“I don’t know how to operate as a spy!”
“Sigmar has given you the gift of finding hidden knowledge. It’s the essence of your art, and it’s what’s required.”
“There must be someone better.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But believe it or not, there isn’t. You have the proper skills, and in addition, you haven’t been to Altdorf in years. Not many people remember you anymore, even at the Celestial College. Your particular mentor is dead, and your fellow students graduated and moved on. That anonymity will make it easier for you to pass yourself off as something you’re not. It would also make it easy for me to denounce you to your order and convince them of your guilt, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Dieter took a deep breath. “Let’s say I do this for you. What happens to me afterwards?”
“I clear you of the charges against you,” Krieger replied. “You regain your freedom. Your good name. Your life. Whereas if you refuse to do your duty and serve Sigmar, and the Empire in its time of need, I’ll regretfully proceed with your torture, trial and execution. You’ll never see the sky again until my assistants march you to the stake.”
“How can you justify killing a man you know to be innocent? How could you live with yourself?”
“Oh, I’d manage somehow. So what’s it going to be?”
Dieter felt sick to his stomach. “This whole idea is crazy. I doubt I’ll even find the cultists, and if I do, they’ll unmask and murder me. But you’ve left me no choice except to try.”
In a small community like Halmbrandt, even prosperous and aristocratic folk were frugal enough to extinguish every lamp and candle when it was time for bed, and the Graf was no exception. Groping his way down the murky passage, his abused limbs stiff and aching, Dieter nearly tripped over the vague shape of the body before he spotted it.
“What’s this?” he whispered.
“One of the servants,” Krieger answered from behind him. “I don’t know what he was doing out of bed, but don’t worry, he didn’t see me. Just keep moving.”
“Is he dead?”
The witch hunter jabbed the muzzle of his pistol into the small of his prisoner’s back. “I told you to move. We’re in danger every moment we delay.”
Dieter reluctantly stepped over the recumbent form and crept onwards, until he and Krieger finally exited the keep.
Krieger tossed him the sack he’d been carrying. “Clothing. You don’t want to wear wizard’s robes anymore. The bounty hunters and such will be watching for that.”
Dieter opened the bag. “Did you kill that man?”
“Probably not. I just knocked him over the head. It was necessary to clear him out of our way, and if I did break his skull, Sigmar will reward him for giving his life to further our ends.”
“How does Sigmar deal with murderers, and wretches who bear false witness?”
“You don’t have time for complaints and recriminations. You need to be well on your way to Altdorf before I ‘discover’ your escape. I imagine a good many of your neighbours will offer to help hunt you down, and if they volunteer, I won’t say no, lest they suspect I’m not as zealous as I ought to be.”
Dieter pulled off his tattered shirt. The night air was cold on his skin. “It would ruin your whole crazy scheme if they caught me, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, but I guarantee that in the end, you’d regret it even more than I would.”
Dieter finished fastening his new garments, the attire of a peasant or common labourer. He was used to better, and the homespun felt coarse and scratchy, especially where it lay against the welts on his back.
“Do you expect me to make the journey alone?” he asked. If so, his career as a spy would likely reach a painful and inglorious end before he even reached Altdorf. Given a choice, no one travelled alone. The roads were too dangerous.
“No. There’s a caravan camped just a few miles down the road. Hurry and you can catch up with them before they break camp and move on in the morning.”
“They’ll want to be paid.”
“And I have a few coins for you.” Krieger threw him a pigskin purse that clinked when he caught it.
Dieter took a deep breath. “All right. I guess I’m ready.”
“Not quite. I have advice you need to hear. Once I turn you loose, you’ll suffer temptations. You’ll wonder if you shouldn’t run to the Celestial College and ask for help. Don’t. I’ve built a strong case against you, and what’s happening now—your escape, the attack on the servant—makes it stronger. Your colleagues are as wary of witch hunters as any other wizards. They won’t risk compromising themselves to shield a fugitive who looks guilty, particularly a man no one remembers.
“You’ll also,” Krieger continued, “consider simply disappearing. Perhaps leaving the Empire altogether. You’ll think a life in hiding or in exile wouldn’t be much of a life compared to what you’ve lost, but it would be better than getting murdered by the Red Crown, or captured and burned when some roadwarden or watchman happens to recognise you. Once again: put such notions out of your mind. My men and I have ways of tracking you. Shirk the task you promised to perform, and we’ll find and punish you.”
“I understand.”
“I hope so. Because I made it a point to learn about you, Herr Schumann. You accomplished some remarkable things before you made your money and retired here to study stars and clouds or however it is you pass the time. Granted, your achievements didn’t involve spying, but they were impressive nonetheless. I’m confident you can do this job even if you doubt it yourself, and once you do, I’ll make everything right for you. I swear it in Sigmar’s name.”
Another man might have jeered at such an assurance from a knave who’d already proved himself so utterly dishonest. Or vowed that one day, he’d exact revenge on the bastard who had so abused him. But with his injuries paining him and Krieger’s pistol trained on his torso, Dieter realised that such a declaration would only make him feel more helpless than he did already. So he simply stood and listened as the witch hunter explained how he was to make contact with him when the time was right.
Once away from the Graf’s dungeon and Krieger’s pistol, Dieter’s state of mind started to improve. He found himself calmer and better able to think.
Which, he decided, was what he ought to do. Together with his magic, a capacity for practical, logical deliberation had always served him well. Unfortunately, it was a difficult knack to apply when people were pummelling and flogging him, but that wasn’t the case anymore. He left the path, sank down on the ground, and gingerly rested his sore back against the trunk of an oak. His ordeal and exertions had so exhausted him that it was bliss to sit, and he felt a sudden pang of fear that he might actually fall asleep, and be discovered so, slumped and snoring, when the hunters caught up with him. He promised himself he’d get up and march onwards as soon as he finished his deliberations.
Krieger had done his best to persuade him he had no choice but to do his bidding, and while he was frightened, helpless and humiliated, his captor’s arguments had rung true. But were they really?
Or, to put it another way, could Krieger and his helpers actually track him wherever he went? The witch hunter claimed as much, but maybe it was only a bluff. Maybe Dieter could shake them off his trail if he wanted to.
Did he? He didn’t know. He valued the quiet, comfortable life he’d built. It suited him, and he supposed he was willing to take risks to keep it.
But maybe this insane task was more than risky. Maybe it was suicide, pure and simple.
Perhaps he should put Krieger to the test. Find out if he really could track him. If it turned out he couldn’t, Dieter would know he at least had the choice to cooperate or flee, and then he could make a decision.
Unfortunately, it would mean a somewhat longer period of travelling alone. But even if he had the bad luck to encounter orcs, goblins or one of the countless other perils infesting the wild places of the world, perhaps his magic
would see him through.
He rose, his stiffening limbs protesting. He swept his left hand through a sinuous pass and murmured an incantation. Waking abruptly, squawking and screeching, birds exploded from the nearby trees. They felt magic stirring, and it alarmed them.
Dieter winced at the noise. If any pursuers were within earshot, they were bound to hear. But he couldn’t have anticipated the birds’ reaction, nor could he do anything about it now.
Power burned through his body, and he grunted at the discomfort. Then that sensation gave way to a sort of tingling lightness.
The feeling meant the enchantment had taken hold. Secure in the knowledge that while it lasted, he wouldn’t leave any scent trail, footprints or other signs of his passage behind, he tramped off at a right angle to the road and up a wooded slope carpeted with slippery, rotting leaves.
Away from the path, the branches crisscrossed thickly overhead, but not so thickly as to conceal the sky entirely. A scholar who knew every star and constellation could see enough to give him his bearings. When the sun rose, he peered backwards, studying the slopes he’d just traversed. So far, nothing was moving among the trees, nor could he hear anything but chirps and trills of birdsong. No doubt folk were searching for him, or would be shortly, but they didn’t seem to be anywhere nearby.
Encouraged, he tramped onwards, desperately craving rest but only permitting himself to stop for brief intervals. Twice more he employed the same charm to break whatever trail he might be leaving, and at one point waded up a cold, gurgling stream to accomplish the same purpose. Afterwards, his shoes were soaked, and he wished he’d had the sense to take them off first.
Around midday, he reached a different road, narrow and rutted. No one had maintained it of late, and the forest was well on the way to overgrowing and erasing it. Still, it promised faster, easier travelling, and if he followed it far enough, it would take him to Grunburg. He could go to ground there and ponder his next move.
Or so he imagined, until Krieger, smirking, pistol in hand, stepped out from behind an elm a dozen paces ahead of him. “Hello,” the witch hunter said.
Dieter felt a surge of rage and frustration. Hard on the heels of that came the reflection that Krieger only had one shot, and short-barrelled guns like the pistol weren’t accurate beyond close range. The wizard decided he liked his chances. He drew breath to chant his words of power and raised his arms to commence the necessary passes.
“Don’t,” Krieger said. He waved his off hand, and half a dozen of his men, scarred, vicious-looking ruffians in brigandines, emerged from cover. They had Dieter surrounded, and each was aiming a crossbow or arquebus at him.
Dieter lowered his hands.
“Good,” Krieger said. “I imagine that’s the first sensible thing you’ve done since we said goodbye in Halmbrandt.”
“How did you find me?” Dieter asked.
“I warned you I have watchers keeping track of you, and I promise, they’ll stay on your trail no matter what sleights you try. But actually, I didn’t need an alert from them to intercept you. I expected you’d try to run.”
“Then why turn me loose?”
“To get this out of the way. To prove to you there’s no escape so the impulse won’t distract you from your work. But you asked how I found you. Well, I knew you couldn’t just vanish into the hills for an extended period of time. You have your talents, but you’re no woodsman, and I didn’t turn you loose with any food. You needed to make for another settlement, and you only had a few options. I looked at a map, figured out you’d pick up this road, and then it was easy for men on horseback to circle around and get ahead of you.”
The explanation brought back the sick, helpless feeling in the pit of Dieter’s stomach. For all his magic, all the alleged insight and foresight of a Celestial wizard, he couldn’t outthink his tormentor no matter how he tried. “What happens now?”
“Something unpleasant,” the witch hunter said. “You disobeyed me, and I have to punish you. Take him.”
Krieger’s guards moved forwards. With their weapons still pointed at him, Dieter could only stand and wait until a pair of them gripped his forearms from behind and immobilised him.
Then Krieger himself advanced. He eased down the hammer of his pistol, holstered it, and then, suddenly, pivoting, putting the weight of his entire body behind it, drove a punch into Dieter’s belly.
Other blows followed, to the stomach and the ribs, until Dieter lost count of them. Finally, breathing heavily, face flushed, Krieger stepped back, and his assistants released their holds. Dieter crumpled to his knees and retched.
“I hope,” Krieger said, “you don’t think you’ve been tortured, because you haven’t. Up until now, we’ve simply been trying to get your attention. We can’t treat you the way we treat ordinary warlocks, because you wouldn’t be capable of doing your job afterwards. Of course, if you convince us there’s no chance of you doing it anyway—and one more act of resistance will be enough to convince me—we’ll have no reason to hold back. Then you’ll find out what torture is really all about.
“So I’ll ask you one last time: will you carry out your end of our bargain, without any more foolishness?”
“Yes,” Dieter groaned.
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m afraid the caravan is long gone by now, but don’t worry about it. My friends and I will take you to Altdorf ourselves.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Jarla and Adolph led Dieter down a short flight of steps to a door below street level. Adolph pounded on it, and then, as the wait for a response dragged on, growled, “Come on, come on.”
Dieter sympathised with his impatience. In the wake of their encounter with the fiery serpent, he was just as eager to get off the street, even though he realised that for him, it would only mean heading into new danger.
Finally a small panel in the centre of the door slid open. Despite the darkness, Dieter could just make out the gleam of an eye on the other side of the peephole.
“It’s us!” Adolph said. “Jarla and me. Let us in.”
“Of course, dear,” quavered a scratchy woman’s voice. Dieter heard a bar slide in its brackets, and then the door creaked open.
On the other side stood an old woman clad in a nightcap, nightgown, ratty slippers and a crocheted shawl. Her stooped, skinny frame looked fragile as an eggshell, she had the serene, gentle face of a perfect grandmother, and all in all, on first impression seemed as unlikely a Chaos cultist as Jarla.
Or at least she did until she caught sight of Dieter standing behind his companions. Then, where another person’s eyes might have widened in surprise, hers narrowed, and just for an instant, her pale, wrinkled features seemed calculating and sly.
She ushered her callers into a dark space illuminated only by the red coals glowing in the hearth, then, moving with a quickness that belied her years, barred the door behind them. After that, though, she doddered. She used the embers to light a punk, which in turn served to kindle two stubby tallow candles and an oil lamp.
As the sources of light wavered to life one by one, they revealed that the old woman occupied a sizeable portion of the building’s cellar or conceivably even all of it. Suffusing the air with their aromas, bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and pots of moss, mould and mushrooms sat on a table alongside a chopper, mortar, pestle, forceps and a lancet. Tattered, yellowed anatomical diagrams, inaccurate in certain respects, hung on the walls, and a stained cot sat in one corner.
“I take it,” she said, “that this is the unfortunate fellow you told me about.”
“Yes,” Jarla said, “Dieter, but he isn’t what I thought he was. Something happened, and he showed he already knows how to work magic. Even better than Adolph, maybe.” Then, realising what she’d said, she tensed as if she expected her fellow cultist to berate or even strike her. In fact, he glowered, but let it go at that.
The old woman beamed at Dieter. “I can see we have a great deal to talk about. My name is Solveig Weiss, b
ut everyone calls me Mama Solveig, or just Mama. I’m a midwife, a healer, and something more. I assume you already have some inkling what, or my young friends wouldn’t have brought you here. But where are my manners, keeping you all standing? Please, pick up the lights and follow me.”
Dieter took one of the candles and a drip of molten wax stung his finger. Mama Solveig led them out of the clinic and into the area that apparently served as her parlour, where they all settled on one shabby piece of furniture or another.
“Tea?” Mama asked, and looked disappointed when they all declined. “Well, just let me know if you change your minds. Now let’s have the story.”
Jarla started it, but once she reached the part where she went to fetch Adolph, the latter broke in and insisted on continuing it himself. To Dieter’s ear, his account of the skirmish with the fiery snake was an ambivalent and somewhat inconsistent affair. It was plain that Dieter’s abilities had impressed him, and that he felt it important to convey an accurate sense of them. Yet at the same time, he couldn’t bear to admit that his own magic had proved less potent if not entirely useless.
When he finished, Mama Solveig gave Dieter another smile. “Thank you for helping my friends, and after they drugged and threatened you, too! It’s a debt we can never hope to repay. But the question remains, how did you do it? Who are you really? Obviously, not the simple disgruntled peasant you claimed to be.”
Dieter took a deep breath. The moment had come, and now they’d believe the new lies or they wouldn’t.
“The story I told Jarla,” he said, “was partly true. Beastmen did plunder my village, the crops grew strangely afterwards, and then the witch hunters came to finish the task of destroying everything we had. What I lied about was being a farmer. I’m a wyrd. What city folk call a hedge wizard. A knack for a certain kind of magic runs in my family, and my father taught me to use it. To help people, never to harm!”
“We believe you,” Mama said.
The Enemy Within Page 4