The men looked nervously at each other and Volkel blanched. He seemed on the verge of apologising when Samuel let out an incoherent yelp.
“What’s that?” cried the boy, his voice a shrill, hiccupping screech.
Steffan turned to see a huge shadow loping up the gulley towards them. It was hard to be sure in the gloom, but it resembled a man—a man who towered over the treetops and caused the ground to shake as he walked.
“Quick!” barked Steffan. “Stand together! Raise your weapons!”
Most of the men obeyed, but Volkel cursed in fear and bolted. As the rest of the watchmen huddled into a defensive group, Volkel began scrambling up the side of the gulley.
The giant lurched from the shadows with astonishing speed, swinging a huge, spiked club at the fleeing man.
Volkel snapped like kindling and dropped to the ground.
The giant scraped him up and wrapped its jaws around his twisted body.
Steffan and the others watched in stunned silence as the towering monster calmly ate Volkel piece by piece. The man’s screams were brief, but awful, and even when Volkel’s body was little more than joints of meat, the sound continued to echo around the hills.
Once he had finished eating, the giant turned to face them with a low, snorting belch.
Moonlight washed over its head, revealing a face that was revoltingly human, apart from the single, blazing eye that dominated its forehead. As it approached, the ground shook so violently that the men struggled to stay on their feet.
It came to a halt a few feet away and addressed them in booming, hungry tones, drooling Volkel’s remains from its huge jaw. “Go to sleep. Let me take the bad away.” Its gash-like mouth twisted into a hideous approximation of a smile. “No pain.”
To Steffan’s horror, the monster’s words almost made sense. He noticed that some of the men were shaking their heads in confusion and lowering their swords. “Don’t listen,” he cried, shoving the men nearest to him. “It’s bewitching us.”
The sound of Steffan’s voice seemed to break the spell and the men huddled closer, raising their weapons again.
The monster loomed over them. “There’s no place for you,” it grunted. “Look.” It waved at the fearsome heavens. “Your world has gone. You’re ghosts.”
“Stay together,” hissed Steffan, pulling the others closer. “It can’t take us all.” As the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie. The creature would simply wait until exhaustion got the better of them. Eventually, one of them would drop his guard and then the thing would attack. He looked around the circle of drawn, pale faces and realised that he had led them all to their deaths. Then he noticed the young boy, Samuel. He had drawn a hunting knife and had a grin on his pale, freckled face.
Steffan stared at the boy in shock for a few seconds. Then he began to laugh.
The monster paused and sniffed, sensing Steffan’s change of heart. Then it raised its club, preparing to strike.
“Who’s with me?” growled Steffan, levelling his sword at the monster.
“The bigger they come…” replied the boy, still grinning.
“You mean to attack it?” gasped one of the men.
“It’s that or die.”
The giant twisted its grotesque face into a frown as it tried to follow the conversation.
“On three,” cried Steffan, but his men knew the old ploy and moved on the count of two, launching themselves at the monster with a chorus of terrified oaths.
The giant was not expecting such defiance and stumbled back as the men’s weapons bit into its legs.
There was a flurry of blows as men and giant tumbled across the hillside, all attempting to land a killing blow.
After a few minutes, the giant let out a furious bellow and backed away, trailing blood and shredded leather armour in its wake.
Three more militiamen had fallen, crushed by the giant’s pounding blows, but Steffan, the boy and two others were still upright and clutching their blades with grim determination.
The giant rocked back on its heels and was preparing to swing its club again, when it stumbled and clutched its neck.
Steffan and the others looked around in confusion. Arrows were whistling through the darkness and thudding into the giant’s thick hide.
“This way!” cried a soldier, looking down from the top of the gulley wall.
Steffan squinted and cursed under his breath. “Groot’s men.” Then he looked at his men’s desperate, hopeful faces and sighed.
The monster hesitated for a moment, then backed away as more arrows found their mark.
As rows of soldiers began clambering down towards Steffan and his men, the giant fled into the night, letting out a last, furious howl as it disappeared into the darkness.
As the rest of the watch rushed to greet the newcomers, Samuel hesitated, giving Steffan a questioning glance and raising his knife.
Steffan looked longingly to the south, reluctant to give up on his dreams of reaching Altdorf, then shook his head and gently lowered the boy’s blade. As the soldiers approached, he sheathed his sword and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The game’s up,” he whispered.
A group of armoured state troops marched across the grass towards them, led by a man so fat that he had to be carried on a sedan chair. He spilled over the sides of the wooden cabin in a profusion of velvet and sable and in the moonlight, it was hard to be sure where his rolls of fat ended and his ceremonial robes began. His jowly face was clean-shaven apart from a tiny tuft of hair under his lower lip, and he resembled nothing so much as a grotesquely oversized infant. Even his shapeless felt hat resembled a baby’s bonnet.
“Steffan,” he cried, his voice thin and girlish. “What are you thinking? What are you thinking? You know it’s not safe out here anymore.” The man’s spherical face was full of concern as he climbed awkwardly from the chair. “Elger Schilling said he saw you leaving through the south gate, heading towards the hills, but I thought he must have been drinking.”
Steffan’s stomach knotted with rage. He had paid the gatekeeper good money to bite his tongue.
“Bürgermeister Groot,” he replied, taking the hand that was held out to him and placing a kiss on the fat, ring-laden fingers. He tried desperately to think of some clever explanation for their actions but could think of nothing. “I wanted to gauge the monsters’ numbers,” he said eventually, cringing inwardly at the obvious lie.
The bürgermeister frowned, and his eyes sank even deeper in their fleshy pits. “And you did this without speaking to me?”
Steffan squirmed awkwardly as the bürgermeister peered at him, and the rest of the watchmen looked at each other in dismay.
“The captain wanted to do this on his own,” piped up Samuel, stepping out of the darkness. “But we saw him leaving and insisted that we accompany him. He didn’t want to risk any more lives than he had to.”
“Is this true?” asked the bürgermeister, looking from the lanky youth to the captain.
“Yes, my lord,” replied Steffan. “I knew it was a dangerous plan and I didn’t want to endanger the lives of others.”
The bürgermeister shook his head. “You’re a brave man, Steffan, but at times like this we really can’t afford to have secrets.” He waved at the shimmering mass of beetles flooding down the gulley. “This madness will soon pass. Sigmar knows we’ve all suffered over these last weeks, but we must stand together until the world becomes sane again.”
Steffan nodded, but his shoulders drooped despondently as he realised that his men had died for nothing. He knew he would never convince any of the survivors to make a second escape attempt.
As the soldiers led them back across the acid-green hills he muttered under his breath. “I will not die in Schwarzbach.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Grand Astromancer Vyborg peered out of the carriage window. The reiksgraf and his men were busy making camp and there was no sign of Gabriel, so he snapped the curtain back into place, bolted the door an
d dragged a small chest from beneath his seat. He turned a key, flipped open the lid and drew out a large trout, splashing water over his robes in the process.
A chorus of laughter broke out nearby and Caspar paused. For a few seconds, it seemed as though the merrymakers were approaching the carriage, but then the noise died away and the wizard continued his work. He slapped the fish down on the opposite bench, muttered a quick cantrip and proceeded to gut it. Once he had removed the entrails, he dropped the skin, flesh and bones back into the chest and moulded the intestines into a vaguely circular shape. Closing his eyes, he placed a hand over the pulsing mess and began to mutter under his breath. A pale, blue light formed around his fingers and the intestines started to tremble.
After a few minutes, Caspar removed his hand and examined the results of his spell. The blood-splattered, blue-grey pile had formed into a vague approximation of a human face. The blue light was pulsing through the worm-like innards and the face’s “mouth” was trying to form words. Finally, after emitting a long, watery belch, it began to speak.
“Helena?” gurgled the intestines, quivering with excitement, “is that you, my love? I can’t stop thinking about you. I can still feel your—”
“By the comets, Tylo,” snapped Caspar, shaking his head in disbelief, “who’s Helena?”
The innards stopped wriggling and the glistening face adopted a comical look of surprise. “Who’s that?”
“It’s your patriarch,” cried Caspar, “Grand Astromancer Vyborg!”
The intestine-face gasped and began to undulate violently, attempting to dismantle itself.
Caspar held out his hand and flooded the fish’s innards with more blue light, forcing them back into shape.
The writhing simulacrum struggled for a few seconds, still attempting to escape, then gave up and twisted itself into a hideous grin. “Old friend,” it burbled, filling the carriage with a fishy stink. “I had no idea. How wonderful to hear from you after all these years. How are you?”
“How am I?” cried Caspar. “Don’t be ridiculous, man! The world’s on the brink of ruin and the Emperor blames me. How do you think I am?”
The face rippled into an awkward grimace. “Of course, of course. Most unfortunate, the whole situation. But I’m sure—”
“And to top it all, the entire order has begun doubting my ability to lead. A doubt that will grow if old fools like you start prophesising my downfall!”
The innards writhed uncomfortably. “Caspar, old friend, I contacted you in the utmost secrecy. I ordered Belmer not to show that message to anyone else. If he’s been blabbing, then I assure you I—”
“The idiot recited that stupid rhyme about a man with clear flesh taking my place as head of the order. Do you realise how precarious my position already is?” Caspar lowered his voice to a furious growl. “And, by a horrible coincidence, one of our magisters actually does have skin that is oddly translucent. Just think what kinds of misunderstandings that could lead to! He could be used as a rallying point by all those who would like to see me fail.”
“His skin is translucent, you say? Is it so clear that his heart is visible?”
Caspar let out a strangled moan. “That’s not the point, Tylo. The point is that I am the Grand Magister, not some strange yokel who happens to have stumbled on to a few prophecies.”
“So he’s not a fully ordained member of the order?”
Caspar let out another incoherent cry and slammed his fist down on the bench, jolting the innards out of shape for a few seconds. Tylo now seemed less keen to escape, however, and the face quickly reasserted itself.
“Could it be that he is the one the prophecy speaks of?”
“No it could not,” snapped Caspar. “I have tutored him myself and he’s barely capable of rational speech, never mind leading our ancient and honourable institution.”
“Very well,” sighed the face, looking unconvinced. Then it narrowed its glistening eyes and peered at the carriage. “Have you left Altdorf, Caspar? Surely it’s not wise to travel at the moment?”
Caspar’s face lit up. “Ah yes, but I’ve discovered the solution to an age-old mystery, Tylo. I’m about to harness incredible power, the kind of power that would make stopping these plagues seem like child’s play.”
“Thank Sigmar.” The face grimaced. “We can’t go on like this. Ostland’s rivers have all turned to malmsey wine. The whole province has been drunk for days. People are in such a state that they don’t realise they’re killing themselves. I’ve managed to boil the treacly stuff down into its constituent parts, but I still can’t get the wretched drunks to take any water. Once our enemies realise our borders are manned by inebriates, Sigmar knows what will happen.” The face licked its visceral lips and lowered its voice. “Mind you, it’s not all bad. I have been pursuing the Duchess of Orlsburg for months to no avail, but since she started drinking she—”
“Spare me the details,” snapped Caspar. “Do I need to remind you why I banished you to that godforsaken armpit of a province?”
The entrails fell quiet.
“Have you seen anything else odd?” the Grand Astromancer asked. “Creatures? Monsters, I mean?”
Tylo laughed. “Monsters? In Ostland? That’s hardly worth reporting up here, old friend; you know that.”
“Anything out of the ordinary then.”
The glistening tubes formed into a frown. “Well, I suppose there have been more stories than usual, and they do seem to be getting odder. At first I thought it was down to the wine, but I suppose some of it might be true. I mean, they’re used to a hard life up here, but in Ferlangen they’re reporting lizards as tall as trees, walking on their hind legs and devouring men in one bite. I can’t ever remember hearing of such things before.” Tylo’s voice grew shrill. “Actually, just a few miles north of Wolfenburg they’ve seen giants made of moss and weeds, crawling from the marshes and dragging passers-by to their deaths. Just this morning I heard that in—”
“Calm yourself, man,” interrupted Caspar. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. The whole Empire is full of such tales. The monsters and the plagues are all linked somehow but, in a day or two, I will be able to channel the winds of azyr like none of us has ever managed before. Then I’ll be able to hurl Morrslieb back onto its natural course and set the world straight again.”
“How?”
The Grand Astromancer grinned. “I’ve solved a riddle that has baffled every one of my predecessors. After years of research, I’ve finally pinpointed the location of Razumov’s tomb.”
The fish innards let out a moist whistle. “Razumov? The Kislevite? Really? You’ve found out where he died?”
“And how to succeed where he failed.”
The fish guts twisted into a surprised expression. “Caspar, that really is impressive. I have to admit, I didn’t think you had—”
At that moment, there was a rattle at the carriage door.
Caspar cursed and smeared the innards across the bench until they no longer bore any resemblance to a face. Then he scooped up the dripping mess and slopped it back into the chest, before sliding it under the seat.
“Magister,” gasped Gabriel as Caspar opened the door. His face filled with concern as he saw that the upholstery was splattered with blood.
“It’s nothing,” said the old man, wiping away the mess with his robes. “I was performing a simple augury. I wanted to ensure that we would reach Schwarzbach safely, that’s all.”
Gabriel frowned as he climbed into the carriage, but did not question his master further. “The reiksgraf has overruled his captain.”
“How so?”
“We continue tonight. His men are allowed to eat, but not sleep.”
“Good, good!” snapped Caspar, opening the curtains and looking up at the pockmarked face of Morrslieb. “It’s the 26th of Jahrdrung tomorrow and we haven’t even reached Schwarzbach yet. It will take time to prepare for the full moon.”
Gabriel nodded. “We leave within the hou
r.” He pulled his robes a little tighter as he looked up at the moon. “We will reach the site tomorrow.”
It was dusk by the time they approached the Howling Hills and the gloom was almost impenetrable. Odd, fleeting shapes could just be seen moving ahead of them through the shadows, and the knights readied their weapons, muttering prayers as they peered into the darkness. Even the lustre of their armour seemed to pall as they slowly wound their way into the inky foothills.
They were two hours into the hills when the expected attack finally came.
Captain Stoltz was scouting ahead of the main column when he heard them. He cocked his head to one side and then turned to his trusted adjutant, another scarred veteran by the name of Lukas Rosenberg. “What’s that?” he asked, reining in his charger and throwing back the visor of his helmet.
“Captain?” replied Rosenberg with a frown, bringing his horse to halt beside Stoltz’s.
“Listen,” whispered Stoltz, holding up his hand for silence.
At first it was hard to hear anything beyond the jingling of the approaching knights, but as Rosenberg strained to hear what his old friend was referring to, he made out a deep rumble. “It could be thunder,” he suggested, but even as he spoke, he drew his sword, clearly not convinced by his own theory.
Captain Stoltz scowled as he looked up at the hills on either side of the road. “This would be a wretched place to be ambushed.”
“Ambushed? We’re only a stone’s throw from the capital. Surely no one would dare to—”
Stoltz silenced Rosenberg with another wave of his hand. “Look,” he said, nodding at the brow of the hill on the east side of the road. Where the fog-shrouded hills met the venomous sky, a line of horses had appeared, silhouetted against the glowering moon.
“They have no riders,” said Rosenberg, standing up in his saddle to peer at them.
“Sound the alarm,” snapped Stoltz. “I’ve never seen wild horses form into ranks before.”
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