not what called to him.