When Celome fell still at last the captive prisoners, all of whom were already in tears, burst into a storm of applause and acclamation—but the dead remained silent. They did not seem to be bored, but neither were they in the least appreciative.
But that does not matter, Amaimon told himself. For they are not the judges who will decide this matter. Celome is the judge, and there was not one among the living observers who enjoyed watching her performance one tenth as much as she enjoyed giving it.
When Celome looked up and met Amaimon’s eye he saw that she was pleased with what she had done, and was reassured. Cimejez beckoned to her, then indicated that she should take the empty seat beside Amaimon. The vizier briefly took her hand in his, and squeezed it slightly before releasing it again, by way of congratulation.
Then Cimejez’s champion took the floor.
Celome’s rival was, as Amaimon had half-expected, exactly the kind of figure depicted in the art of the Empire: the leader of the Totentanz. He was a skeleton, but not any ordinary skeleton. He was an imperious skeleton, with an eyeless face and perfect teeth set in the permanent smile of the long-dead. He wore a jet-black cape with a hood, and he carried a scythe.
The zither-player, the cymbalist and the drummer had already retired to join the other captives. Their place was taken by a single drummer, also a skeleton attired in a monkish robe—but when he began to caress his instrument with his slender fingers the rhythm he sounded was more signal than dance-beat. Amaimon recognised it as a chamade: the summons used by exhausted armies to call for truce and negotiation.
There were no veils in this performance, no curses and no alleviations. It had only one phase, and even that had no hint of a crescendo.
It occurred to Amaimon, as he watched the skeleton move to the rhythm of the chamade, that he had never been able to make out what kind of dance the Totentanz was. Like the statue of Celome, the carved images of the dance that he had seen in Altdorf and Marienburg had been frozen moments decanted from an unfolding process, but while his human eyes had read an implicit flow and surge into the statue he had been unable to do likewise for the leader of the Totentanz. Now, for the first time ever, he was able to see the evolution and revolution of the Dance of Death, and to understand not merely where it led but how and why.
There were no phases in the Dance of Death because death had no phases. There were no curses in the dance of death because death was devoid of afflictions. There were no veils in the Dance of Death because death could neither deceive nor conceal its essence. There were neither triumphs nor celebrations in the Dance of Death, because death was all triumph, and had no need of any celebration. The Dance of Death was slow, and painstakingly measured, and eternal. The Dance of Death was an inexorable and inescapable summons, whose promise was more truce than release. That summons, addressed by the exhausted to the exhausted, gathered in everyone and everything… except the dead.
Life, according to the symbolism of the black-clad figure’s awesomely patient and painstakingly measured steps, was a struggle against fate. It had its victories—which were, admittedly, the only victories conceivable. In death, by contrast, there was no struggle; there were no victories, because none was needed. That was the meaning of the chamade, and the meaning of the dance it accompanied.
Amaimon realised, before the skeleton had made a single circuit of the arena, that he could not win his wager. He could not win because his opponent did not need to win; he had to lose because he was the only one who could lose.
Amaimon realised, without needing to feel the slackness of her hand in his, that Celome would come to understand this too. She had not been able to imagine wanting to be anything other than she was, because that was all she had ever been before she was a statue; she was a dancer through and through. But the failure was in her imagination; she had never seen, imagined or understood the Totentanz. She was watching it now, and she understood exactly how its rhythm intruded itself into the human eye, ear and mind, like a possessive daemon banishing all rival thought and sensation.
Amaimon’s fellow prisoners had stopped cheering, but they were joining in the dance.
Soon enough, even Celome was dancing again—but not, this time, the Dance of the Seven Veils.
Now the scythe came into play. As the column of figures wound around and around, doubling back on itself again and again, the scythe offered its blade to the dancing mortals. Hand-in-hand as they were, they could offer no resistance to its seeking blade, but they did not flinch or turn away as it sliced through their flesh and drained them dry of blood. The flesh began to melt from their bones soon enough, as if the dull music of the signal-drum were a fire of sorts, and their whited bones a kind of ash.
Celome made no more effort to avoid her fate than the zither-player, the cymbalist or the drummer, who seemed to be a little more appreciative of the rhythm to which they danced than the unmusical majority of their erstwhile companions.
“That is what the dead have to offer the living,” Cimejez whispered in Amaimon’s ear. “That is what might be attained, if only the living would try harder to understand the nature of the Great Crusade.”
Amaimon was the only living person present who was able to resist the summons of the chamade. He stayed where he was, in his seat beside Cimejez the Tomb King—but the only reason for that was that the careful Lord of Death had rested a bony hand upon his own, forbidding him to move. The pressure was gentle, but it was irresistible. Amaimon was the only living man who was ever privileged to see and hear the Totentanz without being required to join it—and for that reason, he became the only living man in the world who understood the strategy and the objectives of the Great Crusade.
The most remarkable thing about the continuing dance was the reaction of the remainder of the crowd to the performance they were watching. They did not applaud, nor did they sway in time to the rhythm. They remained utterly silent—not bored, but not appreciative either. They had been reanimated to serve as warriors in the Great Crusade Against the Living; they had been given armour, and weapons, and a cause—but the motive force that impelled them to take up arms against the living was nothing like the motives that forced the living to act. Their motive force was like the Totentanz itself, to which they made no evident response because they had no need.
The dead had no need to follow the paces of the dance, or even to approve of them, for the dance was merely a reflection of their nature, like a shadow carelessly cast upon the ground.
“You ought to let me go now,” Amaimon said to Cimejez. “I have seen all I need to see. I admit that I have lost. I will serve as your vizier—but you should let me go, so that I might join my peers in the Totentanz.”
“Oh no,” said Cimejez, amicably. “That would not do at all—for then you would be merely one of us, instead of a traitor to the living. The dead have a tendency to become stupid, even when they are recalled by a necromancer as expert as myself. You’ll pay out your bargain in blood, sweat and tears, but you’ll do it as I require and command.”
So Amaimon stayed where he was, and watched the dance. It seemed to go on forever, but when it was over he had lost far less time than it took a human to be born, let alone to die.
In the long, hard years of servitude that followed, Amaimon discovered that the first curse afflicting human life is indeed hunger—which, for accounting purposes, might be taken to include and subsume thirst. He discovered, too, the scrupulous accuracy of the estimated hierarchy of needs that had ranked cold the second, disease and injury the third, loneliness the fourth, loss the fifth and childlessness the sixth. He suffered all of these afflictions in their fullest measure, but he was not allowed to die. He helped bring death to hundreds of thousands of the living, and he helped bring the greater number of those he had betrayed into the ranks of Cimejez’s army, but he was not allowed the kind of release he devoutly desired, nor any other kind.
Amaimon never forgot that the final curse afflicting human life is the inevitability of death
itself, at least according to the Dance of the Seven Veils—but he could find little comfort in the recollection, even though the final phase of Celome’s performance was etched so deeply in his memory as to be replayed over and over again in his restless dreams.
He still knew that the sum and climax of his existence, like that of any human being, was supposed to consist of a heroic defence of creative achievement, and of the ultimate inability of annihilation to cancel out the produce of a busy lifetime. Alas, that knowledge had become worthless to him as soon as he had seen a single round of the Totentanz—and worthless it remained to Amaimon the Vizier of Zelebzel, if not to those Lords of Death whose one and only purpose is to raise armies of skeletons, zombies, wraiths and ghouls to fight against the living.
THE ULTIMATE RITUAL
Neil Jones and William King
Professor Gerhardt Kleinhoffer, Lector in Magical Arts at the University of Nuln, looked down at the pentagram and the triple-ringed circle his younger companion had just drawn in chalk upon the floor.
“Lothar,” he said nervously, “surely this is blasphemy?”
Across the chamber, Lothar von Diehl ran bony fingers through his dark beard and paused to give the appearance of reflective thought before replying.
“Herr professor, you were the one who taught me that it is those who seek to hold back the advancement of knowledge who are blasphemous. You and I are men of science. It is our duty to perform this experiment.”
Kleinhoffer adjusted his pincenez glasses and glanced at the leather-bound volume which rested on the lectern standing beside the two men.
“De Courcy’s book is an important piece of scholarship, no doubt of that. But Lothar, don’t you think that it wanders too close to the forbidden lore of Chaos… towards the end?” He shivered. “His final chapter is almost the ranting of a madman. Drunk on the wine of stars, false heavens, false hells, all of that stuff.”
Von Diehl glanced at his tutor, fighting down his mounting impatience. It had been Kleinhoffer himself who, years ago, had discovered The Book of Changes, written in Classical Old Worlder by the long-dead Bretonnian poet and mystic, Giles de Courcy. Kleinhoffer had spent the rest of his life translating it, worrying away at the cryptic symbolism until he was sure he had decoded it correctly. By then, he had become the foremost authority on magic at the ancient University of Nuln—and Lothar von Diehl, the single person in whom Kleinhoffer had confided, was his most gifted student.
“True,” von Diehl said, striving to keep his voice calm and reasonable, “but that should not deter us. As you yourself have said, all magic is based, ultimately, on Chaos. The only way to tell if de Courcy was right is to perform this ultimate ritual. And if it works, then it will lead us to the most profound understanding of universe.”
“My boy, I am as committed to the project as you are but… but…” Kleinhoffer’s voice trailed off.
Von Diehl stared at the old man’s pale, sweating face. “Herr professor, I thought you understood when I suggested this experiment. The ritual is not something that I can attempt without your help.”
The old man nodded shakily. “Of course, of course. It’s just that… Lothar, my boy, are you sure it’s safe?”
“Absolutely, professor.”
Kleinhoffer swallowed and once more glanced around the secret chamber in the basement of von Diehl’s residence. Finally, he came to a decision.
“Very well, Lothar,” he said with reluctance. “I know how important this is to you.”
Von Diehl allowed himself a brief sigh of satisfaction. “Thank you, sir. Now, please, if you will take up your position.”
Von Diehl lifted the rune-encrusted wand which he had carved from a beastman’s thighbone and advanced towards the lectern. He lit the braziers and threw handfuls of cloying incense to fizz on them. As the echoes died away he began the chant.
“Amak te aresci Tzeentch! Venii loci aresci Tzeentch! Amak te aresci Tzeentch!”
Von Diehl’s chant rumbled on, seeming to gain resonance from the echoes and the constant repetition. The fumes from the braziers billowed around him and seemed to expand his perception. It was almost as if he could see the edges of the world starting to ripple at the corners of his vision.
He continued to chant, visualising in his mind the form of the Tzeentchian steed he was attempting to summon, filling in the details, compelling it to take more concrete form. While doing so, he moved the tip of the wand through a complex pattern, pointing it at every angle of the pentacle in turn.
The effects of the narcotic incense, the constant chanting and visualisation distorted his sense of the flow of time. The ritual seemed to be going on for hours. He felt himself to be a vessel for transcendent energies. Finally, somewhere off at the edge of infinity, he sensed a hungry presence. He reached out with the power of his soul and touched it. The being sensed him and began to move closer, painfully slowly, seeking sustenance.
As if far off in the distance, he heard Kleinhoffer moan. The air was filled with the burnt smell of ozone. Von Diehl opened his eyes. The room was lit by a strange blue glow from the lines of the pentacle and circle. Sparks flickered in the air and his hair was standing on end.
“Venii aresci Tzeentch! Venii! Venii!” he yelled and fell silent.
There was a rush of air, a sense of presence and suddenly it was there before them: the steed of Tzeentch.
It took the form of a flat disc of sleek, silvery-blue flesh. The edges of the disc were rimmed with small, sardonic eyes. It flickered about within the pentagram as if testing the boundaries of its cage. After a while it seemed to realise it was trapped and ceased to struggle, simply hovering in mid-air.
What do you wish from me, mortals? asked a voice within von Diehl’s head.
“We seek knowledge,” von Diehl answered certainly. “We wish to travel across the Sea of Souls and converse with He Who Knows All Secrets.”
Others have requested this in the past. To their regret. The minds of mortals are fragile things.
“Nonetheless, we wish to go. Once we are safely returned here you will be released from this compulsion.”
Very well. Advance, human, and meet your fate!
With no hint of trepidation von Diehl walked down the corridor of chalk which connected the circle to the pentagram. He stepped over the side of the magical sigil and put one foot on the creature of light. Surprisingly it supported his weight. He felt a strange tingling pass through his foot and up his body.
I will take both of you, the voice said in von Diehl’s head. Both of you or neither…
Von Diehl turned. Kleinhoffer had not moved. His lined face seemed to float amid the darkness, lit from below by the glow from the pentagram.
“Herr professor,” von Diehl called urgently, “you must join me. Quickly now!”
Kleinhoffer licked his lips. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead. “Lothar, I can’t! I just can’t!”
Anger pulsed through von Diehl. “The book is explicit. We must be two—or else the steed can refuse to transport us, can break the binding spell. You knew. You agreed!”
“I know, but—Lothar, forgive me, I’m old. Old and afraid.”
“But Gerhard, you’ve worked for this all your life. Ultimate knowledge. Transcendence.” The old scholar shuddered.
“Join me,” von Diehl commanded. “Join me, join me, join me!”
Kleinhoffer sighed, and then, almost as if hypnotised, he shuffled down the chalk corridor and took his place aboard the steed beside von Diehl.
Two, the daemon said. Two in search of knowledge. Now we go! There was a screaming rush of air, and the sound of a thunderclap.
Von Diehl looked down and found they were far above the city of Nuln itself. He could see the University quarter with its aged, many-spired buildings. His gaze wandered to the docks and the dark curve of the River Reik as it snaked northwards. Although he was hundreds of feet above the tallest tower of the Temple of Verena he felt no fear. Standing on the back of the Chao
s-steed was like standing on solid earth.
The daemon-thing began to accelerate but there was no sense of motion or of the wind tearing at his clothing. He stood at a point of absolute calm. Only when he looked down at the Great Forest rushing past did von Diehl get a sense of their terrific speed.
In a few moments he saw an open glade where beastmen danced around a great bonfire and a two-headed black-armoured figure looked on. He saw strange monsters moving in the depths where no man had ever penetrated. Their steed hurtled like a meteor until the ground was simply a blur. They gained height until they were above the clouds. It was like skimming over a misty white sea whose surface was illuminated by the twin moons.
Excitement flooded through von Diehl’s veins as they flashed along. He felt like a god. It seemed to him that no one could ever have travelled so fast before. The energy of the daemon passed up through his legs, filling him with a tremendous sense of well-being. Perhaps it was the steed’s power which protected them from the cold air, he thought. Through a break in the clouds he saw that they were passing over a bleak steppeland only occasionally blotched by the lights of cities. Surely they could not have reached Kislev already?
Soon after, he felt no such doubts. They were moving across snow-covered tundra towards a bleak, stony land. The sky to the north was illuminated by a dancing aurora of dark-coloured lights. They had entered the Chaos Wastes.
Below he could see great troupes of warriors fighting. Champions in the blood-red armour of Khorne fought with dancing lascivious daemonettes. Enormous slobbering monsters pursued fleeing beastmen. The land itself writhed as if tortured. Lakes of blood washed across great deserts of ash. Castles carved from mountains erupted from forests of flesh-trees. Islands broke off from the earth and floated into the sky.
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