A WARHAMMER NOVEL

MASTERS OF MAGIC

Chris Wraight

(A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

CHAPTER ONE

Niklas Steinhauer urged his horse on faster. Its ragged breath assured him it was near dropping, but he had to keep riding; there was so little time. The land around him was broken, scattered with boulders and treacherous scree. The mighty peaks of the Grey Mountains reared high, on either side, into the cold, blue sky. His heart was pumping, his skin running with sweat, even in the chill wind. He’d been in many tight spots before as a scout, but he’d never run things quite so close before. Then, he saw it. As the horse careered wildly around the final shoulder of rock, it was finally there before him: Helmgart, gate to the Reikland. His heart leapt. He felt the relief pass over him. The old citadel sat at the mouth of the valley in a solid, reassuring manner and was surrounded by a cluster of walls and steep-sided roofs. Its tall ramparts rose high into the bitter air of the mountains, and the standards of the Reikland and the Empire snapped and rippled proudly in the strong wind. He had made it.

Without pausing, Niklas spurred his mount on. Its sides were flecked with white, its eyes wild with anger and fatigue, but he didn’t care. The slopes of the valley narrowed sharply on either side of him, and the dark walls of the fortifications loomed before him.

With a clatter of hooves, the horse galloped the short distance to the citadel and passed under the mighty gates. The watchmen, standing on either side, looked at him intently for any sign of what his tidings would be. He ignored them, and rode swiftly up the cobbled streets, past empty houses and deserted alleyways. Most of the inhabitants of Helmgart had long since left, and the soldiers were the only ones who remained. The silence was eerie, and he was glad to get to the inner citadel walls where the clatter of iron and steel being moved around filled the air. Leaping off his steed, he brusquely handed it to the stable hand and made his way quickly towards the main courtyard. All was a hive of activity in the open space between the thick walls: men trundled heavy cannons to their places behind the ramparts, spears and arrows were laid out in long racks, and pitch was heated in massive vats. A grim feeling of satisfaction filled the scout. At least they would be ready. They needed to be.

His body aching from fatigue, he went quickly across the smooth flagstones towards the keep doors. Helmgart was ancient. Its dark foundations had been hewn from the mountains in the early days of the Empire, and its towering outer walls raised over centuries by successive generations of noblemen and soldiers. By comparison, the dwellings all around it were mere clutter. The precautions had proved necessary time and again. The citadel was the only guard between the rich, fertile lands of the Reikland and the strange, semi-wild country of eastern Bretonnia and the Massif Orcal.

Little though they would recognise it, Niklas thought, the well-fed and well-protected citizens of Altdorf had many reasons to be grateful for the mighty barrier across the narrow Axe Bite Pass. No doubt precious few of them even knew it existed. Now it would be tested, and tested sorely. There had not been time to request reinforcements. They were on their own, and only Niklas had a good idea of the full horror that awaited them.

He paused for a moment to study the fortifications, which would soon be put to the test. The building was simple in design: a square of thick walls with a squat tower at each corner. The main entrance faced south, away from the Empire, and the only other gate was on the north side. In between, surrounded by a wide courtyard, rose the crude shape of the central keep, surmounted by rough battlements and a jumble of utilitarian lookout towers.

It was not a pretty sight. The citadel had been constructed for a single purpose: to straddle the narrowest section of the high pass, cutting off the passages on either side. Anyone who wished to traverse the narrow way had to pass through the walls of Helmgart, or else trek for miles over difficult and perilous terrain. Despite being so far from the populated lands of the Empire, its strategic location ensured that the castle was large and strong. A sizeable garrison was kept within the walls at all times, and they were kept amply supplied and equipped, at least when the Imperial commanders in the Reikland remembered they were there.

Niklas felt his breath gradually returning. It was no use dawdling outside; he needed to report his findings and take fresh orders. Inhaling deeply, feeling the cold mountain air invigorate him, he strode purposefully across the courtyard towards the keep’s main doors. The sentry looked at him quizzically.

“What did you see, Steinhauer?” he asked, his eyes betraying his fear.

“Later, Hans,” replied Niklas, pushing past him impatiently. “The castellan needs to hear my news first.”

He barged through the doors and into the dark corridors of the keep. There was no less activity within than outside, as the last of the citadel’s chambers were cleared for the battle ahead. Men laboured with barrels of blackpowder or quivers of arrows in every room. All unnecessary items had been taken away and stored, replaced by the tools of war. Clearly, preparations were well advanced. He barely paid attention to the detail, though, and pressed on through the rough stone passageway towards the centre of the keep.

At length, he paused at the end of a long corridor. Its rich tapestries of hunting scenes were a rare decoration in the otherwise bleak frontier castle. Waiting for his breathing to still, he strode up to the heavy barred door before him and rapped firmly on it.

“Come!” issued a voice from inside, and he entered the chamber of Karsten Ansgard, Castellan of Helmgart.

The room was large by the standards of the citadel, with a glowing fire and a huge, heavy oak table placed squarely in the centre. Strong sunlight poured through the narrow lead-lined windows, illuminating a pile of parchment and vellum on the tabletop. Each map, report, estimate and dispatch had been scrawled on. Two men were poring over the mass of information. One was the castellan himself, tall and dark-haired, with strangely pale eyes. He looked tired, and his face was lined with care. The other was Gunnery Captain Marcus Gram, thickset and heavily scarred. A third figure, shrouded in grey robes, sat slightly removed from the table, his expression distant.

As the castellan saw Niklas, a hopeful expression flickered across his spare features.

“Steinhauer?” he said. “I’d given you up for dead. What news?”

Niklas saluted hastily, knowing they had limited time.

“Bad, sir,” he said, his breathing still heavy. “They’re moving up the pass quickly. We barely escaped with our lives. I was separated from Lukas. He was… taken. The horde numbers many thousands, the biggest I’ve seen.”

Marcus scowled even more than usual.

“How long have we got?” he asked, looking as if he was itching to employ his beloved cannons.

“They’ll be upon us by nightfall, no later,” said Niklas bluntly. He’d learned the hard way not to mince words with the captain.

Karsten nodded grimly.

“I need details of their composition, movement patterns, anything that can give us a chance.”

“The greenskins seem better led than usual,” replied Niklas. “They’re marching quickly, and with good discipline. We expected to encounter them far to the south. Instead, we were still in the mountains when we found them. That was our mistake.”

He thought of Lukas suddenly, and had to check himself.

“We were caught unawares,” he continued. “When we realised how close we’d got, both of us made for higher ground, hoping to get a good impression of them from above, before withdrawing. We were able to dismount and climb along a high, narrow ridge. It was a good vantage point, and we made our estimates from there. They completely filled the valley below. I’ve never seen so many orcs in one place. The noise was incredible. I tried to persuade Lukas to go back to the horses and ride back with me, but he wanted to see more. He scrambled down the slope, thinking we’d still be safe on account of the distance; we were still far above them. He was wrong. Something happened. He didn’t come back.”

“What do you mean?” asked the castellan, sharply.

Niklas looked uncertain, and struggled to find adequate words.

“I don’t know exactly. He was below me, partly hidden by an outcrop of rock. There were lights, green lights, in the air, and something that felt hot. I couldn’t make out exactly what went on, but there was a roar from the orcs below. Something had streaked up the mountain, some… power. I made my way down to where Lukas had been, but there was nothing, just a patch of charred rock. I knew then that we’d been seen, and that they could somehow get to us. I climbed out of danger as quickly as I could. Perhaps I should have searched more carefully for Lukas, but, I’m ashamed to say, I was terrified. The orcs were too close, and whatever had happened was unnatural. I climbed back up the ridge, found my horse and rode back here as fast as I could. Even riding hard, I felt as if the greenskins were behind me the whole way.”

Niklas looked around the hard, scarred faces staring back at him, and felt foolish and cowardly.

The grey-clad figure leaned forward, his eyes intent. All turned towards him, including Karsten.

“What do you make of that, Helmut?” asked the castellan.

Helmut Anselmus, Imperial wizard of the Grey Order, placed his hands together on the table calmly. He was a tall, grave figure with a long nose and protruding eyebrows. Niklas neither liked nor trusted him. Like all magicians, his eyes were hard to meet, and it seemed on occasion as if he was looking at things that none of the rest of them could quite see.

“Unusual,” he said in his quiet voice. “Certainly magic, from what you say. The greenskins have a kind of crude magician caste of their own: shamans, no more. Strange, tormented creatures, they use a power very different from our own, and from a different source. I’ve heard of their kind leading an incursion before, but never encountered it myself. I admit it intrigues me. If true, it’s good news you have two wizards here at your command.”

Marcus gave a barely concealed scowl. For him, like many in the castle, even one wizard was one too many. Karsten shot him an irritated glance.

“It’s fortunate indeed you were passing,” the castellan said. “Your assignment in Bretonnia can wait. Even if this storm were not upon us I’d have asked you to stay a while. I’ve seen the benefit a battle wizard can bring to an army.”

Helmut bowed uncertainly. Like all wizards, he wasn’t used to compliments.

“I’ve faced greenskin magic before, of course,” he said, recovering his poise. “Let me assure you there’s very little in the known world that can stand against the magic of the Imperial Colleges, and the orcs are no different. A shaman is a fairly weak thing: a crazed, warped and tormented fanatic, a mere cipher for the power and battle-lust that drives its horde onwards. Disturb and confuse the raving orcs around it, and the shaman will lose its grip and become as weak as any village hedge wizard. Unlike true magicians, who tap into the winds of magic with the force and power of will, the greenskins rely on creating their own power through mania. It’s easily defused and negated, when you know what you’re doing. If you can handle the soldiers, we can certainly handle this debased creature.”

Niklas, as ever, found himself deeply annoyed at the superior tone in the wizard’s voice. Powerful they may be, but they were also unreliable. He’d seen the effects of a spell gone wrong on battlefields across the Empire, including some sights no mortal man ought to have to witness. He glanced back towards the castellan, who looked pensive.

“Very well,” Karsten said deliberately. “This is a complication we could have done without, but at least we’re prepared for it, Sigmar be praised.”

He looked up at Niklas.

“Before nightfall I want you on the road again,” he said crisply. “We must draft a detailed report of all we know of this monstrosity and send it to Altdorf without delay. You’re my fastest rider, and I need to be sure it gets through. Time is short, and we haven’t even discussed the bulk of the horde. Now, tell me everything.”

Niklas took a deep breath, trying to recall all he had seen of the approaching horde. None of it was good news, at least for those staying in the castle to face it.

Inwardly, as he started to speak, he couldn’t suppress a guilty feeling of relief. He was no coward, but the thought of fighting an incursion that big chilled his blood. Even though he was tired, the prospect of riding to Altdorf with tidings of the assault was far preferable. It seemed he was destined to survive for a little longer, if only by the skin of his teeth.

Several hours later, the castellan and gunnery captain stood on the ramparts over the main gate. The sun was low in the western sky. From their vantage point, the two men could see far down the valley ahead of them, already lined with long shadows. The noise of frantic preparation filled the courtyard below. Karsten turned from the view southwards and looked down at his men, studying everything, measuring the reality against his plans in the chamber.

“Are all the cannon deployed and fit to fire, Marcus?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. All in place below us within the south-facing walls. The crews have been preparing the shot for days. They’ll fire straight and true.”

Karsten nodded, still looking pensive.

“Good. We’ll be hard pressed, if the scout’s report is near the mark. If we’d had more time, I would’ve sent for reinforcements. We have our full complement of men, it’s true, but an incursion on this scale… Still, there’s nothing to be done now. We’ll just have to hope we’ve done enough to hold out.”

“These walls are old and thick,” Marcus said, slapping the stone appreciatively. “They won’t get over them, not while we have men on the ramparts and the cannon are still firing.”

“Aye, the walls are the key. I believe I’ve been in worse positions. We have the most hardened members of the garrison, a solid regiment of swordsmen, and a decent number of archers. As long as we can stick to our strengths, stopping them from getting over the battlements, using the archers and the cannon to frustrate their approach, we may yet beat them off. They can only get at us from the south, and there’s no easy way around the walls. The architects of this place knew what they were doing. If we stick to a simple plan, stay inside the walls and trust to arrows and cannon-fire, all should be well. No heroics, nothing fancy. We’ve got plenty of provisions for a siege, as long as we weather the initial assault.”

Marcus nodded, but didn’t say anything. The castellan was being optimistic, and they both knew it. Karsten sighed, gazing into the gathering gloom of the valley. It looked silent, grave, expectant. No birds sang.

“I’d give anything for more men,” he said in a low voice.

Ahead of them, the silent valley gaped, and a cold wind from the south sighed its way up to the dark walls of the ancient keep. Although there was as yet no sound or sight of them, the whole landscape seemed to whisper the thoughts in all of the defenders’ minds: they are coming.

Deep within the heart of the citadel, Grey wizard Lothar Auerbach, Helmut’s acolyte, was sitting quietly, preparing his mind for the trials ahead. He sat on the edge of his low, hard bed in the dank chamber he had been allocated. There was little enough to distract him. The single window in the room was set high up in the wall and let in meagre light even during the day. Now that dusk had fallen, only candlelight illuminated the shadowy interior. So he sat in shadows.

A mix of emotions ran through Lothar’s young, callow frame: excitement, fear and fierce concentration. Over and over, he ran through the spells and techniques due to be employed when the time came. As he whispered to himself, the candles in the gloomy chamber seemed to gutter slightly in sympathy.

Using magic was a dangerous business at the best of times, and the heat of battle amplified those perils. Even in his short career, Lothar had seen mages destroyed in terrible ways through a slipped word or mistimed thought. Magic was like a fickle tide within them all. Sometimes you could ride it to glory, other times it would overwhelm you. Even the mightiest wizard knew the dangers. Every spell, every summoning of force, carried the seeds of destruction within it. It was a sobering thought. Perhaps it explained why so many of his kind went mad, or became recluses, or turned to…

Lothar halted his trail of thought; it was best not to think of such things. Despite what had happened to Malgar, there was always hope. Dwelling on the darkness was dangerous. It was the unguarded, undisciplined mind that opened the way to disaster. He needed to stay calm, stay focused.

His introspection was interrupted by a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, his master bustled into the narrow chamber and went over to a crude wooden stool standing by Lothar’s bed. With two men in the room, it seemed smaller and more spartan than ever; there was barely space for them to walk past one another.

Helmut leaned his staff against the wall and sat down heavily beside Lothar on the stool. He looked around him distastefully. No doubt his quarters were slightly more comfortable.

“By Ulgu,” he said breathlessly, “I’ve just got back from another meeting with the castellan. He’s had a look at the defences, and wants us stationed in the east tower, rather than the west. That shouldn’t affect our preparation too much, but it is annoying. They have no conception of the ways of magic, the trials of our privileged status. Even so…”

He turned his long face to Lothar, who stayed silent. A look of concern seemed to pass across his features.

“But enough of that,” he said, his voice gentler. “How are things with you?”

“I’m keen to start, master,” the acolyte said, truthfully enough. “We’ve been travelling for a while, and it seems a long time since we’ve used the battle lore properly. I feel rusty, but I’m sure it will all come back.”

Helmut nodded.

“Aye,” he said, “it will. I have confidence in you. You’ve got potential, that’s for certain. You’re learning, to be sure, and you have more to discover. Your presence here is reassuring for me; it’ll be a long night, and I’m an old man.”

Lothar smiled again. Despite himself, the praise was welcome. It came infrequently enough from any source. He knew he cut a pretty unimpressive figure: slim, lightly built, his slender features topped by a messy thatch of blond hair. Any peasant tinker would look the same. Only through magic was he in any way remarkable, and so far that had brought him nothing but trouble.

Helmut leaned back on the stool. He looked weary already, and they both knew the call to arms was imminent. Letting his long legs stretch out, the old wizard looked at his pupil fondly.

“Remember your teaching,” he said. “That’s all you need to do. A wizard’s power is in his mind, his will, his imagination. Follow the Wind of Ulgu, don’t fight it. Orcs may look fearsome, but they’ll succumb to the art as quickly as any man. Keep some power in reserve; it’ll be a testing time tonight, and weariness is one of the many paths to ruin. And don’t try anything too fancy. If you blow the ramparts to bits you’ll be back in the college washing pots before the end of the month, and even Starke won’t be able to save you.”

It was meant to be a joke, but the mention of the master of the Grey College was ill-chosen. Lothar bowed his head, thinking back to his days in Altdorf, both the good and the bad. In some ways, he was much stronger now. He could feel the surge of the Grey Wind pulse around him. There was much that was dank and secretive about this place, many hidden events and emotions, all of which drew the strange wind inwards, curling around the ancient foundations and drifting against the hard stone of the mountains.

“I’m prepared, master,” he said, defiantly.

Helmut leaned forward, placing a calloused hand on Lothar’s shoulder approvingly.

“Excellent,” he said. “There are plenty in this wretched place who doubt our worth and our prowess. It would be nice to prove them wrong.”

At that, a low, rumbling noise started above them. The sounds of men shouting could be heard from the narrow window above their heads, followed by the clatter of running feet. Above all the noises, the clear call of a horn echoed in the night air. The signal had been given. Helmut pulled back. Lothar listened carefully.

“The cannon have fired already. They must be close.”

“Sounds like it,” said Helmut, nodding and taking up his staff. “Remember, there’s no way around the walls in this narrow space, so the entire assault will be against the south wall of the citadel. As I said, the castellan has decided to place us in the turret at the south-east corner, giving us a view of the battlements beneath and the expected press of greenskins against the gates. Despite what I said earlier, his change of heart is probably for the best. Due to the way the land lies south of the castle, we’ll have better angles to strike from the east tower. It’s a good vantage point, but we may be vulnerable, so be careful. Oh, one more thing: Karsten wants us to keep an eye out for a shaman leading the army. The scout who came in this afternoon thinks the whole horde is being led by one. If he’s right, we’ll be able to detect its presence better than anyone else.”

He rose, brandishing his staff expertly. Lothar, his hands shaking slightly, picked his up more gingerly. The noises above rose in volume, and a second shuddering boom announced that the cannons were firing again. A faint roaring could be heard from far away, almost as if a great crowd of men and beasts had been mingled and augmented. Even deep within the stone walls, the noise was unmistakeable.

Helmut turned to his acolyte, maintaining his usual calm demeanour.

“Come,” he said, flatly.

They strode from the chamber into the narrow ways of the keep. All around them, men were running, carrying swords and shields, and yelling orders at one another. Their grey cloaks swirling around them, the wizards made their way through a short series of corridors and out into the courtyard. The noise from beyond the walls was deafening in the open air. The faces of the defenders looked pale and nervous in the moonlight. They could all hear the noise of the horde, and it chilled the blood.

The wizards went quickly through the press of men and into the south-east tower, ducking under the low doorway. After clambering up the tightly wound spiral stairs, they emerged into the cold air at the summit, and the whole scene unfolded before them. The sun had sunk beneath the western horizon, leaving only a sliver of blood red against the jagged peaks of the Grey Mountains. The stars had come out fitfully, and the pale light of Mannslieb cast a chill glow over the land. Clouds boiled behind them, and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. It looked like a storm was coming. From their vantage point above the castle, the furious activity of the defenders could be made out even in the growing darkness. Flashes of light from the guns illuminated the continual movement of men, their armour glinting in the night.

Lothar turned his gaze southwards, beyond the walls of the castle and over the roofs of the empty houses. Before him, the whole valley had been transformed into a scene of horror. From the feet of the mountains on either side of the narrow way, the entire space was filled with a host of dark forms. It was hard to see far into the murk, but the noise was shattering, and told of many thousands of greenskins surging through the shadows. Dimly, Lothar made out the ranks of heavily built infantry, loping towards the castle in a disorganised mass. The jagged tips of their cleavers and battle-axes glinted dully in the moonlight. Gaudy, tattered standards flapped in the fitful wind, black against the pale stone of the mountains around them. The sound of drums rolled across the ramparts in a flood of oppressive aggression.

Scattered fires had been started in great braziers by the orcs, and the lower walls of the castle were bathed in a lurid vermillion glow. Perhaps even the keen-eyed greenskins needed them to see by under the shadows of the overhanging battlements, or maybe they were just intent on causing as much fear as possible. From his vantage point, Lothar could see the silhouettes of monstrous forms hurling themselves towards the citadel in a mad frenzy.

“By the Eight Colours,” he breathed. “How many are there?”

Helmut didn’t answer, but began to brandish his staff.

“Don’t worry about that, my lad,” he said in his usual impassive tone. “Just get to work.”

With that, he began to weave the deep shadows between the ancient stones around him, drawing the pools of gloom towards his staff like streaks of pitch. When the ball of darkness was complete, far deeper and more intense than the night air around it, he hurled it into the mass of forms below, knocking a bellowing greenskin champion from his feet as he charged blindly towards the gates. Taking a deep breath, Lothar raised his staff likewise. He felt the familiar rush of power surge through his limbs. His face setting into a flat mask of concentration, he joined his master, and the wind of shadows began to flow through his body, erupting from his hands and staff in deadly energy. It had begun.

The castellan was on the ramparts of the citadel wall, naked sword in hand, orchestrating the waves of arrows flying from the battlements. As the clouds gathered, the rain grew stronger, and a wild storm wind from the west whipped and swirled around the stone walls. The night was chill, and his heart beat strongly. The familiar exhilaration of battle was upon him. Archers lined the battlements on either side of him, and their practiced hands sent volley after volley of darts spinning into the storm below. He looked back into the castle, down to the level below him, where the great cannons were placed on stone platforms against openings in the thick walls.

Marcus was running between the three crews, bellowing encouragement and orders at them. Below the guns, at ground level, the courtyard swarmed with activity. Arrows and ammunition were being passed up to the levels above, and pitch was being heated and carried in slopping iron cauldrons to the murder-holes over the gate. It was a factory of death, running smoothly as it ought, all in the service of the Emperor. Karsten allowed himself a flicker of pride.

He turned around to see Marcus, his breathing heavy, climbing a rickety wooden ladder from the cannons’ platform to join him on the battlements. The rain was falling hard, and the tattered clouds threatened to obscure the moon. The captain’s face was running with mingled water and sweat.

“How goes it?” asked Karsten, withdrawing for a moment from the lines of archers clustered along the narrow parapet.

Marcus wiped his brow and grinned wolfishly. He was never happier than when given an excuse to blast something to pieces.

“They’re coming up to the citadel, but they have no answer to the heavy shot,” he said, savagely. “We’re sending both iron and grape into the ranks, and it’s causing mayhem. I’ve angled the cannon as flat as I can. They’re trapped in the valley and can’t get out of the way. Of course, I can’t see as much as I’d like, but I’ll warrant we’re giving them something to ponder on.”

Karsten nodded with satisfaction.

“They’re not noted for pondering,” he said, dryly. “They just keep throwing themselves at the walls, and the archers are cutting them down as they come. How do they think they’re going to get in? We’ll keep them at bay forever at this rate, provided they keep running into our arrows.”

Marcus shrugged.

“Who knows what’s running through their minds? But it’s good target practice; we don’t often have a chance to work in the dark. By your leave, sir, I’ll get back to it.”

Karsten nodded curtly. The gunnery captain clambered back down to the level below, and soon his barked orders resumed. The castellan hastened back to the ramparts in the centre of the south-facing wall.

Screwing his eyes against the dark, keeping his head low against the cool stone of the battlements, Karsten surveyed the carnage grimly. Rainwater streamed down his face. Even accounting for the darkness and the difficulty of estimation, there must have been more orcs in the valley than he had ever seen before, and they had been driven to an amazing pitch of savagery and madness. He knew what they called it: the waaagh, the elemental, innate force that drove them forward, filling their limbs with unnatural strength and their brutish minds with bloodlust. The relatively unprotected houses beyond the citadel walls were ruined and aflame, but Karsten didn’t have the men to protect the entire settlement. The citadel was the key. For now, the orcs broke against the walls like water, but how long could it last? And where was the rumoured shaman?

His thoughts were interrupted as sudden cries came from the western end of the wall. Gathering all the swordsmen near him, he ran quickly along the battlements. Crude grapnels with ropes attached were being hurled up against the wall. Some flew over the battlements and lodged firmly between the worn stonework; others clattered harmlessly back into the hordes below. Almost instantly, goblins, their hateful faces lined with rows of needle-like teeth, grinning in the rain like visions of spite, were up the ropes and had begun to vault the tops of the walls and bear the lightly-armoured archers down. Their spiny fingers clasped throats, gouged eyes and snapped ankles.

“For Sigmar!” cried Karsten, charging along the parapet. This was dangerous, and needed to be snuffed out quickly. For as long as the walls remained unbreached, they were capable of holding out. But should the greenskins gain a foothold, then their superior numbers would surely begin to tell. Swinging his sword, he barrelled into the first of the grotesque forms as it leapt over the ramparts. His charge sent two more wailing to their deaths below.

His men piled in behind him, and soon the ramparts were soaked with blood. Swords clashed against twisted daggers and malignant, spiked scourges. The goblins pulled back, squealing and screeching. A fair fight was not something they enjoyed. For every rope cast twirling back into the massed ranks below, another two grapnels were thrown up. Karsten wielded his sword with renewed fervour, eager to clear the battlements before more could rise. There was no good in holding the orcs at bay below if the goblins drove the defenders off the battlements. He grimaced as he plunged his blade into the villainous hooknosed freak before him. This was going to be a long night.

Lothar grunted with effort as the coronet of lightning left his hands. The glittering material sailed over the edge of the tower and into the mass below, bursting into strange dark flames as it hit its target, a bellowing orc warrior mounted on a boar in the centre of the boiling mass of bodies before the gates. It was even harder work than normal, casting from such a distance. From his high vantage point, he overlooked some of the worst of the fighting, but it was hard to make out much of what was going on down in the murk. Only the flames lit by the orcs and the scant moonlight guided their efforts.

He turned to Helmut, about to ask if their orders permitted them to leave their station and get closer to the action, but then thought better of it. The old wizard looked drained, and leaned heavily against the crenellated brink of the circular tower’s edge. Wearily, knowing he had to keep the flow of magical bolts up, Lothar began another spell. There was some risk in attempting another one so soon. It was the tired hand that slipped, the tired tongue that stumbled, but there was a job to be done.

He grasped his staff tightly in both hands, and began to murmur an incantation. As the night waxed and the shadows sunk into deeper black, the source of the Grey wizards’ power flowed ever more freely around the dank stone of Helmgart, and Lothar tapped it greedily. He felt strong, despite the effort of the prior castings.

Helmut leaned back against the stone and listened to his student’s low chanting. When he heard Lothar’s choice of spell, he smiled grimly.

“A nice idea,” he said. “Use it on those goblins; the castellan needs help clearing the battlements.”

Lothar nodded, looking over the edge of the tower and down to where the defenders were fighting on the ramparts. Despite their efforts, half a dozen ropes held securely, and goblins were swarming up them like rats in the gloom. They were close to establishing a foothold on the walls. Hurriedly, he completed his spell weaving. Pointing his staff over the ramparts, he sent a spinning ball of shadowy energy towards the goblins climbing up the walls below him. Like a biting mosquito, it struck them each in turn, diminishing every time it hit. Initially, the effects seemed negligible, the goblins shaking their heads and continuing to climb. But by the time the little ball had burned out, an odd thing started to happen.

The affected goblins began to shriek and turn on their colleagues, ripping their own soldiers from the walls and stabbing them as they fell. Many lost their handholds on the slippery ropes as they twisted with an inexplicable urge to attack their own forces. Within moments, the invasion was in confusion, with goblin lighting goblin viciously, tumbling back down the walls in confusion. Their blood splattered the stone of the ramparts, mingling with the driving rain.

The castle defenders pressed forwards, pushing the squabbling, stabbing rabble from the walls and cutting the ropes. Gradually the goblins were repulsed from the ramparts. Karsten sent the last of them wailing over the walls to its death. For the moment at least, the battlements were cleared. Lothar, dizzy from the effort, grinned maliciously. He sat back against the stone, waiting to recover.

“A good effort,” said Helmut appreciatively, looking as if he’d caught his breath again. “But it could have lasted longer. There are more waiting down below to try again. Here’s how it’s really done.”

Before the older wizard could demonstrate his own version of the spell, a great shudder seemed to pass through the very foundations of the tower. In the dark and downpour it was hard to see what was happening; only through the angry glow of the fires could much be made out. Mighty orcs of enormous size, shielding something amidst their number, had worked their way to a position in front of the south wall, just visible from the tower against the glare of the flames.

“It must be down there somewhere,” hissed Helmut, peering into the gloom. “It’s at the heart of it, that shaman. It’s holding it all together. Can you see it, the energy of the waaagh? You won’t need your natural eyes to see it. Ignore the distractions around it. Use your magical vision. It must be close.”

Lothar relaxed his muscles, probing with his wizardly sense. Helmut was right; there was a lurid aura down below, somewhere in the darkness and chaos of the orc horde. It pulsed angrily. This was no true colour, not as existed in the real world at any rate. But there was something tangible nonetheless, a sickly, horribly vibrant greenish apparition, swirling and coiling from the earth, apparently sucked from the bodies of the orcs around it. He felt himself recoil instinctively. His throat constricted slightly, and he felt his fear seize him like a clenched fist around his stomach. With effort, he willed himself to concentrate, not to give in to his primal responses. Whatever was down there was malicious, and powerful.

Helmut raised his staff to strike, but then, from the centre of the diffuse aura, sudden flames shot across the earth in front of the castle, burning and maiming all who stood in its way. It was no natural flame, its amber heart tinged with sickly green edges. Orcs and goblins trapped in its advance bellowed and screamed in agony, but they were not the target. With remorseless speed, the strange fire hit the walls. Like the breaking of a huge wave, it reared high up the stonework and coursed into the gaps where the open cannon barrels reared their iron heads. With a series of devastating explosions, one by one, Marcus’ treasured guns detonated.

Huge blasts ripped great gashes in the stone around them, throwing men wildly into the air. A roar of triumph rose up from the frenzied orcs. As more blackpowder exploded, a great section of the wall at the western end of the heavily defended ramparts gave way, toppling with agonising slowness into the baying masses beneath.

Lothar looked on, his unwilling eyes fixed with horror on the scene below. In the darkness, the shadowy forms of men trapped in the falling masonry dropped from the ruined battlements into the frenzy beneath, and were torn to shreds. Those nearest the blast had been scattered by the explosion, and dozens of soldiers lay unmoving against the stone of the courtyard. Most had been killed by the impact, and pools of their blood stained the ancient walls. The few who had survived tried to get up and limp to safety, but their chances were slim. Whooping and shrieking, the greenskins surged towards the breach, hacking at any defenders unfortunate enough to have been thrown into their path.

Lothar turned to Helmut, aghast. The old wizard looked genuinely amazed. His old hands gripped his staff weakly. He too seemed frozen by the demonstration of such destructiveness. Then he collected his thoughts, and a grim look hardened his face.

“Steel is no use against a monster like this,” he hissed.

Lothar stood back, still weak from his previous effort and in no condition to offer assistance. Helmut raised his staff, summoning coils of force around him, whipping the wind and rain to his cause, generating a vortex of ever-increasing speed and magnitude. The storm was his ally, fuelling and driving his spellcasting. It was a difficult trick to accomplish, harnessing the elements, and the consequences could be dire if a mistake was made. But Helmut’s face was fixed into a mask of concentration and no error crept in. With a cry of arcane words, a snap of his wrist sent a bolt of lightning searing towards the mass of greater orcs. The vivid streaks of dazzling light zigzagged into the heart of the orc host in front of the walls. The fury of the storm had been driven into a single point.

When it hit, Lothar could just make out bodies being hurled aside, slammed against the unyielding stone of the citadel like puppets. Something else had clearly been hurt, for a crazed bellow of rage rose from the seething cauldron of bodies below them, echoing far into the frenzied night.

“It’s in there!” cried Helmut, panting hard from the effort and looking momentarily dazed. “Lothar, direct your power where I did. Together we can—”

Whatever lurked in the darkness and confusion had seen them, exposed and vulnerable against the night sky. Before Lothar had time even to begin a supporting spell, bolts of the same destructive green energy streaked towards them. Both wizards ducked beneath the battlements, before realising they were not the target—the tower was.

“Brace yourself!” cried Helmut as the stone beneath them rippled and broke. “Use your staff!”

His world collapsing around him, Lothar hurriedly conjured the means to break his descent. His staff glowed with the sudden effort. The tower lurched, buckled, and then fell in on itself, centuries-old stonework turned into rubble in an instant. Lothar slid and parried as best he could, his part-levitation keeping him safe from the carnage below, hurried swipes of his staff fending off detritus raining from above. When he came to a halt, covered in dust and blood, he realised he was still on the inside of the citadel, but at ground level. He must have fallen two hundred feet. If it weren’t for his art, he’d have been dead.

Staggering to his feet, disorientated and shaking, he pulled his staff free of the wreckage. Getting his bearings, he gradually worked out where he was: at the east end of the courtyard. Above him were the huge platforms where the cannons had been, now blasted and black. Green flames still licked at the charred stone. All around him, faint moans and agonised cries testified to the poor souls trapped within the ruin of the tower, but there were more pressing concerns: ahead of him, on the far side of the courtyard, he could see the gap in the walls caused by the shaman’s magic.

All was chaos, men running down from the walls in a panic, orcs beginning to clamber through the breach unopposed. For a moment, Lothar hesitated, at a loss. Then there was a muffled explosion behind him, and Helmut staggered out from under a pile of loose rubble. He was caked with dust, his hair white and matted.

“Right, I’m angry now,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Come with me. I’m going to find that damned creature and flay it alive.”

CHAPTER TWO

Karsten arose painfully, his head thumping. He had been on the ramparts with the archers when the first blast had hit, and had been thrown heavily against the stone by the impact. He got up unsteadily, trying to lake in what had happened. Thankfully, his section of the battlements was still intact, and all around him archers were slowly clambering back to their positions. Only a few paces away to his left, however, the walls fell away, horribly ruined, blasted apart by the combination of magic and blackpowder. There was rubble everywhere, and prone bodies littered the ground below.

He looked east, across the open courtyard and to the far side of the castle. The tower where the two battle wizards had been stationed was scorched and cracked. Masonry still dropped from its ruined summit. So much for magical allies, he thought bitterly. Through the driving rain, he could make out the dark forms of orcs leaping into the courtyard below, swarming through the breach like flies on a wound. If they were not stopped soon, the castle was lost.

“We must hold the walls,” he shouted at the nearest archer. “Aim your fire at the orcs coming through the gap. They cannot be allowed to enter in numbers.”

With that, he ran along the narrow parapet and down one of the few remaining ladders, quickly descending into the courtyard, now a churning mass of bodies in mortal combat. Blood was streaked across every surface. It mixed with the sweat, mud and rain into a turgid slick on the ground. The greenskins pressed forward. Their axes and crude scimitars were brutally effective, crushing skulls, cracking bones and ripping armour apart. The defenders were disorganised, and more orcs were leaping into the fray through the damaged walls. They were falling back, breaking under the incessant pressure. There were only moments to organise a defence. If they failed to hold them back, it would all be over.

“For Sigmar!” roared Karsten at the top of his voice, desperately hoping he would be audible over the shrieks and bellows of the invading army. He charged the nearest interloper, a thickset bull-like orc with blazing eyes, and sliced his sword across its neck before turning quickly to parry the axe blow of a second orc coming up on his flank.

The conspicuous charge brought some focus back to the motley mix of swordsmen and halberdiers still fighting in the courtyard, and before long a dozen of them were at his side, hacking and slashing against the orc tide with the desperation of men who knew their lives were hanging by a thread. Arrows began to fly again from the battlements above them, slowing the advance of the orcs through the narrow breach. Gradually, painfully, they began to regain control of the courtyard, and pushed the enemy towards the gap in the walls.

As they neared the breach, Karsten slowly realised something else was happening. The orcs beyond the walls had started baying rhythmically, stamping their feet in unison and banging the drums in a series of long booms. The effect was chilling. They were no longer sending soldiers into the gap or up the walls. Instead, they seemed to be focusing their efforts on something outside the castle. The remaining orcs in the courtyard retreated towards the gap. The wounded limped and lurched away from the fighting, but even they had a cold light in their eyes. Karsten’s men made to pursue them, but the castellan held them back. Something strange was going on.

“Keep together, men,” he warned in a low voice. “Stay in formation.”

The darkness made it hard to see far, but it was clear there was new activity at the gap. With uncommon discipline, a dozen heavily armoured orcs had formed a cordon around it, but they couldn’t entirely conceal what was happening. Slowly, deliberately, a massive form was clambering through the breach.

“Archers, let fly!” cried Karsten, looking up to the ramparts where most of them still were. They loosed their arrows from above in a single, disciplined round. Most hit their target. It kept coming. Karsten felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his back. Whatever this thing was, it was huge. He looked to either side. His men stared into the gloom at the approaching horror. Their swords shone weakly in the dim moonlight. Karsten knew he should order a charge, repel the invader, but cold dread gripped his heart. He felt his fingers begin to tremble.

As if by some soundless command, the orc soldiers drew apart to reveal the monster in their midst. Like some nightmare from childhood, the stinking figure waddled into the open. It was an orc of sorts, but like none Karsten had seen before. Its skin was lurid and covered with sores and strange growths. A mane of lank hair framed its long, mournful face. Its eyes were red and wild, each steadily weeping a clear liquid down heavily tattooed and pierced cheeks. Rags were draped over its ruinous form, which seemed to sway with a life of their own.

The apparition breathed uneasily with a hoarse, scraping rattle, and leaned heavily on a massive, gnarled staff. The support dripped with a luminous green substance, like sap from some unholy tree. Karsten felt a fresh tremor of fear. This monster had exploded his cannons and taken the summit off the east tower, apparently at will. Uttering a prayer to Sigmar, he finally mastered himself. Grasping his sword tightly, he opened his mouth to order the charge.

The creature halted, head cocked, nose sniffing.

“Come no further, beast of Mork,” said a calm voice from the shadows. “Go back into the wilds and leave this place, or I will end the misery of your existence forever.”

The wizards strode into the space between the two opposing forces, their grey cloaks limned with pale moonlight. Lothar looked at the beast with horror, a crushing sense of dread hampering his movements. Despite his training, he was scared, and could feel his heart beating heavily. He knew what it was: the skilfully projected aura of the waaagh, the cloud of intimidation that could render the stoutest general a craven wretch.

The remaining men in the courtyard seemed rooted to the spot, their faces alive with fear. He felt no contempt for them. It was a hard thing to combat. The source of the power was truly impressive, reeking of strange, sorcerous energy, channelling the bloodlust of the entire army behind it into a single, terrible point. Even the orc guards around it seemed terrified, their eyes wild and staring in the night.

Lothar gripped his staff tightly, taking comfort in its cool strength. He and Helmut walked deliberately into the centre of the courtyard, positioning themselves squarely between the shaman and Karsten’s men. No one from either side impeded their progress.

The orcs kept up their strange rhythmic thumping outside the walls. They were feeding the shaman, letting the raw bestial energy of their kind nourish and sustain their leader. They knew, perhaps better than the men defending the castle, that this was a magical duel, axe or sword having little to do with it.

“Iron, stone and steel you can destroy,” said Helmut, standing coolly in the rain by Lothar’s side, “but no creature of darkness can stand against the magic of the colleges. Go back, I say, lest I give you a taste of the fate that awaits you and all your kind.”

Such was the steadiness of the master wizard’s gaze, augmented by all the subtle art he was able to bring to bear, even the crazed form before him paused for a moment. The fire in its eyes darkened, and the frenzied drooling over its cracked lips ceased for an instant. Behind them, Karsten and his men stood stock-still, their swords held ready but unused, reduced to spectators. For a moment, the beast before them hesitated. But it could not last. The shaman was bolstered by the waaagh, the manifestation of the battle-rage of its race and their strange gods. Shaking its shaggy head as if to clear it, it started to whirl around. Its cloak of rags swung violently in the driving rain. Dark green energies began to pool at its feet, and flickers of pale force crept up its arms.

The wizards leapt into action. Lothar, willing himself not to slip from fear or fatigue, sprang to one side, throwing his staff along the ground as if casting a net over water. The earth rippled and ruptured, causing the shaman to stagger. Helmut spun his staff to point straight at the monster, and unleashed a buffeting surge of unnatural wind. The shaman reeled, bellowing its rage. Behind it, its bodyguard joined the swaying and chanting of the horde outside the walls, feeding the beast with their battle-rage. No Empire defender moved a muscle.

Regaining its balance, the shaman slammed its staff to the ground, sending zigzags of crackling disruption along the churned earth. Lothar jumped aside, almost too late. Tottering slightly, he regained his balance and hastily began a fresh incantation. Helmut stood his ground, and planted his staff in the path of the shaman’s spell. He promptly disappeared behind a blooming cloud of green. Lothar issued his counter-spell, and a circlet of sparkling steel formed across his brow, spitting and crackling with bright energy. He felt a great tide of weariness hit him as he completed the spell; it was like wearing a crown of molten lead, but the pain was endurable. With a hiss of preternatural lightning, he sent a stream of fizzing energy towards the shaman, the effort of it causing him to stagger slightly. Helmut emerged from the enveloping cloud unharmed, his ward having been successful, and began to chant. The ground beneath the shaman’s feet began to yawn open.

The shaman was old, wily and as strong as stone. Its eyes glittered with a feral cruelty and malice, and the surging power of the horde pulsed through its ruined frame. With a raging shake of its head, Lothar’s crackling fire was cast aside. A stamp of its massive, gnarled feet closed the opening earth with a crack. Rising to its full height, a claw-like hand seemed to pull green-tinged fronds of snapping, crackling energy from the empty air around it. With a contemptuous flick of bony fingers, a spinning ball of savage power tore towards Lothar.

The young wizard raised his staff in defence, and a grey protective mist rose around him, but it was too slow, and he was hurled backwards, the green-coloured magic sticking to him like the strands of a spider’s web. Helmut spun around, and his robes scythed in the rain like blades. With a savage movement of his staff, the shadows of the shaman’s cloak and rags burst into flames, distracting the monster from completing his attack. Lothar, struggling against his bonds, stepped back, desperately trying to cut through the clinging strands. He felt frustration and fear rise within him, and worked to banish them from his mind. He was beginning to panic. Now, more than ever, he couldn’t afford a mistake.

The shaman shuddered, shaking violently and flapping at the flames licking over it. With a guttural, strangled cry, it slammed its staff onto the ground once more, and the fires blew out. Then it began to work again. Amidst the tumult, Lothar could make out the beginnings of a low, muttered incantation. He looked over at Helmut, who was ashen-faced and exhausted. Grimly, the old wizard began to chant an incantation. Lothar wriggled free of the last of the webbing. He was weak. His spells were ineffective against the monstrous form before him, and he was running out of ideas. Breathing hard from the effort, he started a new spell, summoning a brace of dark, insubstantial daggers from the air. One by one, each time harder than the last, he sent them whirling towards the shaman. But the summoning had been hurried, and he could feel himself weakening. Only one found its mark, and was casually swatted away. The muttering continued.

“He’s too powerful, lad,” said Helmut through clenched teeth, waving his staff in ritual preparation. “While he’s fuelled by the horde, there’s no hope. We need to try something different.”

Lothar felt his anxiety, bred of exhaustion and frustration, rising within him.

“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly.

Helmut cracked his staff on the ground before him, and a grey cloud rose over his body and into the night air. It began to spread into the darkness, a mist-like shield rising over them. The shaman started to sway more strongly, and his muttering grew louder and more urgent.

“He’s preparing the final assault. I can isolate him, but not forever. When we’re locked together, you will be alone. Aid the castellan.”

The shaman drew its arms into the air, shrugging off the last of Helmut’s shadow-fire as if it were mere village green trickery. With a roar that shook the walls around them, it pulled a column of vivid green fire into being, moulded it and sent it directly at the old wizard. It burned through the air like pitch, a living stream of raw waaagh magic, a deadly flow of hatred, savagery and primeval force. Helmut leaned forward. Where the shaman’s stream impacted on Helmut’s shield it went mad, splattering gobs and gouts of steaming, many-coloured detritus in all directions.

Gripping his staff tightly, Helmut fought grimly, pushing the green substance back, using his grey shroud to absorb and deflect it. He was attempting a spell of containment, drawing the shaman into a magical embrace, giving the defenders time to attack the waaagh, isolate the monster and turn the tide of the battle.

“Move back!” he barked with effort. “When we are enclosed, you must attack.”

Lothar looked around desperately. Karsten was behind them with his remaining men, gripped by the scene before them, but unable to intervene. He knew then that Helmut was right. Combined with the power of the horde behind him, the shaman was too powerful. Both could not be contained at once, but what he planned was terribly dangerous. He looked around. Barely half the castle’s defenders still stood, either with them in the courtyard or on the high battlements, gazing down at the scene below in horrified fascination. From outside the walls, the chanting rose to a fever pitch.

Helmut’s face was as pale as death, and the veins in his temples throbbed as he spread his grey shroud wider, pushing against the stream of green energy and shielding the men behind him. He turned his face towards Lothar with effort.

“Shake the castellan out of whatever fear has gripped him,” he gasped. “We’ll be shrouded for as long as I can hold out.”

With a nod of agreement, Lothar pulled back from the terrible scene. Barely contained panic was welling within him. The chanting of the orcs was getting louder, and the look in their eyes was enough to chill the blood. He stilled the shaking in his hands with difficulty. Sweat ran profusely down his cheeks in the rain. He stepped back to the castellan, who stood rooted to the spot.

“Sir,” he said, urgently, “my master’s attempting to bind the shaman. We must seize the moment and attack. The spell can only be sustained while his strength lasts, and the shaman will resist him.”

Karsten, rousing himself as if from a nightmare, looked around suddenly. Lothar studied him keenly. The power of the shaman had frozen his instincts, but Helmut’s ward was already loosening the effects.

“By Sigmar,” hissed Karsten, his expression a mix of anger and shame, “what are we doing here, standing like statues?”

“My master and the shaman will be bound together,” said Lothar hurriedly. “Ignore them. If we can drive the orcs back from the breach, we may be able to isolate the monster.”

Karsten, his wits returning, took the situation in quickly, and nodded severely. He raised his sword high into the air.

“Men of Helmgart, rise up! Forget your fears! Charge the bodyguard! We need to clear the courtyard and give the wizards space. Ignore the shaman, and attack the troops.”

The soldiers in the courtyard, some shaking their heads as if to clear a momentary madness, others gazing with undisguised trepidation at the scene before them, took up their weapons. Serried blades glinted in the driving rain, and the men began to move forward.

Helmut’s aura had curled back and over the shaman, engulfing it in a thin cloud of grey, locking the two spellcasters together in a deadly embrace. The monster pushed back with more streams of green force, but for the moment at least Helmut’s embracing power was stronger. As the shadow barrier was completed, the two combatants disappeared from view. It became hard to see what was going on within the dim, swirling mist of shadows. Lothar looked at the scene with scarcely suppressed horror. Even his wizard’s eyes were unable to penetrate far beneath the magical mist. He knew that unless they could drive the orcs back quickly, his master was surely doomed, imprisoned in a deadly tryst with a foe he could not hope to match for long.

“Avoid the shroud!” Lothar yelled at the running swordsmen as they surged forward. “Attack the bodyguard. Our only hope is to separate the shaman from its support!”

He was tired, nearly collapsing from the effort, but he knew he had to follow them towards the breach. He would have to draw out more magic from somewhere, even if it was just some kind of distraction. He leaned for a moment against the cool stone wall, trying to catch his breath and collect some residue of energy. Ahead of him, the soldiers charged around the unnatural swirling of grey magic, running hard into the chanting line of orcs on either side.

For a moment, the greenskins seemed taken aback, so absorbed were they with the spectacle of their leader in combat, now completely enclosed by Helmut’s spell of containment. But it only took a minute for their monolithic concentration to break, and for awareness to return. With a roar, the great bull orcs of the shaman’s bodyguard, clad in heavy black armour and wielding mighty jagged axes and cleavers, charged back, throwing men aside with their counter-assault. Lothar watched Karsten plough into the melee, his voice roaring over the tumult, his sword rising and falling like a hammer on an anvil.

The fate of the citadel hung by a thread. If the defenders could push the orcs back, cutting the shaman off from the horde, then perhaps the citadel might still be saved. Wearily, his hands heavy and unresponsive, Lothar prepared another spell. He felt the danger through his shaking limbs and trembling fingers as they gripped the staff before him. He was cold, tired, angry and afraid. These were the times when poorly prepared spells went awry, maiming their originators or leaking raw magic into the world.

He screwed his face into a mask of concentration. How much worse must it be for Helmut, he thought, trapped within a prison of his own devising with the monster, holding his own with an enraged creature of darkness while the battle raged around them. Slowly, he felt the tingling in his fingertips as the Wind of Ulgu answered his call. Shivering from the fatigue, he recited the words with extra care. His lips worked slowly, clumsily in the rain-drenched night, and his eyes were fixed solidly ahead.

Gradually, painfully, the magic came. From nowhere, or maybe from the very shadows around them, the forms of birds fluttered into existence. They grew in number, rising in coils from the earth, black against the night sky. Their wings flapped feverishly in the storm. The spell had not quite worked. Some only had one wing, or three eyes, and many were deformed in other ways. But it was enough. The flock had been called, and like smoke from a fire, it bloomed into the tortured sky, whirling madly in the whipping wind.

Lothar, his strength nearly at an end, watched with a kind of grim satisfaction.

“Now fly,” he commanded, his voice cracking with effort, as he leaned heavily against his staff.

The unnatural flock swarmed forward, ignoring the men beneath them, heading straight for the front line of orcs. Their beaks ripped, their talons scratched, their wings slapped into eyes, and their tails dragged across faces. For a moment, the line held, but even the orcs could not withstand such confusion for long. Karsten, in the very centre of the battle, now somewhat used to the bizarre ways of magicians, recognised the opportunity for what it was, and urged his men forward. Steel clashed against iron. The orcs wavered, and then broke. The hulking forms retreated in confusion, waving at the stabbing forms in the air, forgetting for a moment the deadly blades of the defenders flickering towards them from the ground.

The bodyguard was beaten back, for the first time, creating space between the orc host and its leader, still locked in combat with Helmut within the shroud. The green glow within the deadly grey shadow seemed to shrink somewhat.

Lothar staggered forward, a flame of hope flickering in his heart. He found himself desperate for some sign of how his master fared within the ward, but none was forthcoming. The power that constrained the shaman within the magical chamber prevented any clear signal escaping, and the grey barrier stood firm. From the muffled roaring and crashing, it was clear that they still duelled within, cut off from aid, trapped in their own private battle. He looked up to where Karsten stood, now nearly through the breach. He knew he was needed, and limped towards the walls, but a sudden pain assailed him, and he looked down. His palms ran with blood, as if they had been scored by knives. Clasping his staff was painful. He had overexerted himself, the effort of summoning the birds had been too much. Dizziness overcame him, and he leaned heavily against the stone walls, slick with the rain.

As he faltered, the wind seemed to change again. The unnatural flock of birds was being cut down, seized by giant green hands and flung against the ground. Lothar’s strength waned, and the fluttering assailants glided earthwards, their threat extinguished.

Slowly, inexorably, the orc line recovered. Massive forms from the heart of the host strode forward to lake the places of the fallen in the front ranks.

The numbers were too great. Even Karsten was driven back. A huge, iron-clad monster had leapt through the broken walls to face him, plunging a crude mockery of an Imperial halberd through the night air, its blunt, heavily notched blade dripping with human blood. Wincing with the effort, Lothar gripped his staff once more, prepared to use it as a quarterstaff if nothing else. He rose shakily, and the hammering rain streamed down his face.

It was too late. With a great roar, the orcs pushed forward from the breach and back into the courtyard. Karsten’s troops wavered, and then fell back. Men, pushed suddenly on the defensive, were hacked down by maddened greenskins, their number swelled at every moment by fresh troops from outside the walls. Karsten’s final push had almost secured the breach, but the gap was lost. Its dark maw spewed orcs like blowflies around a wound. Lothar looked up to the walls, only to see that the goblin rope climbers had returned, grappling with the archers in the dark, the flow of arrows from the battlements cut off. With a wrench of pain and frustration, he knew the last gamble had failed.

Karsten, his forehead stained with blood, retreated back to Lothar’s position, his few remaining swordsmen by his side. The orcs were everywhere.

“What are we going to do?” yelled Lothar through the noise and confusion, frantically parrying the heavy blows of an orc warrior that had lurched at him from the shadows.

“We must fall back!” panted Karsten, using his blade to slice Lothar’s orc nearly in two before whirling around to block the charge of another. He was fighting for them both, Lothar being so drained that he could hardly stay on his feet.

“But my master!” he cried, stumbling as the defenders retreated from the walls, more of their number being cut down at every step. “He still fights the shaman!”

Karsten looked frantically back to Helmut’s magical shroud, its grey surface boiling and swirling like a storm cloud. The duel was still being conducted within, but it was surrounded by a sea of greenskins, baying like hounds in the rain. They had started chanting again. Helmut was lost. They could not fight their way back to him. With a mighty swipe, Karsten felled the beast before him, and then staggered back. He too was near the end of his strength.

“We cannot save him!” he hissed. “His ploy has failed.”

Lothar felt his anger rising, born of grief and fatigue.

“We cannot leave him!” he cried, looking back desperately, somehow finding the strength to floor the orc before him with his staff, the swordsman at his shoulder plunging his blade into its prone form.

They had been driven to the north side of the courtyard, the breach and Helmut’s ward beyond their help. Even as they fought, on all sides men were being cut down, dragged along the rain-soaked earth and hacked to pieces by the horde. The incursion had become a flood of orcs. Along the battlements, high above them, goblins shrieked and hollered with abandon. Within moments, if they tarried, they too would be lost.

“If we try to reach him one more time,” cried Lothar. “Just one more push!”

Karsten looked at him desperately. Lothar could see the torment within him. He was a brave man, and flight was anathema to him, but he also cared for his men, and the butchery was now unrestrained.

“We cannot hold this position!” roared the castellan, thrusting his blade forward once more against the nearest attacker. “We must fall back and think of something else.”

Lothar couldn’t restrain the horror rising within him. He looked frantically back over the fighting forms to Helmut’s ward. It boiled and warped crazily, but still held.

Karsten grabbed his arm, and held it. His face was pale, and etched with grief and shame. Every soldier’s instinct rebelled against the notion of retreat, but the situation was lost. His men were falling, their formation broken. The walls were shattered, and the ward would not last long. The huge noise of the chanting horde was rising higher outside. Karsten looked back into Lothar’s eyes, cold fury evident on his face. He had made up his mind.

“Fall back!” he cried, raising his sword in the air and shepherding his contingent towards the north gate.

As one, the defenders scurried from their positions, knowing that time was of the essence. Those few still stationed on the battlements hurried down the ladders, joining the throng as they made to escape, a mix of relief, fear and shame on their faces. With a clang of iron, the north gate on the far side of the castle was opened, and the swordsmen began to run towards it. Karsten turned to face Lothar. Both knew it had to be done, but both were loath to leave.

“Never have I run from an enemy before this night,” the castellan hissed, as if in explanation. “There’ll be another day to fight. The Empire must be warned.”

Lothar could not meet his gaze, his mind a torment of emotion. All around them the roar of the victorious orcs grew louder. If they stayed a minute longer, they would all be dead. For some reason, the image of Mal gar entered his mind.

“Defeat is not the worst fate a man can suffer in battle,” he muttered bitterly.

Then, they ran, their cloaks streaming behind them in the buffeting rain. Lothar allowed himself only one backward glance as they passed through the north gate. From what he could make out over the forms crowding into the courtyard, Helmut still resisted, but the shroud glowed bright green, pulsating sickly like some giant sore. Inside the walls of force, shrouded still in obscurity, he could make out the dim shadow of the shaman, gradually advancing. Tears of rage and shame stung his eyes. They ran through the gates, the remnant of Helmgart garrison with them, leaving the citadel to the predations of the horde.

Once past the gatehouse and into the night, they sped north, looking back anxiously, intent on keeping their ragged band of fugitives together. From within the castle, the noise of the waaagh rose to an agonising crescendo. Lothar looked over his shoulder a final time to see a cloud of sickly green rise triumphantly above the parapets, accompanied by a bestial roar of victory. Helmut had succumbed at last.

Lothar redoubled his efforts. His tired limbs strained as he attempted to keep up with the ragged band of soldiers. No pursuit came. There was still plenty of murder left in the castle, chambers to sack, precious treasures to deface and victory to celebrate with obscene rites. But as the rain tore down, the shrieks of the orcs rose into the tortured night, above them all the howl of triumph from the shaman, echoing madly against the valley walls, reverberating to the heights of the crags around them, pursuing them northwards even as they ran for their lives. Helmut was lost, the castle destroyed, and the Empire laid open. They had failed.

CHAPTER THREE

The morning sunlight filtered through the narrow windows of the master’s private chambers, motes of dust spinning gently in the warm air. The Grey College was a rare haven of tranquility and peace amidst the furious bustle of the capital city. Beyond the tall, weather-worn walls, the full flow of humanity coursed by in all its riotous, lurid variety. Within, however, different rules applied. The room faced onto a small, enclosed courtyard. A simple fountain carved from a single granite block sent a jet of sparkling water high into the spring air. The lawns that surrounded it were neatly kept, although the ancient stone cloisters running around the far three sides had seen better days. It was not in the nature of Grey wizards to pay too much attention to the buildings in which they learned their trade. They were natural wanderers, only pausing to renovate their surroundings when nearing collapse. A pair of ravens, the omnipresent inhabitants of the grounds since before the wizards had come, stalked the far end of the garden moodily.

Reiner Starke, Master of the Grey College, turned from the view and took an appreciative sip of Estalian fortified wine. He was an old man. His hair and beard were white and long, and his face was lined with age and care. He possessed an unremarkable aspect in most ways, dressed simply in dark robes, looking much like any court advisor or minor official. All, that is, except for his eyes, which were deep, dark pools, brimming with knowledge and insight. To look into his gaze was to peer, however briefly, into the mind of a man who had seen more wonders and horrors, more wisdom and foolishness, than all but the very greatest of the Empire had ever seen. Despite this, he wore his experience lightly.

The Grey wizards were an aloof order at the best of times, keeping themselves to themselves and shunning the wearisome business of endless college intrigue. Of all the practitioners of the magical arts they were mistrusted perhaps most of all, but at least it kept them out of the power struggles that dominated Altdorf and made the air in the Imperial capital so poisonous.

“Yes,” Starke said to his companion, savouring the taste of the wine as it slipped down his throat, “I can see your difficulty. It’s not an easy situation.”

The man he addressed sat opposite him in an ornately carved chair, and could not have been more different. At a glance, he hardly seemed human at all. His face was hidden behind a burnished gold mask fixed into a permanent, seraphic expression of contentment. He looked like a refugee from one of the many masked balls in the Imperial palace. His robes were thick and red, lined with mink, and decorated with intricate designs of an obscure nature. A golden pendant hung around his neck with the great symbolic key of his college suspended from it.

He was a large man, sitting heavily in his chair with the ease of one fully aware of his power and wealth. He also cradled a crystal goblet of wine in one hand, but his fingers were encased in a golden gauntlet of exquisite design.

No natural flesh at all showed from under the shell of metal enclosing him. Starke had never seen him remove the mask. He suspected few ever had, and the mystery of what lay under the cool golden facade fascinated many. But this was no apparition or daemon, no matter what some of his rivals might believe. It was a man—Balthasar Gelt, Master of the Gold Order and Supreme Patriarch of the Imperial Colleges of Magic.

“Aye,” Gelt said in reply to Starke, even his voice sounding faintly metallic and rasping. “It’s a problem, and one I could well do without.”

It was odd, thought the Grey wizard, to speak to someone whose mouth never seemed to move, whose face remained fixed whatever the emotions running underneath, but one did not need to be a seer or a mystic to know that the Supreme Patriarch was in a foul mood.

Gelt put his goblet on the table beside him, slightly too heavily, and clasped his gleaming hands together. A thin trail of spilled wine pooled on the polished wood.

“You know what they say about him, don’t you?” Gelt continued, spitting the words out with some difficulty. “That he’s a practitioner of the forbidden arts. That he communes with the dead. That his power derives from proscribed sources. Of course, it would be easy for any one of us to emulate him in such dabbling, but we don’t. That’s precisely why we have the colleges, to prevent this unguarded meddling with the dark arts. He brings us all into danger, and all to satisfy his ego, his lust for power.”

Starke nodded sympathetically. It was unwise to contradict the Supreme Patriarch, especially when his anger was evident. He did consider remarking that Gelt’s own lust for power was fairly well documented, but thought better of it. Not everyone found the endless scheming of the colleges as tedious as he did. He took another sip of wine, enjoying the sweet, tart taste.

“Very true, Balthasar,” he mused, smoothly, “but from time to time we’ve all been accused of tapping into forbidden sources of power, and such stories are most often false. Our brothers and sisters of the Amethyst Order are particularly open to rumour mongering, due to the nature of their craft. I’ll warrant such tales will turn out to be unfounded.”

Gelt shook his head slowly.

“Whether or not they are involved in the necromantic arts,” he said, bitterly, “they’re certainly poking their noses into things that do not concern them, and it is he who guides all their machinations, that double cursed, half-trained, slack-handed, hex-ridden hedge wizard. I should have him run out of the city. Or perhaps an open duel would show him who really has the mastery of the winds of magic.”

Starke sighed. He too had doubts about Gunther Klaus, Master of the Amethyst College and the target of Gelt’s bile, but such petty hatreds were common, and the penalties of things getting out of hand were potentially troublesome.

“A duel would, I think, be unwise, my friend,” he said carefully. “You know most of them are only for show these days. Your contest against the previous patriarch was carefully stage-managed to avoid upsetting those who have no understanding of our ways. If the masters of two colleges were seen to be fighting each other for real, that would only add fuel to the fires of those who wish us ill. We both know that such things happen in secret places, but we cannot allow ourselves to give into the temptation.”

Gelt nodded. His reluctance to agree was evident despite his blank mask.

“I know it,” he said, resignedly, “but this scheming cannot go on! I am the patriarch, by right of combat and skill, and Klaus will go too far one day. His agents are all over the city, whispering their intrigues into susceptible ears. I trust I can rely on your support, if things start to get worse?”

Starke raised a white eyebrow in surprise. He knew that Gelt wanted his support, just as Klaus no doubt did, but it was rare to have things so explicitly spelt out. This was a delicate situation. When two master wizards decided to have a feud, it was wise to keep out of harm’s way until it was clear who was going to emerge on top. Gelt was a powerful man with good connections, but Klaus had his supporters too. Traditionally, Grey magic was more closely aligned with the Amethyst art, as both dealt in shadows, but Klaus was difficult to read, and Starke personally disliked him. He drained the last of his goblet, finding the taste had soured somewhat.

“Now, Balthasar,” he said, carefully, “I really don’t think things have reached such a point. Of course you have my support. You are the Supreme Patriarch, and command the loyalty of us all, but don’t ask me to intervene between you and Klaus. At a time when the witch hunters are ever more suspicious of us, we would bring ruin on ourselves if our divisions were allowed to grow. Let us see if we can resolve these matters amicably. Why not call a council of all the masters and clear the air? I have influence with some of my colleagues, and I’m sure such an approach will smooth out your difficulties with the Amethyst Order.”

Gelt did not reply immediately, but stared instead for a moment at the lawn outside the window. The ravens seemed to gaze back at him intently, their eyes glistening.

“Very well, Reiner,” said Gelt at last, his unease still evident. “I’ll give this some time. But I warn you, if Klaus continues to undermine me, I will take action. The Celestial and Bright Colleges are with me, and my patience will not last forever. Should the time for moving against him come, I’ll need to know who is with me, and who is against me. You’re a wise man; when the moment comes, I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

Starke looked carefully at the face in front of him, but, as ever, it was impossible to read. He didn’t much like the implied threat in the Supreme Patriarch’s words, nor did he like the certainty with which he predicted a confrontation. He found himself regretting sending Helmut Anselmus on that assignment in the south; it would have been good to discuss the matter with him. He resolved to take it up with him on his return, and in the meantime to avoid as much entanglement as possible.

“Of course, Balthasar,” he said, smiling diplomatically. “I’ll give it my most earnest consideration.”

Dusk was fast falling into night. Katerina Lautermann looked around, concealing her distaste expertly. All across the lawns, richly dressed men and women talked and laughed. Their voices were false, their smiles deceptive. Whenever the elite of Altdorf gathered for a social occasion, the rich gowns and beautiful faces always hid intrigue, dishonesty and malice. This evening’s party, hosted by the fabulously wealthy Count Rasmol von Erlich, was no exception.

Katerina observed the scene coolly with her dark eyes. With the failing of the afternoon sun, lamps had been brought out by servants. They cast a soft amber glow across the impeccable gardens. Erlich’s servants passed like ghosts between clusters of nobles discussing scandal and gossip in low voices, filling glasses and offering choice delicacies from silver plates. The cost of the evening’s entertainment would have fed an entire quarter of the city for a week, but such were the ways of Altdorf. A privileged few had control of the riches, and fought to hold on to them with all the skill they could muster. If you ever lost your grip on the slimy ladder of success, the gutter would be happy to claim you back. Katerina smiled grimly, knowing from bitter experience how hard it was to climb back up.

She looked around once more, careful to observe the position of all the guests. The wine was taking its toll on them, and her moment had come. Carefully, silently, she retreated from the bustle of the open lawn and into the ornamental garden. Under the cover of sculpted bushes, she sped, quiet as a cat, away from the throng and towards the house. Her slim figure was clad in a gown the colour of nightshade. It seemed to cling to her like a shadow, and rippled soundlessly against her body as she moved.

The distant lamps in the garden threw little enough light in her path, but it was always wise to be careful. She glided over to a tall yew tree and sheltered under its long, low branches for a moment. Her brown eyes, glistening slightly in the moonlight, took in her situation expertly. The mansion house lay ahead. It seemed that everyone was busy in the garden, and the whole building looked quiet and deserted. It always amused her, the casualness with which the rich guarded their treasures. It was a wonder they were not robbed more often. She smiled grimly. She had particular reason to resent the ways of the nobility in Altdorf, and knew how cruel they could be, as well as how careless.

Katerina took a deep breath and once more checked to see if anyone was following her. She didn’t enjoy these assignments. A wizard, especially one of her seniority, should not have to go filching objects from the houses of noblemen. But the party was a good opportunity and Klaus was always keen to exploit an opening. Absently, she found herself fingering the amulet around her neck, its heart cold and empty in the dark. Silently, she replaced it within her bodice and crept out from under the branches.

There was an open space in front of her of perhaps fifty paces and then a low wall. She knew from her planning that this led to the kitchen garden, from where the servants’ quarters would provide the easiest route into the mansion. Casting a careful look around, she picked her moment and sped across the clipped lawn, her feet as light as snowfall on the soft, well-watered turf. An ungainly vault over the wall, a quick dash through the ranks of herbs and she found the door she’d been looking for. Hoping the silver shilling had been enough for that simple lad to obey her instructions, she tried the lock. With a rasp, it turned. Her heart fluttering slightly, Katerina eased the door open and slipped inside.

The corridor was dark and quiet. She guessed the servants were mostly on duty elsewhere. That suited her fine. Taking just a moment to check her bearings against the mental map of the palace, she crept along the gloomy passageway deeper into the building, keeping to the deep shadows. There was no one within earshot, but her caution did not lessen. She had enough respect for her job not to take any risks, and she needed to stay prepared. Casting a spell with little warning was not an easy matter, and she would require her strength for a possible fight, should she be discovered. So she moved quickly, her footfalls soft, her face perpetually in shadow.

Once past the kitchen complex, she moved swiftly through the dining chamber and various reception rooms. At night, their majesty was hidden, but she knew that in the sunlight they would gleam with ornate, and extremely expensive, decoration. Erlich was rich and his family had risen high in the Imperial service. His brood were bureaucrats, quill-sharpening scribes who kept the vast organisation of the Emperor’s armies supplied and equipped. It was hard to feel guilty about robbing such men, who pocketed their wealth while the peasant soldiers who provided them with an income laboured in the mud of the Empire’s many battlefields. What was more, Erlich famously didn’t like wizards, frequently interfering in their postings with Imperial armies. That hardly singled him out—most people didn’t like wizards—but it made her disagreeable assignment just a little more bearable.

Katerina was no petty thief, however, and passed by the treasures lining the walls of the many rooms. Some of the silverware, placed in flimsy cabinets even a street urchin could pick open, would have fetched a decent amount in Altdorf’s back streets, but there was only one thing on her mind, a trinket ordered by her master for collection, and nothing else in the palace would be touched. Erlich was probably unaware of its value, and if she did her job right, no one would notice its absence for some time. Her master had discovered its location only recently, and she had to admit, despite her annoyance at having to creep about in such an undignified manner, there was a certain pleasure in having been selected to retrieve it for him. It spoke of trust. No one else in the Amethyst College had her connections. Of no use to a normal man, her target was of particular interest to a wizard.

Smiling to herself, thinking of the rewards a successful conclusion might bring, she picked up her speed, heading inexorably to the count’s private quarters, finding her way surely in the gloom.

Nearing her goal, she paused on a narrow landing to let a manservant, candle in hand, wander lazily across her path. Then she crept down a wide stairway into a high central hall with exits in all directions. A long corridor, lined with family portraits, stretched away to her left. The carpet under her feet was plush and deep. At the far end of the passageway, a heavy set of doors stood in the light of a single flickering candle. That would be Erlich’s study, where she would find what she was looking for.

Then she heard footfalls behind her on the stairs. Quickly, she made her way into the corridor, pressing herself against the dark walls. With any luck, whoever was coming down the stairs would turn into one of the many other doorways. But luck was not with her. Two guards, their swords clinking against the buckles of their elaborate uniforms, sauntered casually down the stairway, lanterns in hands. They turned left and began to walk down the corridor towards her. There was no way to evade them. Sighing with irritation, Katerina prepared herself.

As they neared, she stepped out of the darkness, flicking a strand of dark hair casually from her face as she did so.

Katerina was an arresting sight at the best of times, and her sleek, aristocratic looks were one of her finest and most useful assets. The sight of a beautiful woman stepping unexpectedly into the lantern light made the guards stop in their tracks for a moment. They were clearly not the sharpest swords in the Empire, and stood immobile for a second, their jaws slack. Then they remembered themselves, and clumsily pulled their blades from their scabbards.

“Who’re you?” grunted one of them, evidently the more senior of the two. His companion tried to look threatening, but seemed distracted by Katerina’s rather low neckline.

“Why, I am Anna Merckle, the count’s new secretary,” said Katerina sweetly. “I appear to be lost. Could you direct me to the state rooms? I have some papers to pick up.”

The second guard smiled stupidly and made to give her directions, but his companion was not quite so dull. Secretaries did not creep around the palace at night wearing an evening gown and pearls.

“You’ll have to report to the guard captain,” he said, suspiciously. “No one’s meant to be here, not with the party outside. Now, if you’ll come along, my lady…”

He stepped forward, lowering his sword and making to take her arm. Katerina shrugged, and suddenly flicked her wrists. A cloud of lilac dust burst into the air. Stepping back, she watched as the two men fell heavily to the ground, their eyes glazing and their tongues lolling loosely from their open mouths. Taking a moment to recover, she took their lantern and pulled them as best she could into the shadows. They were heavy in their armour, and she didn’t get very far. She looked anxiously towards the stairway at the end of the corridor, but it was dark and silent. It was annoying to have to waste energy on a spell, but at least it had been silent and effective. They’d wake in an hour or so with an acute hangover and an aversion to strange women in evening gowns. Until then, she was safe.

“Sleep well, boys,” she said, stepping over their prone bodies and making her way to the doors in front of her. With a push, they swung open, and she was inside.

Katerina held the lantern in the air for a moment, taking in her surroundings. Erlich had an eye for lavish decor, like most of his kind. The paintings on the walls were depictions of the great battles of the Empire. The figures of Sigmar, Karl-Franz and Magnus the Pious were rendered in vivid colours on canvases six feet tall. The desk before her was heavy, large and exquisitely decorated in a dark polished wood, its surface heaped with parchment. Cabinets and bookcases lined the walls, filled with curiosities from a long career in the Emperor’s service: a stuffed peacock, the skull of something that looked like an enormous rat, brass instruments of dwarf design, a collection of ivory inlaid pistols, silver inkwells and ingenious writing devices from the engineering school.

Ignoring all of this, Katerina went quickly to the desk, opening the drawers one by one and examining their contents. Most were full of routine scraps of paperwork: long out-of-date orders, messages and minutes to minor functionaries at court.

One of the drawers was locked. She smiled. Retrieving a slender device from a pocket on her thigh, she set to work with nimble fingers. In a moment, the lock was sprung and the drawer slid open. A collection of well-thumbed books lay within. She had a quick look at the contents and her eyebrows arched. Erlich clearly had interesting, if slightly unusual, tastes, and she very much doubted that the Countess von Erlich knew of the existence of such volumes in her husband’s study. She slipped one into a pocket with a smile before replacing the drawer and clicking the lock back into place. Such things had a habit of proving useful in the future.

The real prize still eluded her. She turned to the top of the desk, wondering if he’d been stupid enough to leave it in full view. She thumbed through bundles of crinkled papers bound with red ribbons, searching for the object of her master’s desire. Then she saw it, sitting amidst a pile of quill shavings as if it were the cheapest trinket in the whole place, and, to Erlich, it probably was. What he didn’t know was that the crudely carved bronze figure sitting on his writing desk was old, older than the Empire, forged before the spires of Altdorf had even been conceived.

It had a certain rough charm, she noted, turning it over in her fingers and examining it in the light of the stolen lantern. Only a wizard would have noticed the faint traces of magical aura seeping from its ancient surface. There were tiny engravings on it that she couldn’t read, but her master would be able to. She paused for a moment, wondering what purpose it served in his plans, and what powers it must possess to warrant her mission, but she quickly put such speculation aside and stowed the figure in a concealed pocket. Her time was short; if the sleeping guards were discovered, she would be in danger. Turning quickly, she made to leave.

Then she noticed something else, a nondescript bundle of papers at the top of one of Erlich’s many piles of documents. It had brown stains across it that might have been blood. For some reason, the script, written hastily in a poor hand, caught her eye. She read it quickly. These were despatches, brought at great cost to Altdorf and at great speed. No doubt they had been handed to some minor scribe in the Imperial bureaucracy with the expectation the instructions would be swiftly dealt with. Instead, the sheaf of papers languished on the desk of an idle noble, awaiting his delayed signature before it could pass up the tortuous chain of command.

If any one of the scurrying parasites who populated the Imperial army’s many official chambers and copy houses had actually read the report, they would have realised how desperate the situation was. Katerina read with morbid interest: orcs advancing up the Axe Bite Pass, thousands strong, no reinforcements at Helmgart, prospects bleak. Then came the interesting part: a shaman at the head of the marauding horde, one of prodigious power.

Her mind worked quickly. There might be possibilities in the overlooked report. She read the document again quickly, taking care to memorise the details. Knowing the way his mind worked, she felt sure her master would be very pleased with the intelligence. Stowing the papers carefully back at the bottom of another pile of unread documents, she extinguished the lantern and prepared to leave. With a faint swish of her gown, she was gone. The doors to the study closed behind her and within moments the two snoring bodies in the hallway were the only obvious sign of her passing.

Gunther Klaus, master of the Amethyst College, leaned back in his chair and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. Like Gelt, his voice was thin and rasping, the product of too many late-night incantations in the dark places of the Earth. He was bald, his pale skin drawn tight across ancient features, a few wisps of hair at the back of his neck the last of his once flowing locks. His lips were thin and dark, his eyes a cerulean blue within dark rings of loose flesh. He recovered and rearranged his deep purple robes over his skeletal frame, still grinning in a sinister fashion.

“Ah, my Katerina,” he said, looking at his protégée greedily. “You are the very best of all the wizards I have trained, the greatest of the many who have passed through these doors. You exceed my expectations at every turn.”

Katerina, tired from her efforts at the party, smiled weakly. She was pleased her master was happy with her, but found she wanted nothing more than to retire to her chambers and go to sleep. If she’d known how eager he would be about the despatches, she might never have told him.

Klaus, oblivious to her fatigue, stroked his chin with thin fingers.

“Your insight was a good one,” he mused. “It may be that, as we speak, the shaman lies dead, and the Empire lives safe for another day. But let us suppose that the valiant defenders at Helmgart have failed to stem the green tide, as they predicted. An army will need to be mustered and sent south to counter the threat before it comes towards Altdorf. If a shaman is at the heart of this incursion, then wizards will be required. No doubt, if this missive had gone through the proper channels quickly, that whoreson Gelt would have insisted on sending his favourites to do the job. Either his idiot Gold wizards would botch the job, in which case we would all need to flee for the hills while the capital burned, or they would succeed, in which case the honour would be his, weakening our position. Neither is a very appealing prospect.”

Katerina struggled to keep her eyes open as her master went through the various options she had worked out an hour ago. It was early in the morning, and a thin line of dove grey had appeared in the east. Klaus’ chambers were high in a tower overlooking the Amethyst College and the view across the rooftops of Altdorf was quite mesmerising. Checking herself, she turned her attention back to her master.

“The fact that we know of this, changes everything,” continued Klaus, his forehead frowning in concentration. “There’s no need for Gelt to discover its existence for weeks, or for however long it takes that fool Erlich to get around to reading the despatches. In the meantime, we can whisper words in the right ears. An army can be raised, with you accompanying it. A mere shaman should be no trouble for one of your powers, and I can pull some strings to ensure that the proper channels are not followed.”

“You mean to send me?” asked Katerina, suddenly waking up a little. Slogging for days with a dirty column of sickly, flea-infested soldiers was not what she’d had in mind. Surely this was an assignment for some luckless junior wizard eager to earn his spurs?

“Of course,” said Klaus, surprised. “You’re my best student, and things might get tricky if this shaman is half as powerful as the report suggests. There’d be no point in beating Gelt to the prize if my own wizard fails to deliver. I thought that’s what you had in mind.”

Katerina sighed inwardly. She had no one to blame but herself, but it was a miserable turn of events, nonetheless.

“Of course, master,” she said, weakly. “I was just making sure.”

The master smiled with satisfaction.

“Very good, my child,” he said, gazing at her with affection. “This will be a masterstroke for the college. Gelt will look weak, while we’ll reap the plaudits for a successful campaign. We need to act fast, though, news is impossible to keep quiet in this wretched city for long. You’ll need to speak to Aloysius Erhardt. He’s an army commander I’ve used before for a few little things, and he’s very suggestible. I’m sure you’d have no trouble persuading him of the wisdom of an expedition with you in tow, and he’s been itching to find something to do for months. In all truth, he’s not a very good general, but you’re only facing greenskins, and it’s more important to have someone you can control. Best of all, he’ll be able to leave quickly, as I happen to know he’s a stickler for keeping his forces in fighting trim, even when there’s not much to do apart from polish spear-tips and black boot leather.”

“Erhardt?” said Katerina, the name sounding familiar. “Wasn’t he the one who presided over the debacle in the Kragheur Marshes?”

Klaus smiled. “A mistake anyone could have made, being so unaware of the nature of the unquiet dead. Some advice from me put him back on the straight and narrow, with the pleasing consequence that he owes me for a number of trifling favours. He’s no hero of the Empire, but he’s not entirely useless either. You’ll have an easy time with him, and I believe he’s receiving visitors at his residence during the afternoon hours. A quick wash and brush-up, and you’ll be ready to pay him a visit.”

“Very well,” said Katerina, wearily. “I’d better go and get some sleep. I don’t want to turn up at his chambers looking like a peasant wench.”

Klaus grinned at her.

“You’d make a charming one, my dear,” he said, silkily, “but you’re right of course. I’ve detained you far too long. After you’ve rested, call on Erhardt, and let me know what he says. If you’re on the road with him before the end of the week, that would be perfect. We’ll steal a march on that damned golden fool. If you have any trouble, let me know; I may be able to help.”

“I won’t have any trouble, master,” said Katerina flatly, rising from her chair with difficulty, her limbs stiffened by the dawn cold.

She bowed to Klaus, and made to leave. Just as she was about to turn, she paused.

“Oh, I meant to ask, what exactly did you want the bronze figure for? You never told me.”

Klaus nodded. “That’s right. I didn’t.”

He looked away and began to study the thick leather-bound tome he had been perusing when she had entered. Katerina smiled to herself; she should have known better. Turning stiffly on her heel, she gathered her cloak around her and left the chamber.

Once into the frigid air of the early morning, Katerina began to wake up slightly. The households grand enough to have lanterns hanging from their imposing residences had sent men out to extinguish them. The streets were still damp and dark, and the sun would take at least another hour to peer properly into the crowded alleys and overlooked squares of the Imperial capital. The sky was grey and damp, and the air was filled with the stench of fish and the acrid aroma of charcoal braziers being ignited next to hastily erected market stalls.

Slowly, bad-temperedly, Altdorf was coming to life. Small boys, their faces pinched and pale, had begun their daily thievery, running through the gutters like rats. Merchants waded through the filth of the streets, trying to keep some semblance of respectability amidst the mud. Stall-keepers began to advertise their wares, and their coarse voices soon filled the air. It seemed as though everything in the world was for sale, although not much of it looked very appetising.

Katerina went quickly along the short route between the college and her significantly more humble dwellings. She felt self-conscious in her evening gown; elegant finery intended for seducing young noblemen was rather too conspicuous in daylight. Thankfully, only the meanest types of hawker and scavenger were up and about in numbers, and they gave her a wide berth. The few that caught her eye looked away quickly. Some would know who she was, or had heard rumours about her at least. When they knew the truth of her profession, even the meanest, stupidest goat-herder developed an instinctive aversion. Many of the neighbourhood residents would have seen her come and go from Klaus’ isolated tower before. When she passed, they lowered their gaze, muttered some blessing or made the sign of the twin-tailed comet under their cloaks. Even whores got more respect than wizards. At the least the populace knew what they did with their time.

Katerina had long been used to such superstitious treatment and ignored it. In the past she had got angry, at times confronting the worst offenders, but it did no good. For most of the simple-minded inhabitants of the Empire, being a wizard was only one step away from damnation, and causing too much of a fuss about the daily indignities visited on her kind merely brought the unwelcome attention of the witch hunters. So she had learned to keep her head down, and her dealings secret, and to nurture her contempt for the everyday folk of the teeming city in private. None of them knew a thing about her, whatever they might believe. None of them knew she had been raised amidst jewels and silks in one of the oldest houses in the Empire, none of them knew the sacrifices she had made since her fall from grace, and not one of them could have imagined the trials she had passed through to reach her current position. They were like cattle compared to her, dumb animals, proud of their ignorance and blindness.

To a wizard, the world was a myriad of extraordinary sensations, the very matter of the ethereal realm leaking into reality like a brightly coloured tapestry. None of this glorious vision impinged on the dreary, grey lives of the non-gifted as they plied their miserable trades in the filth and squalor of the back-streets and riverside tenements.

As she walked, Katerina kept her expression blank, but inside she felt her disgust rising. She needed to sleep, to escape the dank streets and shake off her fatigue in time for her call on Erhardt later in the day.

Shivering a little in the early morning chill, she hurried down the narrow street towards her lodgings, her footfalls soft on the cobbles, her eyes half-closed from weariness. So it was that she missed the figure twenty paces behind her, standing quietly at the corner of the road, his eyes shaded by a cowl, his slender form hidden by his long, elegant coat. As she drew out a ring of iron keys and clumsily unlocked her front door, he watched carefully, his eyes glistening, patiently observing. Once she was inside, he nodded briefly to himself and went on his way, striding through the gradually rising chatter and bustle with a calm authority. All around him, the street was coming to life, the early cold receding somewhat, and the promise of a new day beginning. The sun began to haul itself over the sluggish grey waters of the Reik, and the deeds of the night were banished into memory.

CHAPTER FOUR

Marius Joachim awoke. His neck was stiff and his joints ached. It was cold. Gingerly, he uncoiled his body and began to stretch his limbs. Little by little, feeling returned. He sat up, and the cool air began to clear his head. He shook his shaggy mane of jet-black hair, and leaf matter showered the earth around him. He’d spent the night in worse places. The enormous oak towered above him, its shelter having been welcome during a windswept, rain-soaked night. He threw aside the branches that had covered him, enjoying the feeling of life gradually returning.

He smelled strongly of the land. His skin was caked with dirt, his clothes stained heavily from grass and grime. He looked out over the valley before him, glowing verdantly in the first bloom of spring. The storm had passed, and the scene was exquisitely beautiful, framed by the last fronds of mist retreating in the dawn sunlight. The land reared sharply upwards on the far side of the valley into the high peaks of the Grey Mountains, their jagged summits pale and ethereal in the southern sky.

Shakily, Marius stood up, brushing his tattered and patched clothes down with his callused hands. He stamped his feet to regain circulation and then strode purposefully down the slope towards the gurgling stream ahead of him. White and fast, it sped over a rocky course down the hillside and into the wider river at the valley floor. Without a moment’s hesitation, Marius plunged his head into the stream, the ice-cold water causing him to gasp out loud. A few vigorous plunges into the water and he was glowing a healthy red, his breath coming sharply, his eyes alive. He took several mouthfuls of the clear liquid and its sharp, clean taste revived him completely. Shaking like a bear, he walked back on to the grassy bank and lay in the strong sunlight for a moment, allowing his face to dry before returning to the oak where he had spent the night.

Like many of his brethren, his possessions were few: a staff, a leather flask for water, a loose bag with some essential items of food and an odd assortment of charms, totems and fetishes. He looked like any ragged village tinker or charm seller, apart from the savage glint in his eye and the intricately carved staff he used to walk with. Such an impression could be dangerous—superstitious villagers were apt to seize on any excuse to persecute the weak, the poor or the different—but it suited him perfectly. Even by the standards of his reclusive order, he shunned the company of others, preferring the solitude of the wilds.

On the rare occasions when he spent time in civilised company, his grim, unpolished manner and straggling, pitch-black beard won him few friends. He had a driven, obsessive look in his intense eyes, and was quick to anger at any perceived stupidity or foolishness. Only a few would immediately recognise him for what he was: an Amber wizard, master of the elemental forces of nature, one of the most unpredictable and powerful of the eight Imperial lores. Even fewer would have been able to place the wild, bestial figure before them alongside the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued street urchin who wandered into the cave network of the Amber College twenty years before, one of the greatest and most naturally gifted of all the wizards of his generation. Time and circumstance had not been kind.

Refreshed, and slightly less filthy, Marius collected his belongings together and cast his eyes across the distant horizon. It looked fair in all directions. The storms of the previous two days had beaten themselves out against the unforgiving mountains and the sky was clearing. The wide approaches to the Axe Bite Pass were visible to the south-east, but that was not his destination. As ever, he was on the trail of knowledge, the secret of a specific spell, the one he had searched nearly ten years for. The auspices had recently been promising: rumours of a single, weather-beaten tower in the foothills of the Grey Mountains, long abandoned, but home to books of lore, tomes filled with wisdom either forbidden or forgotten. The few villagers in the region had known nothing of it, perhaps cowed into silence by his ragged appearance and gruff manner, but he could not discount the possibility entirely. This was empty, wild country, dominated by deep and uncharted forests. Wherever there was a hint of the arcane, he was bound to track it down, compelled to seek it out in the hope of undoing the great wrong done to him so many years ago.

Marius had planned to travel west for the next two days, keeping close to the mountains, but away from any isolated, outlying villages, relying on his experienced senses to guide him. But as he looked east, his face screwed against the morning sun, he paused. Shading his eyes, which were acute even without magical augmentation, he made out two thin columns of smoke rising over the canopy of the trees to the east. Behind them, several more were coiling into the cool air. That was strange. He looked up towards the Axe Bite Pass. The shallow incline and winding road through the mountains was hidden behind the shoulder of the great peak on its near flank. Some sense within him made him uneasy. He looked back into the open air. No birds flew in the eastern sky.

Sighing, he collected his belongings together and made his way down the hillside and along the valley towards the burning. Soon the high, rocky land was shrouded in trees. As he went, his misgivings grew. He walked quickly, expert at passing easily through the tangled undergrowth, irritated at the interruption to his plans. He would have preferred to have ignored it, but despite his wandering lifestyle, he was still an Imperial wizard, and that carried certain obligations, even for him. He only hoped it wasn’t some conflagration caused by a stray lump of charcoal thrown in a hayloft by a careless farmhand. Such accidents were liable to be blamed on his kind in the absence of more plausible explanations. When disaster struck a village, it was easiest to blame the outcast, the wanderer and the gifted, rather than face the causes of ruin within.

He found his mood darkening as he passed down into a deep valley. The shadows of the trees lay heavily across the narrow tracks.

He paused. There was some commotion ahead, but its source was muffled and indistinct. He pressed on, muttering to himself about the stupidity and ignorance of peasants, when something dark, small and spiny leapt across the path in front of him and away into the shadows. Suddenly alert, he backed towards a tall elm trunk, raising his staff. Before him, the forest extended in a murky sea of dark green. The morning sun pierced the canopy brightly in places, but the foliage was thick, casting deep shadows on the ground around him. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what had leapt across his path and where it had gone. With a muttered incantation, the tip of his staff began to glow with dull amber light.

Then they came at him, hooded goblins, their eyes shining, their grins wide and fiendish. Marius’ face curled into a mask of disgust. So that was it: a greenskin incursion. These dregs must be outriders from the main host. He whirled his staff in a wide circle, allowing the amber tip to glow more brightly.

If the goblins knew he was a wizard, they might decide to slope off without a fight. Unlike their larger cousins, the prospect of an even match was not one that normally filled them with enthusiasm.

For once, his intuitions were wrong. At the sight of his staff, the serried faces in the shadows of the trees whooped and shrieked in mock pleasure. Wherever the little wretches had come from, they weren’t afraid of magic.

Marius felt a guilty pleasure begin to creep up on him. He hadn’t had a chance to stretch himself for a while, and he was feeling fully rested and in the mood to cause some damage. He let the light at the end of his staff diminish and fade. Gripping it tightly in both hands, feeling its solid weight against his palms, he grinned savagely. The magic could wait for a moment. It would be interesting to see how far he could get without it.

The goblins, having gathered together under the briars and low-hanging branches, didn’t waste any time. They ran towards him from all directions, scratchy voices hollering and wailing. They looked crazed, desperate for human flesh to tear at, no fear in their eyes at all.

Marius pondered this as he swung at the nearest one, slamming the scrawny figure against a tree trunk. Its head cracked with a snap against the wood. What was making them so fearless? He stepped back to avoid a thrown dagger and in a fluid movement brought the other end of his staff crunching into the midriff of a cowled goblin creeping up behind him. They must be part of a large horde, he thought, jumping forward to dodge a scimitar thrust, kicking a yelping, long-nosed runt square in the face with his worn leather boot, before thudding the staff into the back of its unprepared colleague. He knew from long experience that the size and fury of the incursion fed the greenskins with a unique energy, so if even these scrawny warriors were prepared to take on a wizard, the main host must be a serious one.

Marius punched another leering face with a controlled movement and spun back away from the bloodied form to protect his back. They were weak, these goblins, but there were a lot of them and they were springing towards him from all directions. Perhaps it was time to use the staff properly.

As he whirled around, flailing at the barking and yammering figures leaping from the branches, he began to mutter an incantation. Almost imperceptibly, the circular movement of his staff began to stir up the leaf matter on the forest floor. He checked his direction, hurling his staff tip in the opposite direction. The length of it hummed slightly as the rhythms of magic began to pulse. The Amber Wind was strong in such a place, so far from the deadening effects of civilisation.

He maintained his chanting, soaking up the energy of the forest, allowing the leaves to swirl faster and higher around him in a vortex of gathering pace. The goblins paused, unsure of what to make of the cloud of leaves rising around their quarry. Then the hoarse laughter started again and they scampered towards him. Their goads and daggers glinted in the emerald glow of the trees, but they soon discovered the leaves flying around them were no longer the limp, dry matter of the woodland floor. As they brushed against the cloaks, tattered hides and skins of the goblins, they slashed and cut, their razor-sharp edges slicing through whatever they touched. In an instant, the triumphant yells of the goblins changed to yowls of fear and pain. Gobbets of thick, dark blood joined the leaves in the vortex.

Marius wanted to shout aloud with pleasure, enjoying the primeval forces surging through him. His powers felt endless. When the Amber Wind caressed his body, he felt able to raise the entire forest against them, drag every stabbing thorn and briar across their faces, pull every curling, crushing root down over their struggling limbs. He felt his heart thumping as he strode forward, and tore the ground under him as he went.

The goblins had no stomach for the fight. Squealing like farm animals, they withdrew, clutching lacerated fingers and eyeless faces, limping and staggering away from the whirling cloud. Slowly, reluctantly, Marius let his power ebb away. The leaves fell to the ground like chaff in an autumn breeze. It was always a mistake to get carried away, the feeling of invincibility as frail and capricious as a dream. The wizards who believed it were the ones who found their spells turning against them.

With a final squeal of indignation, the last runtish goblin warrior hopped and scurried back into the trees. Marius leaned against the bole of a mighty oak, waiting to catch his breath. Casting magic was like drinking: it felt good when doing it, but dreadful after the event. As his senses dulled back towards the drab palette of the real world, he felt the familiar pain of withdrawal course through his body and mind, the hammering ache beginning in his temples, the throb of loss in his limbs.

He waited for the worst to pass, his body limp against the bark behind him, his breath short and shallow. It had always been this way with him: all or nothing. He knew not all wizards felt the same. Some were able to slip in and out of spell casting as easily as fish sliding through river water, coolly plucking their charms out of the air to delight the idiot nobles and ladies who employed them. For better or worse, he was made differently, attuned closely to the rawer side of the magical arts. His natural inclination was to wallow in the enormous powers they gave him rather than paddle in the shallows.

He looked down at his scarred hands. The old wounds criss-crossed his palms like the illuminations of demented scribes. That was the price of his temperament, his inability to let go. He screwed his fingers shut, feeling the shaking in his body begin to subside. Slowly, he pushed himself away from the tree and back onto the forest path. His face set grimly, he started to walk once more. His movements were stiff and halting and his cheerful mood of the morning had dissipated completely. His gait uneven, he began to make his way east, his previous errand now forgotten in the hunt for greenskins. Perhaps killing a few more before the day ended would make him feel better.

* * *

Katerina sat back in the low chair in a bad mood. She had been kept waiting in the general’s antechamber for over an hour. His residence was on the far side of the city from the Amethyst College, and the journey to meet him had been tedious. As she had expected, his quarters were palatial. He showed a marked taste for extravagance, and even the small waiting room was expensively decorated and furnished. If she had been less familiar with the ways of the aristocracy, she might have been intimidated. As it was, the whole charade was faintly boring.

She stole a glance at a curved looking glass in a gilt frame on the wall, and rearranged her hair slightly. The fact she looked even vaguely presentable was testament to her exceptional skills of deception and artistic trickery; thanks to Klaus, she had had only a few hours’ sleep. Calmly, she steeled herself for the trial ahead. Normally, influencing a suggestible noble would be the easiest thing in the world for her, given her long and creditable experience in the field, but as she waited alone in the panelled chamber, the meagre fire burning low in the grate, the oak doors to his study still firmly closed, she was having second thoughts.

Idly, she began to play with the amethyst amulet that hung around her slender neck, admiring once more the spun gold around its glowing heart. The gemstone gave her some comfort, as it always did. Not for the first time, she wondered where it had come from. It was the only thing retrieved from the ruins of her previous life, something that had been with her ever since her earliest days. She knew it had been in her family for as long as anyone could remember. It was a strange thing, she mused, beautiful, but strange.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the click of the doors to the study being unlocked from the inside. She sat up straight and hastily arranged her gown around her. When the doors swung open and Erhardt’s adjutant entered the antechamber, she looked as serene and prepared as the Tsarina of Kislev receiving a fresh suitor. The adjutant, a balding, potbellied old man, whose best years of service were firmly behind him, bowed.

“His excellency will see you now, my lady.”

Inwardly, Katerina winced. “Excellency” was a title for diplomats and regents, soldiers did better to avoid such pointless honorifics. Outwardly, she merely nodded gracefully and rose from her position in a single fluid movement. No one but a seer would have known how little sleep she had had, or how little she was looking forward to the upcoming assignment. Following the adjutant’s direction, she glided into the study beyond. Once she was inside, he withdrew, pulling the doors closed behind him.

Katerina took a moment to absorb her surroundings. The room was large, with a wide bay window overlooking carefully tended gardens. Thick, dark rugs covered the wooden floor, and another fire burned heartily in a large stone fireplace on the wall to her right. The walls were covered with maps, many with lines and notes scrawled across them in charcoal. As in Count von Erlich’s private chamber, piles of parchment and red ribbons cluttered the surfaces of the several desks and reading tables. The walls were darkly panelled, and the few bookcases were stuffed with leather-bound tomes on the art of war and the history of the Empire. Straight ahead, between her and the window, was a huge desk, empty and unoccupied. In front of the fire there were two large armchairs, each upholstered in a thick, luxuriant layer of burgundy-coloured velvet. She raised a mental eyebrow: extravagant, even for a general of Erhardt’s dubious reputation.

As if summoned by her thoughts, a second door to her left opened and the man himself entered the room. He was dressed in black and his garments hung loosely from his slender frame. His hair was black too, drawn back severely from his pale face and heavily greased. For a soldier, his skin seemed strangely smooth and unmarked. He might have been approaching fifty, perhaps younger. He smiled insipidly, extending a thin hand towards her as he entered.

“My lady wizard,” Erhardt said, his voice smooth and diplomatic, “how delightful to see you.”

She proffered her own hand, and the general kissed it.

“The pleasure is all mine, your excellency,” said Katerina curtly, pulling her hand back as soon as she decently could.

Erhardt motioned to the chairs in front of the fire, and she sat. He went over to a small cabinet next to the fire.

“A drink?” he asked, opening the delicately engraved doors to reveal a host of crystalware within.

“Why not?” said Katerina, privately pleased. She could do with one, and it always made her job easier. Erlich returned with two glasses of a dark, powerful-looking wine in immaculate cut crystal goblets and sat opposite her.

“Your good health,” he said, offering a glass to her. Katerina took a refined sip, resisting the urge to gulp the glass down in one. Pleasingly, she noticed Erhardt take a generous helping, the heady liquid bringing an almost instant glow to his cheeks. It all promised to be very simple indeed.

“Now,” said the general, relaxing back into his plush armchair and crossing his feet before the generous fire, “what can I do for you?”

“This appointment may be more about what I can do for you, your excellency,” said Katerina, looking him directly in the eye with a level gaze. “I have information that I feel you’ll want to know about, to be precise, despatches from Helmgart, a citadel in the south that I’m sure you are familiar with. Tiresomely, there’s been an orcish incursion across the Grey Mountains. From the documents I’ve seen, the horde is large. It’s led by a shaman, apparently one of prodigious power. It could, if left unchecked, threaten the Empire. Even though the passes are many miles away, there is not much of note between Helmgart and Altdorf. You can see the danger.”

Erhardt nodded carefully, his expression even, and hard to read.

“How fascinating,” he said. “This is the first I’ve heard of such a thing. How is it that news has reached your ears?”

“My master wishes to protect his sources, naturally,” said Katerina coolly. “Suffice to say that if we hadn’t seen certain documents, they wouldn’t have received the proper attention for some days. You know how it is, officials are such sticklers for procedure, and papers can lie unattended for weeks. With the gravity of the situation in mind, such a delay could be disastrous.”

“I’ve known such things to happen,” said Erhardt wryly, taking a second swig of his wine.

“When my master’s attention was drawn to such dreadful news,” continued Katerina, “he immediately began to worry for the safety of the Empire and the approaches to Altdorf. The greenskins have been known to travel fast when the frenzy is upon them. All of us are at risk. So, his mind greatly disquieted, he asked me to seek out a general on whom the Empire could rely, one with whom the difficult and doubtful task of seeing off the incursion could be safely entrusted. There was only one name on the list, and so I have been sent here to earnestly beg your assistance.”

Erhardt listened intently. The sardonic smile was still on his lips, but Katerina could sense he was flattered.

“I’m immensely gratified in your master’s confidence,” he said, carefully, “but you can see for yourself that this is an important business. Why have you not taken it immediately to the proper authorities?”

Katerina feigned a look of innocent surprise.

“Are you not the most suitable person, given the circumstances?” she asked lightly, running her finger around the lip of her goblet. “A decorated general, a man for whom due process must always come second to duty? Time is short, your Excellency, and it cannot be wasted in the delays of officials. Of course, there are other candidates. I gather Ludwig Schwarzhelm is due back in the city soon; perhaps it would be better to wait until he returns, especially if you would rather defer to seniority?”

Erhardt did his best to conceal his interest, but Katerina could tell he didn’t like that idea. Just like wizards, the rivalry between soldiers was intense. If there was a chance for glory on offer, he would grab it with both hands.

“Don’t be hasty, my dear,” he said, smiling in a sinuous fashion. “You are right to have come to me, and what you say is most interesting. I’m just being cautious. Is there anything more you can tell me?”

Katerina leaned forward conspiratorially, feeling the chain of her amulet slide from her neck, knowing she would be giving Erhardt an enviable view of her exposed d�colletage.

“Well, general,” she said in a low voice, placing her hand lightly on Erhardt’s as he sat opposite her. “We have our suspicions. Not all the masters of the colleges can be entirely trusted. We think a number of our colleagues may have received these tidings some time ago, but have done nothing. There are many strange characters in the ranks of the gifted, and, regrettably, not all have the best interests of the Empire at heart.”

With quiet satisfaction, Katerina noticed Erhardt making an effort to meet her gaze at eye level. His pulse was slightly faster than usual, her gentle suggestiveness, the wine, and the warmth of the fire all contributing. There was no magic in her technique, or not much anyway, but it had the desired effect all the same.

“Why would they have kept such a thing to themselves?” asked Erhardt, his cool facade slipping slightly.

“Because of the shaman, my dear Erhardt,” said Katerina, dropping the title and effortlessly slipping into using his given name. She began, very gently, to exert some pressure on his hand, which he didn’t move. “There are some, including those very high up, whose fascination with magic perhaps outweighs their loyalty to the Emperor. They would dearly love to witness such a monster, to test themselves against it, perhaps even seek to capture it and subject the wretched beast to experimentation. Such a thing cannot be allowed. The incursion must be stopped before it risks the lives of everyone in the capital.”

Erhardt started to nod, before catching himself. He withdrew his hand from Katerina’s and restored his composure.

“Evidently,” he said, uncertainly, “the horde must be stopped before it comes this far. This shaman could wreak havoc if it got close enough to the city. We must act, and act quickly. No doubt it would be prudent to wait for the return of Schwarzhelm, but there is, as you say, a premium on our time.”

Katerina gave him a dazzling smile, one that she had used with great success in the past. This was all going very well, and he was responding just as she had hoped. A little more flattery and her work was done.

“My master knew you were the man for the job,” she said, smoothly, gazing with false admiration into his eyes. “Of course, given the circumstances, we must keep this between ourselves, the Amethyst College and your forces. The other wizards cannot know of our preparations, it’s not safe. We must raise an army and leave the city as soon as we can. The task will be arduous, but should we succeed the glory will be infinite. We can be frank with one another—we’re both ambitious people. There’s no harm in serving the cause of Sigmar and one’s career at the same time. Think of the glory in leading a victorious returning army, having saved the city from destruction. I can think of no man I would rather be beside in such an endeavour.”

Erhardt raised an eyebrow. “We?” he said, although it looked like the thought was quite attractive to him.

“Why, of course. A shaman, especially one as powerful as we’ve been led to believe, is a tricky proposition. You’ll need a wizard with you to counter it, one with equal skills. I can assure you that mine are… impressive.”

Erhardt suddenly looked hesitant. Katerina cursed herself. Had she laid it on a bit thick?

“I’m sure they are, my dear,” said the general in a low voice, looking thoughtful, “and what you say is very important and interesting.”

He took another large gulp of wine.

“Let me think about it for a moment, my lady. There do need to be certain protocols observed, and then there is the matter of provisions, organisation. This is a serious undertaking.”

The situation seemed to be slipping away. Quickly, feeling things were in the balance, Katerina leaned close to him once more, placing her hand on his again.

“Of course,” she said, her voice low and soothing. “There is a lot to think about, and you have been patient with me. If it were not so important that the matter be resolved quickly by a man of action and integrity, I’d never have been asked to trouble you in such a blunt and forward manner. But having met you, I feel you and I are kindred spirits, possessors of great power who only wish the best for the Empire. We must stick together, you and I. I can see you are a man for whom no undertaking, however arduous, is too large, and I, your excellency, am a woman, who cannot help but find such things attractive. It’s your choice, of course, but I would dearly love to be placed under your command, to serve in whatever way I can. It would be an honour, and a pleasure.”

Erhardt looked back at her, a greedy light suddenly flickering in his eyes.

“To be sure,” he said thoughtfully, “I can see the benefits of such a… partnership.”

“So can I,” Katerina breathed, her eyes shining. “I don’t think there’s any need for much more discussion, do you? Let’s just make it our little secret. If you act fast, I think I can find time to come here many times before we leave, for planning purposes of course.”

Erhardt, his face increasingly flushed, nodded hungrily.

“What a delightful thought,” he murmured. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason why we shouldn’t start a little… planning right now?”

“None at all,” said Katerina, smiling seductively.

Her work was done.

* * *

Adjusting her gown as she went, Katerina walked hastily through the walled gardens of Erhardt’s private residence towards the gates. The adjutant had given her a filthy look as she had left the study. Well, he would have to get used to it. Erhardt would probably need another couple of visits to ensure that his enthusiasm was maintained, and the need for secrecy, at least from the Gold College, was paramount. It would do no harm to remind him of that from time to time, and make sure that the name of the Amethyst College was kept well out of the way.

She was cautiously optimistic. Although no great soldier, Erhardt looked like an efficient administrator, and he was probably desperate enough for a second appointment with her to get on with the business of putting the necessary steps in place. With any luck, they would leave the city at the end of the week, well on course to meet the orcs in battle before the Gold College got wind of the invasion or the horde got anywhere near the capital.

Katerina grimaced slightly at the thought of spending more time with the man. While there was a certain pleasure in wrapping powerful men around her fingers, she knew the whole business was really an imposition for one of her talents and seniority. Once it was all over, she would demand to be let into Klaus’ plans more completely. The days of him treating her as little better than his personal servant were long overdue to come to an end.

Pulling her cloak tightly round her shoulders, she approached the gatehouse. The porter let her through the narrow arched way. She straightened her hair once more, and stepped into the flurry of Altdorf’s crowded streets. She turned quickly along the cobbled thoroughfare, eager to make her way to the Amethyst College. After delivering her report to Klaus, she fully intended to return home, get her servants to fill the large copper bathtub with near-boiling water, and spend the rest of the afternoon soaking away the memory of the interview with Erhardt.

She slipped deftly through the crowds in the wide streets. The imposing houses of the diplomats, senior soldiers and minor nobility stood well back from the teeming multitudes behind their high stone walls. Unlike most of the rest of Altdorf, generally a rank open sewer of humanity, the city watch kept a pretty decent semblance of order in this exclusive quarter.

She shot the occasional glance through iron railings at the immaculate grounds hidden within. Some of the residents no doubt deserved their lives of indolence after giving many fine years of service to the Emperor. Some most certainly did not, and she allowed herself a brief sardonic smile as she hurried past the mansion of a petty princeling she’d swindled only two months before. She had danced with him a week later at the Marquis d’Alembert’s ball, enjoying more than usual the doe-eyed attention he had lavished on her.

It was as she stole a glance over her shoulder, her mind wandering, that she first noticed the presence. It was only the briefest of glimpses, but it was enough. Those in her profession quickly became proficient at spotting when they were being followed. She cursed under her breath, and slightly, almost imperceptibly, picked up her pace. She hadn’t got a good look at him, but there was definitely a man on her trail. He was pretty good at his job, and if the streets in this area hadn’t been so free of the normal filth and clutter he might have escaped detection altogether. Thinking quickly, she turned down a side alley and began to make her way into the seamier districts near the river. It would do no good to lead her pursuer to the college. Ideally there would be an opportunity to turn the tables on him, but it would be difficult to do so in broad daylight with members of the city watch all over the place.

She went quickly, ducking and weaving through the crowds like a pike darting through river water. Every so often, she would casually glance back, seeing if her evasion had been successful. He was not easy to spot without giving the game away, but he couldn’t hide his presence altogether. Katerina was beginning to admire his persistence. If she were being trailed by any old cutpurse or beggar she would probably have given him the slip by now and been thankful for it. As it was, she was becoming more and more interested to see who this determined individual was.

She took in her surroundings carefully as she went, on the lookout for any suitable locations for an ambush. She was still heading down into the dock area. The smells of fish, pitch and stale beer headed up a list of characteristically unsavoury aromas. The crowds around her, jostling, hustling and cursing, were becoming thicker as the genteel world of Erhardt’s kind degenerated into the undignified scrum that typified most of Altdorf.

Then, on her left, she spied what she was after, a narrow, long alley, more or less deserted, shrouded in shadows, piled high towards the rear with ranks of crates, barrels and other flotsam. With a deft turn of her ankle, she slipped aside and fled into the shadows. Quickly, knowing the man on her tail would have seen her manoeuvre, she gathered her expensive gown around her knees and leapt up onto the nearest crate, clambering quickly until she was hidden from view entirely, ten feet above street level and shielded from view by a stinking heap of cordage. Then she waited. Her eyes glinted in the darkness and the hubbub of the streets was distant.

He was cautious. Moments passed and Katerina began to wonder if she had given him the slip entirely. Then, he appeared. There was not much to go on. Against the bright light of the street, he appeared as a blank silhouette against the alley entrance. She carefully took in what few details there were: average height, low-brimmed hat, long leather coat, confident bearing.

“Now, come further in…” she breathed to herself, willing him to venture deeper into the alley. She felt like a spider at the centre of her web, eagerly anticipating the cautious footfalls of the fly on the outer strands. Carefully, quietly, she began to prepare her familiar sleeping spell, her fingers glowing faintly purple in the darkness. He began to edge into the narrow way, looking around cautiously, his face still hidden from view. “Closer…” she whispered, her spell nearing completion.

“Eh! What you doing? Get out of there!”

The burly figure of a dockhand came careering around the corner, a podgy finger prodding at the startled man below.

“This is my gear, see?” he said, his face red with anger and suspicion. “I don’t want no one poking their fat noses in here. Bugger off!”

The other man said something that Katerina couldn’t catch and raised his hands in apology. Reluctantly, he backed away, looking behind him thoughtfully as he walked back into the sunlit street beyond. The dockhand stood for a moment at the alley entrance, hands on hips, muttering. In time, he left too.

Katerina waited for a while, but her pursuer didn’t come back. Perhaps the dockhand had chased him away for good, or maybe he had rumbled the trap. Cursing her luck, Katerina carefully unwound herself from her cramped hiding place and descended. Her dress stank of fish oil.

She crept back along the alley. Cautiously, she peered around the corner. There was no sign of either the dockhand or her mysterious follower. Sighing, she mingled once more with the crowd in the street. Most of them smelled more or less the same as she did. Klaus could wait, she thought bitterly. Right now, that bath was the major priority.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lothar sat by the fire moodily, its thin flame giving him little warmth. In less than an hour the sun would be fully up and the battered band of survivors would move again, but his legs felt wooden and lethargic. He couldn’t shake the final images of Helmgart. His restless dreams in the few snatches of sleep he had been able to grab were full of them. He stared out across the valley the mist lying thick and heavy in the pre-dawn gloom. He chewed methodically at the last grisly strands of rabbit in his hands. He knew he would need the strength later, but the meat stuck in his throat. He felt weak and morbid. His staff lay discarded by his side, his hands still burned from the reckless discharges of magic in the doomed defence of the citadel.

Quietly, Karsten came and sat beside him, looking silently towards the mountains as well. They were there, somewhere to the south. The orcs had been in no hurry to leave their plunder in the passes to pursue them, and were no doubt taking the time to sack and ruin every village in their path. But they were coming, all the same. There would be no respite, no rest, and no safe place.

“How goes it, castellan?” asked Lothar at length, throwing the last of the bones into the fire.

Karsten smiled wryly, his pale eyes fixed southwards.

“We have more men now, at any rate,” he said in a dry voice. “Some got out of the citadel before we did and have since found us. Others fled from the villages below the passes, and they’ve got nowhere else to go. At least we have our swords and armour, which gives them hope. They’ve no idea how many greenskins are on their way. No doubt they’ll find out soon enough.”

Lothar nodded grimly. If a well-stocked garrison in a frontier fortress had not been enough to stem the green tide, a ramshackle bunch of defeated soldiers and scared villagers would hardly make much difference. He took a swig of water from his gourd and pondered for a while.

“So,” he said at last, “what’s your plan?”

He spoke more as if addressing a colleague than a senior officer. Since the flight from Helmgart, the distinction of ranks between them had seemed less important. Karsten still enforced discipline with his men, but Lothar had been thrust into the role of battle wizard, an advisory position, whether or not he liked to admit it.

“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you,” said Karsten, looking sincere enough. “I do have an idea, but it’s not something the men will like. I’d value your opinion.”

Lothar allowed himself a bitter smile. He didn’t place great store by his own opinion, not after what had happened. First Malgar, then Helmut; he wondered if he’d been cursed in some way. But he made no protest, only nodded for the castellan to continue.

“Well, it’s like this,” he said in his simple, broad Reikland accent. “I sent reports of the orc incursion before they struck. A scout called Niklas Steinhauer took detailed estimates of their numbers to Altdorf. He was on a fast horse and was ordered to travel as quickly as he could; with any luck, the Empire is forewarned. As for us, we could head north as fast as possible by the same route, avoiding the vanguard of the orcs if we can, and head to Altdorf. That’s the surest way of saving our skins, at least for the time being.

“I reckon we can outrun the main host for a while, since they seem to be stopping to burn everything in their path. But here’s the problem, if nothing else holds them up, what are we likely to find at Altdorf? Most probably a city unprepared for anything. Even if our message got through, which I pray to Sigmar it did, there’s been no time to organise a proper defence. I’ve experienced the Imperial bureaucracy before. It can take weeks for the right stamp to find its way onto the right seal. For all I know, my report is still sitting on a desk somewhere in a nobleman’s palace, with no response organised, and no defending army mustered.”

“So what do you suggest?” asked Lothar. “Go back and fight them again?”

Karsten nodded, and then held up a scarred hand to ward off Lothar’s incredulous laughter.

“Listen,” he said, “I know we can’t face them out in the open, that’s madness, but we do need to hold them up somehow, even if it’s just for another day or so. We could be the only force between them and the rest of the Empire. If we die in the attempt, then we’ve probably only shortened our lives by a tiny fragment. In any case, it’s our duty.”

Lothar looked carefully at the grizzled face of the castellan to see if he was being sarcastic, but the pale eyes remained steady. He felt a brief pang of shame. During his years of study in Altdorf, the idea of someone doing their “duty” for the Empire would have been laughed out of the college. Perhaps things were different in the provinces. He lowered his eyes.

“We can’t engage them by ourselves,” he said, self-consciously. “The shaman’s proved it’s more than a match for me, and I wouldn’t even be able to get close to it, not with the forces we have left.”

Karsten nodded.

“An assault on the shaman is not what I had in mind,” he said. “Its army, though, is another thing. We have to do something to dent the power of the incursion; it’s as big as any I’ve ever seen.”

Lothar couldn’t stifle a grating laugh.

“I see. So it’s easy. We just forget about the shaman and kill the rest of the orcs.”

Karsten looked at him darkly, his patience growing limited. The dark rings under his eyes spoke of fatigue.

“Of course we can’t stop them all,” he said irritably, “but there are ways of luring them into situations where more of them will be killed than they can kill. We can’t do more than make them stumble in their march, but at least it’s doing something.”

Lothar felt his shame returning.

“Tell me what you have in mind,” he said, regretting his contrary, introspective mood. The grief of Helmut’s death was still too close.

“Very well,” said Karsten, something of his usual equable expression returning. “It all turns on the way the land lies. There is very little of note around us, just thick, tangled forest, the craggy highlands of the Skaag Hills, and plenty of impassable or difficult patches of hostile wilderness. Once past Helmgart, an invading army has very little choice over which direction it heads. The best route by far is to head almost due north. The orcs will be looking for plunder and looting, and the few farms and villages around lie in that direction. If they do this, which I think they must, they are bound to come up against Castle Grauenburg, several days’ march north of here, and the only fortress of any note between here and Altdorf. With luck, we can get there ahead of them. At the very least, we’ll be able to replenish our supplies, but I have something else in mind. I think we should make a stand there.”

Lothar looked sceptical, but Karsten was undeterred.

“Hear me out. If I’m right about the direction the orcs will take, they won’t be able to resist sacking the castle. It’s half the size of Helmgart, and a choice prize for plunder. No doubt the orcs will expect us to hold it against them, but if we attempt to shelter there, we’ll be overrun just as we were at Helmgart. A power that can rip apart stone walls will not be halted at such a fortress, even if there are hundreds more men waiting there for us. But Grauenburg is noted for more than its defences—it’s a major storehouse for the blackpowder on which our gunnery depends. For years, the school of engineers has placed strategic stockpiles of the stuff in key locations, away from the great cities where disasters and thievery are rife, yet close to places where it may be needed.”

“Like Helmgart.”

“Indeed so. Marcus was a frequent visitor. Now, being a learned man, you’ll know of the great conflagration that erupts when barrels of the blackpowder, placed together in close confinement, are ignited all at once. I’ve seen the force for myself, years ago, when a wagon carrying munitions to the front line was destroyed in a freak accident. If such a force were unleashed in Grauenburg, where the stores are so much greater, the destruction would be immense.”

Lothar began to see where this was going. For the first time since the flight from the hills, a flicker of hope kindled in his mind.

“You mean to draw the orcs into the castle, and then destroy it,” he said, shaking his head slightly at the audacity.

Karsten nodded.

“It’ll be perilous,” he said. “We’ll have to lure them onwards, keep them following us, fight long enough to provoke their interest, and get out at just the right time. We might all die before the first fuse is lit, or perish in the fire with the orcs, but if we plan carefully, and Sigmar is with us, I believe it can be done. I’ll know more when we get to Grauenburg.”

He paused, and looked at Lothar evenly. “I’ll need a wizard,” he said. “I can’t do this alone, not with all my officers lying in the rubble at Helmgart. You have arts that I need.”

Lothar laughed again, but this time not through bitterness.

“I’m not a pyromancer, the sort you’d want for this kind of thing,” he said, watching as the last of the flames before him guttered and died. “But, yes, I may be able to render some service.”

He turned to face Karsten. “I guess I’d expected we’d head back to Altdorf, defeated and with our heads held low. It would be the safer option, but I can see what you mean about the need to slow them down. Perhaps this is foolhardy, but it’s better than doing nothing.”

Karsten gave him an approving nod, something like relief on his face.

“Good, I’m glad you agree,” he said, making to return to his men. “We’ll discuss the plan in detail as we travel, but I need to collect our forces and break camp. Don’t sit here too long, we’ll be leaving soon.”

He got up in a swift movement and strode back up the hill to where the remainder of his garrison were making their preparations to leave. Lothar continued chewing his final morsel of rabbit slowly, watching the mist begin to rise from the valley floor below. Karsten was right, it was better to have a madman’s plan than no plan at all. For the first time in two days, he began to ponder something other than sorrow. He began to ponder vengeance.

The journey to the castle was slow and arduous. As Karsten had said, the land north of the Grey Mountains was harsh and unforgiving. On either side of the winding road heading back towards the passes, they were overshadowed by high, dark crags of wind-gnawed rock. Where the rock gave way, it was replaced by gloomy, tangled forests. The trees looked as old as the bones of the earth, and there were no obvious tracks into the hidden, oppressive depths. Lothar imagined an army trying to traverse such a landscape, and knew that the castellan was right. The orcs would have to head north, following in their footsteps, until the wilderness relented a little.

Lothar slept fitfully during the nights, his dreams still troubled by memories of Helmgart. Daylight brought little relief, more endless trudging, blisters and aching limbs. The remnants of the garrison had almost no food with them, and as time went on the pace of the march slowed. Water was easier to come by, and there were many streams running down from the peaks, but even the few abandoned dwellings they came across had little in the way of provisions. It was a relief when they descended into slightly easier country, and Lothar began to regain some hope of finding supplies.

Eventually, they reached the valley of the River Bögen, and Karsten picked up the pace, knowing that the castle was near. After a morning labouring through gloomy, boggy forest, they finally broke free of the trees and on to a man-made clearing. Ahead of them, maybe two miles away, Castle Grauenberg’s squat turrets stood on a low rise to the north. Lothar felt his spirits lift, even through his fatigue. At least they would be able to eat. Only then would they have to turn their minds once more to Karsten’s plan.

The castle stood at the centre of a rare opening in the otherwise endless forests, and the land looked like it was well tilled and fertile. If things had been different, the scene before them would have been one of pastoral plenty, the height of spring a time for dancing, carousing and courting. A few modest hamlets clustered some distance away from the shadow of the trees, and looked prosperous enough for all their isolation. But news of the disaster had come to the area from the fleeing inhabitants of settlements nearer the mountains, and their tales had been filled with portents of terror, and so the ragged company of men plodded through deserted fields.

Only once did they meet a bunch of travellers sheltering in the empty barn of an abandoned farm. Some of them joined the company as they made their way to the castle gates, Karsten willing to accept almost any recruits in the circumstances.

Lothar examined the new arrivals carefully as they walked and joked at the rear of the disciplined lines of the castellan’s remaining soldiers. Some looked like the kind of hired thugs and mercenaries that could be found all over the Empire. Their ravaged grins spoke of cunning, unreliability and avarice. Others were young farmhands, their open faces full of excitement and anticipation at the glorious adventure they were confident awaited them. No doubt most had never seen a greenskin before. Lothar felt a pang of sadness as he gazed on their cheerful expressions, remembering the blood of those at Helmgart, and looked away.

Eager to rest and eat, they journeyed quickly across the plain to the castle. Karsten was in a good mood, and Lothar could see that he was eager to reinforce his battered company with fresh men and weapons. The others seemed to feel the same, and the exhaustion of the journey was forgotten for a moment as they went quickly up to the walls. Like most fortresses, Grauenburg was squat, grey and ugly. Lothar was no stonemason, but even he could see the walls were neither as thick nor as sturdy as those at Helmgart. He looked up at the ramparts. No figures were to be seen, and the standard of the Reikland had been drawn down. There wasn’t even a token group of guards to escort them within, and the gates remained closed. Beside him, Karsten strode up to the heavy oak doors and rapped hard on the iron-bound surface with his sword pommel.

“Open the gates!” he cried, anger evident in his voice.

After a few moments of muffled banging from the inside, the doors were finally laboriously pulled open. On the inside, a group of slovenly swordsmen blinked in the light as if they were venturing out of an underground realm for the first time.

“Where is the commander of the garrison?” hissed Karsten.

The leader of the castle guards, unshaven and smelling strongly of drink, propped himself unsteadily against the stone walls of the gatehouse. He looked blearily at Karsten and quickly decided that the man in front of him was an Imperial officer of some sort. With effort, he stood more upright.

“The pox, sir,” he said, blearily. “The baron left weeks ago with his family and most of the servants. There aren’t many of us left. They were due back when the worst of the plague was over, but they’ve probably heard about the orcs. Bad timing, I’d say.”

Karsten looked crushed.

“What did you think, that barricading yourselves inside and drinking the cellars dry would save you from the greenskins?” he said wearily. “Still, at least you stayed. Pull the gates open properly, and then go and sober up. I’m in command now, and I’ll need you ready for duty in an hour.”

His expression a mixture of shame and fear, the guard bowed, and the gates were slowly winched open. The ramshackle band of refugees quickly filed in. Karsten, despite the disappointment, looked a tower of strength. His voice bellowed out across the castle courtyard as he ordered his meagre forces this way and that, making the best of his limited resources. Within moments, food stores had been located and distributed, the process of sharpening blade edges and trimming arrows had begun, and the fires in the keep refectory had been kindled.

Lothar couldn’t help but admire the tenacity of the man. It was probably futile, and the castle only had a few days to survive whatever the outcome of his plan, but if Sigmar in his wisdom was disposed to offer any rewards for faith, then the severe-faced castellan was surely at the head of the list. Lothar walked over to his side, his iron-tipped staff clicking against the wide flags of the stone floor.

“Shall we have a look at the stores?” he asked, motioning to the keep’s main entrance.

Karsten looked around at the surrounding hive of activity, his expression careworn.

“I suppose so,” he said, somewhat distractedly, “although this isn’t quite what I expected. Better to start early, the men seem to have things under control here. Let’s be quick.”

They entered the cool interior of the castle keep. The corridors were deserted and echoing. Only the clatter of their men’s activity broke the uncomfortable quiet, most of the permanent inhabitants of the castle having long gone. Perhaps only two dozen armed men remained to augment the dregs from Helmgart, and it would be some time before the effects of strong ale would ebb enough to make them useful. Lothar could tell that Karsten was incensed by this, but the wizard was not as surprised. Few were as unwavering in their devotion to the Empire as the castellan, and most fell far short of his standards.

The two men passed quickly from the upper chambers down a long, narrow walkway towards the cavernous storerooms at the base of the castle. The light from the narrow windows above them was not strong, but it was enough to see by. The designers of the castle had clearly seen the problem with using torches to inspect the stocks of blackpowder. They paused at a heavy, iron barred door at the end of the corridor. The padlock looked rusty and feeble. With a firm blow from his sword, Karsten smashed it apart, and the door swung open with a creak.

“Sloppy,” said Karsten, shaking his head at the ease with which the locked door was breached, “but I suppose it has saved us some time.”

Inside, the large chamber loomed both high and long. Narrow windows thirty feet above them allowed shafts of pale light to filter down, illuminating rows and rows of tightly packed barrels. Lothar stood for a moment, trying to estimate how many there were. It must have been several hundred.

“By the Heldenhammer,” breathed Karsten, looking around with approval. “I had no idea how much stock would be here, but the store’s nearly full. There’s enough powder here to blast us a passage to Cathay.”

Lothar found himself smiling grimly.

“You’re right,” he said appreciatively. “Perhaps we should try it.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Karsten said, his grin looking wolfish in the dim light of the chamber, “but if we’re going to do this properly, these little beasts need rearranging somewhat. I’ll go and round up some of my men. I’d like everything in place before this evening. I won’t be long. In the meantime, don’t do anything unusual with that staff.”

Balthasar Gelt, his red cloak swirling as he went, strode furiously along the mirrored corridors of the Imperial palace, his gold-encrusted staff clanging loudly against the polished floor. Like a vengeful force of nature, he stormed through delicately carved doorways and exquisite reception chambers. Various courtiers and servants he passed watched him open-mouthed. Eventually, he came to a writing desk sitting alone at the end of a glorious, light-filled hall, manned by a single diminutive official in absurdly grandiose burgundy robes. When the little man caught sight of Gelt coming towards him, he half began to rise, looking around as if for a way out. There was none, so he sank back again into his seat, swallowing nervously.

“Morr curse your miserable hide, you limp-wristed, dead-eyed, pox-ridden bastard of a beggar’s halfpenny harlot!” he spat, his blank golden expression entirely at odds with the vitriol being directed at the unfortunate occupier of the desk. “I sent two messengers here this morning demanding an audience with the Emperor, and they both came back empty handed. Do you think I’m some minor flunky you can brush off with your excuses, you fish-breathed, knock-kneed, humpbacked sewer-dwelling wretch?”

The Secretary of the Emperor’s Inner Chambers, who despite his unpromising appearance was a very high ranking Imperial servant, cleared his throat delicately, trying his best to meet the impassive gaze of the golden face looming over him.

“My apologies, Supreme Patriarch,” he stuttered uncertainly. “The Emperor is at present out of the palace, and I have strict orders not to disturb him. I did explain this to your messengers, but…”

Gelt smashed his gauntlet onto the desk, scattering the various ornaments cluttering its surface and sending them skidding across the marble floor.

“Don’t bandy your weasel words with me!” he cried, his eyes staring angrily through the shadowy openings in the mask. “I am the Supreme Patriarch of all the Colleges of Magic, and when I demand an appointment, I damn well want to get one. Karl-Franz needs to hear what I have to say, and he won’t thank you for stalling my progress.”

The secretary blanched at the casual terms in which Gelt referred to the Emperor. He looked as if he wanted the wall behind him to open up and envelop him. Being crushed to death was no doubt far preferable to facing the elemental force opposite him.

He was about to reply when a third figure entered the hall at the far end. Slowly, confidently, armoured boots clinked their way along the long chamber. Gelt turned, momentarily distracted from his interrogation by the interruption.

A tall, heavy-set man drew up to face him. Despite being inside the palace, he was clad from neck to toe in extremely expensive armour. The thick steel plates were lined with elaborate gold edging. The stains on his cloak and boots indicated he had just arrived from the field, and the way he rested his gloved hand on the pommel of his enormous sword, sheathed in a scabbard thickly wound with leather and iron, spoke of both assurance and a quiet, implacable strength. His head was bald and a number of thin scars ran across its leathery surface. Even Gelt, who was a large man, seemed somehow diminished in his shadow.

“What’s the commotion?” the intruder said in a low, rolling voice, thick with the regional accent of the Averland.

Caught between such imposing figures, the secretary kept his mouth shut.

“My Lord Schwarzhelm,” said Gelt, inclining his head, his voice restored to its habitual low, rasping character. “This is unexpected. I thought you were away north crushing the rising in Arenshausen?”

“I was,” said Ludwig Schwarzhelm, the Emperor’s Champion, unsmilingly. “It was crushed.”

Gelt nodded approvingly.

“Excellent, excellent.”

He paused for a moment, a new idea suddenly coming into his head.

“Well, I’m given to understand that the Emperor is not disposed to grant appointments just at the moment,” he said, resignedly. “I fear your journey has been in vain. However, it may be that our meeting is a fortuitous one. Do you have some few minutes to spare? I have news that I’m sure you’ll find interesting.”

Schwarzhelm looked directly at the wizard, his gaze unwavering, clearly deciding whether he could be bothered to give Gelt the benefit of his scarce time and attention.

“Very well,” he said gruffly. “Come with me, my chambers are close at hand.”

He turned to the secretary, whose pale face was showing some signs of life at the prospect of being left alone.

“When the Emperor returns, tell him I’m back and will wait on his pleasure. In the meantime, I will be with the Supreme Patriarch.”

The secretary nodded weakly, and Schwarzhelm turned on his heels, striding back the way he had come. Gelt followed him. Such a turn might prove to be the best of all worlds, he mused, his mind working fast.

Schwarzhelm sat facing Gelt in his broad chair, slowly unbuckling pieces of armour. With any other senior military commander, there would have been half a dozen servants to do this work, but the Emperor’s Champion seemed to relish performing the task. Even without his casing of metal, peeling away piece by piece, he was still a formidable figure.

“So,” he said, “you said you had information.”

Gelt nodded, the sunlight from the narrow windows in the old warrior’s spartan private room glinting from his burnished mask. He would have to suppress his still bubbling anger at the way things had turned out, but there was still time to make amends.

“You’ve just got back to the city, so you won’t have heard the news,” he said. “There’s a large orc incursion moving up from the Axe Bite Pass and heading north, probably for Altdorf. For days, tidings of it failed to get through, but now a few refugees have started arriving from the south. Mark my words, within the week there’ll be panic in the city. Altdorfers love nothing more than getting worked up over the end of the world, and unless the guard are on their toes we’ll have the usual doom mongering, riots and looting.”

Schwarzhelm stroked his impressive beard coolly between unbuckling his spurs.

“Greenskins, eh? Do we know how many?”

Gelt shook his head, the expression under his mask bitter.

“A lot, and there are rumours of a shaman leading them, one of impressive power. Certainly, to have got past the defences in the passes, which I’m told are substantial, indicates a major threat.”

Schwarzhelm nodded slowly. He seemed imperturbable, carefully deliberating over each nugget of information like a gourmand picking over fine food.

“Well, you can thank Sigmar that I’ve arrived in time,” he said eventually. “My army is prepared and ready to travel. They’re tired at the end of a campaign, but they’ll be grateful for the gold and a new challenge. There’s no question of letting the orcs get near the city. We’ll have to set off after them.”

Gelt nodded enthusiastically. This was going better than he had expected.

“I agree,” he said, trying to hide the eagerness in his voice, “but there is one other thing. Somehow, news of this disaster seems to have got into the wrong hands. Before the official report could move through the proper channels, someone seems to have got hold of information that was not theirs to have. An Imperial army has already left to intercept the orcs. This was done without my knowledge or advice, which as you can imagine has caused me the greatest anxiety. If a shaman is involved, then the colleges should have been consulted. That is, of course, why I wished to speak to the Emperor.”

Schwarzhelm made no obvious movement, but his eyes blazed under his grey eyebrows.

“You said an army has left already?” he said, his voice icy. “Whose, and under what authority?”

This was good, the Emperor’s Champion was angry. Between them, they might yet thwart Klaus’ meddling.

“General Erhardt left the city last night under cover of darkness. To the best of my knowledge, he was acting under his own authority.”

The old warrior frowned, his immense brow furrowing like sackcloth. He looked like a volcano about to explode, the implacable exterior housing a furious, fiery heart.

“Erhardt,” Schwarzhelm said, crisply. “A fool, and an irresponsible one. Such matters are not for him to decide. I’m glad you told me of this so promptly, wizard. I won’t forget it. Rest assured, I have the trust of the Emperor in such matters. You can leave it with me.”

Gelt felt an inner warmth spread through him. His anger was replaced by a kind of childish glee. Klaus would suffer for this, as would the strumpet he had sent on campaign with that idiot general.

“Your words reassure me immeasurably,” said the Gold wizard. “With you in charge, the entire city will be calmed. I’ll ensure my agents make the information known. However, if I may, there is just one more thing.”

“Name it,” said Schwarzhelm impatiently, clearly eager to get on with business.

“If what I hear of the shaman is true, you will need some magical support for this enterprise. Erhardt may have a minor wizard with him, but I would be honoured to send my most senior spellcaster with you. His experience and advice will be invaluable. You will no doubt need no assistance in the regular ways of war, but the service of a Gold wizard at your disposal can only strengthen your hand.”

Schwarzhelm pursed his lips slightly as he pondered the offer. He was not known for being a wizard lover, but then few people were. Gelt waited anxiously. The large man nodded his grizzled head abruptly.

“So be it,” he said. “I’ve served with your sort before, and they’ve been useful on occasions. Do what you must, and tell your man to report to my aide-de-camp. Be warned, though, this business calls for speed, and I won’t hang about. We march as soon as my men are ready.”

“Of course,” said Gelt, rising from his chair. “I’ll attend to it immediately.”

He bowed gracefully, and made to leave the room. His masked face was as calm as ever, but inside he felt his heart sing. There were many good and wonderful things in the world, but nothing, absolutely nothing, quite as delicious as stabbing a bastard like Klaus in the back.

The Supreme Patriarch’s private quarters were rather different from the utilitarian chamber sparingly used by the Emperor’s Champion. Where the veteran warrior had only a few devotional scripts hanging on bare stone walls, Gelt’s receiving room was plastered with intricately wrought tapestries and paintings, burnished gold sculptures and statues standing on marble plinths in every available space. The polished wooden floor was almost invisible under a plethora of thick rugs and carpets, including rare and fabulous examples that could only have come from such exotic places as Ind or Araby. A glittering chandelier of gold and glass hung heavily from the painted ceiling, throwing shards of warm candlelight across the various treasures and artworks in the spacious room, even though the afternoon sun was still strong in the sky.

No doubt many would have found such ostentation distasteful. Not Ambrosius Kalliston, senior battle wizard of the Gold Order and owner of a similarly lavish mansion a few miles north of the city. As far as he was concerned, the little people could fret and chafe as much as they wanted, but sensitive people like him needed to be surrounded by beautiful things. It was not a question of indulgence at all. For the Gold Order, the genius of the craft lay in the subtle transmutations of substance, the artful moulding of the stuff of the earth into new and dazzling configurations. Where else was one supposed to get one’s inspiration from, if not from beauty?

The Grey wizards could skulk about as much as they wished in the shadows, and the half-asleep Jade mystics could pad about the forests in their bare feet forever. The most enduring magical art was that which drew its inspiration from the precious gems and metals that underpinned the world. And, if such study had the tendency to be extremely financially rewarding, well that was a pleasant side-effect, nothing more.

As he relaxed in his chair waiting for his master to appear, adjusting his robes across his corpulent frame, he allowed himself a satisfied smile. Life was good, especially for a rich, clever and successful man of affairs like him.

The studded brass door swung open, and the Supreme Patriarch walked in. Ambrosius made a halfhearted effort to rise from his seat, but was infinitely relieved when Gelt waved him down again. He really must start cutting back on his food. Five meals a day was probably a little excessive, even for someone with such subtle gastronomic needs.

Gelt sat opposite him, somehow giving the impression of smiling behind his mask. That was promising. Ambrosius allowed himself a cautious smile in return.

“My dear Ambrosius,” said Gelt, placing his golden hands together in front of him, “how is life treating you?”

Anyone could see that life was treating the Gold wizard very well. His expensive robes draped loosely over an enormous belly and his flabby jowls were ruddy and glistening from the last superb meal. His blond, curly hair still glowed lustrously in the mixed light, his china blue eyes sparkled and his chubby fingers were covered in gem-encrusted rings. He was a vision of wealth, and, if not of health exactly, then certainly of plenty.

“Very well, master,” he said brightly, “and I trust also with you?”

Gelt gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s been a trying two days,” he said, “but I think things are looking up, and that, as it happens, is why I wanted to see you. I have a very special assignment for you, Ambrosius, one perfectly suited to your formidable skills.”

Ambrosius felt a mix of emotions. “Assignments” were normally tiresome things, mostly involving mud and fighting, neither of which he enjoyed. On the other hand, it was always nice to be flattered. He gave a cautious smile.

“I see,” he said uncertainly.

“There’s been an incursion across the Grey Mountains,” said Gelt, getting to the heart of the matter straightaway. “I spoke to the Emperor’s Champion this morning and he’s mustering an army as we speak. I want you to go with him. The horde is led by a shaman, one who has succeeded in destroying a border fortress already. It’ll be an interesting challenge for you, but one I’m sure you’re more than capable of meeting.”

Ambrosius felt his heart sink. His social calendar for the next few weeks was packed with delicious appointments and he had been looking forward to renovating the north wing of his mansion before the summer.

He thought of the disruption this would cause. He would have to retrieve his travelling carriage from storage and it always cost more to employ servants when on campaign. He started mentally calculating the expenses. At least the Grey Mountains weren’t far away.

“I’m grateful you thought of me,” he said, through gritted teeth. “How long until I’m due to leave?”

“You’ll have to speak to Schwarzhelm about that,” said Gelt, “but I’d advise you to move quickly. Time is short. He’ll be able to brief you on the preparations as you travel. I should think the whole business will be over quickly These are only orcs, after all.”

Ambrosius, despite his high self-regard, didn’t take much comfort from that. Orcs had caused him trouble in the past. Their magic, such as it was, was so unpredictable, and, what was more, they were vulgar creatures, rather too crude and slipshod to be satisfying opponents for one of his refinement.

“There is one other factor you should be aware of,” continued Gelt. “The reason this is being done so hastily is that we’ve been beaten to the march by Gunther Klaus and his damnable Amethyst meddlers. He’s sent one of his agents with another army, ostensibly headed by a puppet general called Aloysius Erhardt. She’s called Katerina Lautermann. You may have heard of her. I imagine you’d have studied at the same time here in Altdorf.”

“It’s not a name I’m familiar with,” said Ambrosius, flinching a little at the memory of his days as an acolyte. Even now it was hard to forget what had happened so many years ago, to blot it out of his mind and concentrate on the present. With some effort, he made his expression blank.

“No matter,” said Gelt, unconcerned. “She’s a slattern, a thief and a liar, probably half-witch and certainly in league with whatever Klaus is scheming. At all costs, you are to ensure that her influence over the Emperor’s Champion, who will take over the combined Imperial forces from Erhardt, is removed. I want you to stand by his side when the orcs are crushed, and I want the Gold College to get the credit for this when Altdorf is saved from ruin. This is very important to me. Can I rely on you?”

Ambrosius pondered for a minute. It was tempting to ask his master to find another wizard for this thoroughly disagreeable sounding mission, but he quickly thought better of it. Keeping on the right side of Gelt was probably worth a few weeks of toiling in the grime.

“Of course, master,” he said, grinning probably a touch too enthusiastically. “It will be trivial for one of my experience. I daresay a few extra bags of gold packed in the wagon will smooth over any potential difficulties.”

Gelt nodded, slightly uncertainly.

“Well, use your best judgement, although I’m not sure he’s that easily bought. In any case, we need to work quickly. You should go straightaway to Schwarzhelm’s chambers and seek the aide-de-camp. I have your papers here, freshly prepared by my secretary.”

Gelt rose and handed the portly Ambrosius a sheaf of parchment bound with red ribbon. With some difficulty, the seated wizard hauled himself from his chair to receive them, bowing in thanks.

“There’s one more thing,” said the Supreme Patriarch, going to a cupboard by the wall and pulling out a large, long wooden object. It was a box, as tall as a man, but slender and bound with iron. Strange markings had been scored into the wood. Even in the bright light of the chamber, it seemed to suck all the brilliance from the room. Both men could sense that the contents were dark, and old, and powerful. Despite its casing, no wizard could have been fooled as to what was inside. The case contained a staff.

“Reiner Starke, Master of Grey College, gave this to me. It’s for a pupil of his, apparently posted to the frontier fortress before it was overrun. Should you encounter him, a man called Lothar Auerbach, Althussser would be most grateful if you’d hand it over. I can’t think why it’s so important for his acolyte to get a new staff, and I personally doubt he’s even alive, but I said I’d see to it. I’m sure it won’t be a problem for you.”

Ambrosius nodded, slightly wearily.

“I’d be glad to,” he said, placing the case under his arm, struggling to balance the sheaf of papers with one hand while retrieving his own staff with the other.

“Very good,” said Gelt, placing his gold gauntlet firmly on Ambrosius’ shoulder. “I know I can trust you, Kalliston. Work quickly, and at all costs keep one step ahead of the Amethyst bitch. Compared to her, the orcs are a mere distraction.”

He tightened his grip, his golden fingers squeezing Ambrosius’ fleshy arm a little too hard.

“Failure in this matter is not something we need consider, is it?”

Ambrosius felt his throat constrict slightly.

“Indeed not,” he said, his sunny mood of a few moments ago now wholly destroyed. With a final grim smile, he let his mind wander ahead to the coming cold, discomfort, probable hard work and risk. He felt the need for a glass of wine come over him like a cold sweat.

“It will be a pleasure, master,” he said, lying through his teeth.

CHAPTER SIX

They still had not come. Lothar stood on the narrow ledge of the highest tower in the castle, looking south, waiting. Beneath him, the walls fell sharply towards the ground. Grauenburg was not a large place. In fact, with its narrow chambers and modest-looking parapets, it was merely a small fortified citadel, the kind of place a minor prince would build in the countryside to impress his peers. But this fact, far from causing him concern, gave him a strange sense of confidence. There was no way such a ramshackle force of defenders could hope to hold such a place against the horde heading their way, but its lack of size made the castellan’s desperate proposal plausible.

They had spent the previous evening arranging barrels of blackpowder in strategic locations around the interior of the keep and outer courtyard. Hundreds of them were cunningly linked by lines of dry kindling. To hasten the ruin of Grauenburg, archways had been weakened and stones removed. Despite its unchanged outward appearance, the castle had been turned into a deathtrap. It was difficult work, and they had lost two men when a supporting wall collapsed during attempts to undermine it. Enough weakening had been done to render the whole structure unstable. The work had ceased, and the garrison were stood down from their labours, gingerly stepping around the barrels of blackpowder and nervously fingering their weapons. The evening had waxed into night, causing those who had been at Helmgart to fear the assault would come once more in the dark. But dawn broke with no sign of them. Now the morning was old, and they still had not come.

Lothar screwed his eyes against the hazy southern sky. The reek of burning filled his nostrils. The horizon was so obliterated by smoke that it would be hard to see their approach. During the early morning villagers had continued to head north towards them in miserable, scared bands. Most were waved on towards Altdorf. Karsten already had enough men for his purposes, and there was little sense in having clumsy, frightened people blundering around inside a castle rigged to ignite at the first stab of flame. There were perhaps no more than three hundred men left to defend Grauenburg—a ragged mix of local guards, veterans of the Helmgart garrison, and a few wandering mercenaries and glory-seekers who had decided to stay and fight.

In order to make it appear as if there were more on the battlements, spare jerkins and breastplates had been stuffed with straw and rested against the parapet. They would fool no one at close range, but the walls were just high enough to make the illusion plausible from the ground. Karsten wanted it to seem as if they were going to try and hold Grauenburg, at least for long enough to tempt the horde into an assault on the front gates. So it was that, in the weak morning sun, Lothar shared his lofty position with a stuffed mannequin. Some wit in the guardroom had given it a pointed hat made from a roll of sackcloth. The two wizards, real and fake, looked out together on the desolate landscape, the wisps of smoke curling across a rolling countryside stripped of all life.

The wait was tedious. Lothar’s early anxiety, fuelled by the frantic flight down from the mountains, had faded to a weary fatalism. The plan was foolish, to be sure. The chances of survival were at best slim. For some reason, it hardly seemed to matter. He didn’t have much to look forward to in any case. His dismal career had not exactly turned out the way he had expected.

He found his mind wandering back to his first days in Altdorf: a scared, backward lad from the village, gaping in awe at the noise, bustle and chaos of the capital. Within a day of arriving, his purse had gone strangely missing along with his map and letter of introduction, and he had found himself sleeping rough on a pile of straw on the street, trying desperately to find his way to the famed Grey College. Luckily, or so he thought at the time, he had kept old Arald’s charm with him, a ragged stick tied with feathers, mouse skulls and leather cords. It had seemed worthless then, but it got him as far as the elusive college, its strange emanations guiding him more surely than the unreliable directions of beggars and thieves. Arald had no doubt been a superstitious and ignorant old man, but Lothar’s first tutor in the ways of magic had not been entirely without skill. He found himself wondering what had happened to the old hedge wizard. If he survived, he promised himself he would return home. Perhaps he was even still alive.

Once in Altdorf, of course, all things changed. The treacherous world of the colleges was far removed from the simple life of pastoral drudgery that Lothar had known before. There were the wonders, of course: the gilded libraries, the artefacts of power, the crackling staffs of the masters as they paced the great stone halls, imparting secret knowledge forbidden to all outside the crumbling walls. But there was also the bullying, the duels, the endless politics and the ever-present horror of making a mistake.

He had soon realised that all things have a price, and for the magician, who could bend the very matter of the world to his command, the price was high. Immediately after his first lesson, he began to grasp the fundamental, terrible secret of the mage’s art: that his power stemmed from the same corrupting source, the dark wind of Chaos, the taint that lapped at the walls of civilisation like an endless sea of madness.

At every cast, for every spell, the tendrils of the wind of ruin crept nearer, tempting with whispered visions of endless mastery, seducing with blandishments of everlasting life and riches. All those trained by the Imperial Colleges knew the emptiness of such promises, but still the lure was there, pulling even the mightiest towards its siren call.

So it had been with Hadamus Malgar, the greatest spellcaster Lothar had known, the bravest of his kind, and, so it had seemed to him in his youth, the wisest. He had been the young wizard’s tutor and guide, the very one who had schooled him to resist the slide towards pride and corruption. When the master had fallen into darkness, casting his lot with Chaos despite all his pieties, the pupil had been tainted for ever after, dogged by the stench of betrayal, mistrusted by all save a few in the hallowed halls of magic.

Their attitude was understandable. Malgar’s had been the very worst way to turn, at the height of battle, his treachery consigning an Imperial army to defeat, and hundreds of soldiers to their deaths. If it had not been for Helmut, whose pity was as rare as it was profound, Lothar would have been stranded still, unable to complete his training, cast adrift on a tide of ignorance and fear, gnawing at his loneliness and the bitter fruit of his years of study with the infamous traitor wizard. Despite all Helmut’s compassion, the path had been difficult, dogged by whispers at every step.

Even if the current storm passed and he escaped the orcs, he knew he could never outrun the rumours, the suspicious glances, or the taint by association. Such was his lot, but the injustice chafed even many years later.

He was stirred from his morbid thoughts by a movement on the ground below. To the south, the castle overlooked a wide plain, which ran for several miles before giving way to the forest. Something had broken into open ground at the edge of the tree line. Lothar screwed his eyes up. Slowly it became clearer, a speck of darkness against the endless indistinct clouds of dust and smoke. He gripped his staff tightly. On the far side of the south wall, he could see sentries crane forward against the battlements to pick out what the movement was.

Lothar felt a trickle of sweat in the small of his back despite the fresh breeze. He peered forwards. A figure was emerging from the gloom. It was running wildly, its tattered cloak fluttering in the wind as it went. It was a solitary figure, and it looked like a man.

His eyes flickered upwards. There was nothing coming up behind him. Surely it couldn’t be a lone villager making his way north from the rampaging host? They must have all been killed or driven off by now. If it was some madman or wandering hermit of the woods, Karsten would no doubt keep the gates barred against him. They could afford no distractions or complications with the orcs on their doorstep.

Lothar felt a deep sadness rise within him as he watched the doomed figure struggle up the rise towards the walls. He was a dead man, whether or not he tried to gain entrance to the castle. The horde must be on his very heels.

Then, his eyes spotted something that no other lookout would have noticed. He let his natural senses relax, attuning his mind to the rhythms of the unseen world and giving free rein to his inner sight. He was not mistaken, there was an aura. The Wind of Ulgu, the force that lent him his power, was weak in such bright conditions, but his ability to spot one of his own kind was not diminished.

Lothar watched intently as the figure continued to approach, his wild beard and gnarled staff coming into view. He had a radiance as strong as any the young wizard had seen in all his years of study, even in Altdorf.

The man was a wizard, and a powerful one. His visible form was surrounded by a curling profusion of those strange eminences that only the gifted could perceive. Colours were only an analogy for such essences, for there were no words in the languages of men to describe them, but referring to them as hues did capture something of their fleeting nature. Lothar knew that, to the right observer, his own form was wreathed in a shadowy grey cloud of shifting appearance.

Likewise, the man on the ground making his way with great determination towards the gatehouse was suffused with a deep amber radiance. As he laboured, the fronds and swirls of the emanation seemed to brush and draw strength from the earth around him. There was prodigious energy there, elemental and raw, circling and prowling like a pack of insubstantial beasts around the human form at the centre.

Lothar hurried down the steps from the tower and onto the ramparts over the gate where Karsten and his officers stood watching the man’s approach. The castellan nodded towards the strange figure, now just a hundred yards from the doors.

“Amazing,” he said, grimly. “There are still some peasants alive, then, but I’m not opening the gates for a beggar. He’ll have to take his chance on the north road.”

Lothar shook his head.

“With respect, he’s no beggar,” he said. “He’s a wizard, and a powerful one. I’ve no idea what he’s doing here, but we must take him in.”

Karsten looked at him steadily, clearly unconvinced.

“How do you know?”

“We recognise one another,” said Lothar authoritatively. “Trust me, if we let him pass by, we’ll regret it. He’s of the Amber Order, or I’m a hedge witch.”

Karsten looked back over the battlements again thoughtfully. The man below was approaching the castle, panting and exhausted from his flight up the valley.

“Well, he’s dirty enough to be a spellcaster,” muttered the castellan. “I’ll take your advice, Lothar, although I may live to regret it.”

He leaned over the battlements and called down below.

“Hail, stranger,” he shouted into the buffeting breeze. “What is your business here?”

“Open the gates, you fool!” bellowed back the Amber wizard, his breath coming in gasps. “There’s an army of greenskins on my back and I’ll tear down your doors to get in if I have to. Open the gates!”

Karsten drew back from the battlements, a look of distaste on his face. “That’s what I like about you magical types,” he said dryly to Lothar, “so polite. Why don’t you go down with a guard and see him through the gate? You might also persuade him not to blow us up before the orcs arrive.”

* * *

After a few flagons of tepid water from the castle well, the Amber wizard seemed to recover his breath as well as his temper. Lothar sat next to him at the shabby table in the cramped room that Karsten was using as his private chamber. The castellan sat opposite them, regarding the visitor somewhat coldly.

“That’s better,” the wizard said, wiping his mouth and beard messily.

He placed the flagon back on the table heavily, and looked at Lothar and Karsten with a flat, penetrating gaze.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to hear what’s coming your way,” he said, gruffly.

Karsten shrugged. “I think we have a fair idea,” he said. “I’d rather know who you are, and what in Sigmar’s name you were doing out there on your own.”

The wizard spat on to the stone floor and leaned back in his seat.

“My name’s Marius Joachim,” he said curtly, “an Imperial wizard, though I haven’t been to Altdorf in years. As for what I was doing, that’s my business. It was interrupted by greenskins, and I’ve been killing them. I thought there must be quite a few around, but I’ll admit I slightly underestimated how many; too many even for me, and that’s saying something. So I killed a few and headed north. They’re right on my heels. You have very little time.”

Lothar regarded the figure before him with a mix of fascination and annoyance. He stank of sweat and grime, his wild hair caked with mud and laced with the detritus of the forest. He spoke as if he was unaccustomed to normal conversation, and was as far removed from the arcane politeness of the colleges as one could imagine. He embodied everything that made wizards outcasts throughout the Empire: rudeness, eccentricity and belligerence, and yet Lothar could sense the latent power flowing gently from him as he spoke, like a gourd over-filled with potent wine. However ragged he looked, this was a wizard of great strength.

Marius belched loudly. “If you ask me,” he went on, unabashed, “you’re doomed if you stay here. There are thousands of greenskins and they’re not going to be halted by a little place like this.”

Karsten gave him a cool look. “We’re not planning to stay here,” he said. “You may not have noticed as you came in, but this whole building is laced with black-powder. We’ll draw them in by feigning a defence of the citadel, and as they breach the walls we’ll retreat, igniting the powder as we go.”

Marius’ mouth dropped open with incredulity. He looked from Karsten to Lothar with an expression of amazement.

“You really mean that, don’t you?” he said, shaking his sweat-streaked head. “I’ve heard some mad schemes in my time, but this—”

Lothar could feel Karsten’s anger begin to rise, and decided to intervene before the castellan spoke again.

“It’s risky, to be sure,” he said in a placatory voice, “but the men who’ve stayed with us know the dangers. We need to do something to stop the advance, and with our depleted numbers this is our best chance.”

Marius laughed derisively, a strange, hacking sound.

“Even if it works,” he said, “you’ll be blown to pieces with them. Or are you expecting them to meekly stand aside while you make your way politely from the castle?”

“There’s an escape route on the north side of the castle where the walls give way to a rocky, wooded outcrop,” said Lothar, keeping half an eye on Karsten’s expression as he spoke. “The old gate there is little used and has become overgrown. We’ve done our best to conceal it further. Assuming the orcs assault from the south, where the approaches are wide enough to accommodate a large army, we’ll slip through the hidden gate when the time is right. Of course there will be greenskins all around us, but we’ll have men to fight, and it’s a chance we’re prepared to take.”

Marius shrugged.

“If you ask me,” he said nonchalantly, “that’s assuming the orcs are pretty stupid, normally a fatal assumption in my experience, despite their appearance. Even in the heat of their battle-lust, they’re not going to leave any of the gates unguarded while they storm the castle. You might blow a few of them up with your blackpowder, but they won’t let you escape, which means you’ll go up with them.”

Karsten scowled dangerously.

“Very well, wizard,” he said crossly, “what would you do?”

Marius laughed again.

“If I were you, I’d get out now and run as fast north as I could.”

His face fell somewhat when his laugh was met with flat looks. He sighed, and the sardonic smile flickered across his face.

“Of course, you’re right about one thing,” he said, grudgingly. “If you don’t do something to hold them, they’ll catch those wooden-headed dolts in Altdorf even more unprepared than usual. I can’t argue with that.”

A strange silence fell across the room. Marius’ face creased in thought. At length, he sighed again, a resigned expression on his face.

“Well, you’ve given me water and revived my spirits, if only by making me laugh. I’ll help you, although it might be the last thing I ever do.”

He turned to Lothar.

“I’m disappointed in you, though, Grey wizard,” he said. “Your lot are supposed to be the masters of shadows and deception, and it hasn’t occurred to you to use your arts to get us out of this mess?”

It was time for Lothar to feel the first pricks of anger.

“Of course,” he snapped, “but there’re three hundred of us to hide from an army of thousands. It’s not that easy.”

The sound of running feet could be heard above them. Something had happened. A sick feeling of dread ran through Lothar’s stomach; it was like Helmgart all over again. Marius merely sneered.

“Well, there’re two of us now,” he said, dismissively, “which makes almost anything possible. We should get our heads together, but I suspect time may be running short.”

They were prescient words. There was a hasty knock from outside the room, and a worried-looking soldier poked his head around the door.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said to Karsten, “but they’ve been sighted.”

The castellan took a deep breath, and placed his hands on the table before him.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “whatever you come up with, you’ll have to do it quickly. We’re needed on the walls. I’ll trust in Sigmar’s grace, and you can… well, do whatever your sort does in these situations.”

With that, the three of them stood, Lothar looking pale, Karsten resigned, and Marius with a glint of expectation in his feral eyes. They left the chamber swiftly, and headed for the ramparts. From above, the distant noise of drums was already audible.

Katerina woke up late. The sunlight was harsh against her eyes even through the thick canvas of the tent. She looked around for a moment, bewildered, before remembering where she was. With a groan, she flopped back heavily against the firm bolsters and cushions, pulling the rough blanket up to her chin.

It had been miserable over the apparently endless days of slogging through the grime and filth of the road with Erhardt’s men, that bunch of ragged dogs, ever ready to whistle at her, wink, leer or offer some grossly suggestive comment under their rancid breaths. There was no escape from them, their dirt and their squalor, even in the general’s private tent, which she reluctantly shared with the odious man. At least during the day she could breathe some fresh air and feel the wind lifting her magnificent hair as she rode alongside the general’s retinue. Her escape from Altdorf also seemed to have shaken off her mysterious pursuer, at least for the time being. But when evening came and the camp settled in its squalor for the night, the full misery of her predicament would rush back in like floodwater.

She hated the common people, their clumsiness, their stink, their incessant chatter and noise, their prejudice and superstition, and soldiers were surely the worst. If the mission had not been so important to Klaus she would have long disappeared on her own. Even now, she was not sure how much more of Erhardt’s slimy attentions she was expected to tolerate.

As she so often did, she pulled the pendant from her bosom and regarded the amethyst heart intently. It glowed softly in the filtered light of morning. That at least was some comfort.

For some reason, whenever the heart of the gem was empty it seemed to be a harbinger of bad times. When the deep centre of the jewel was lit, as if a tiny flame spun within its ancient heart, there was at least the promise of improvement.

She cast her mind back, remembering being given it as a little girl, her mother leaning forward to drape it around her neck.

“Keep this safe, Katerina,” she had warned, her expression serious and severe. “It is the oldest heirloom of our house, the most precious item in your father’s treasure house. None know for sure from where it came, but the stories say it is of elf manufacture, brought over the seas long before the Empire and blessed Sigmar walked the earth. Each firstborn daughter in our family has worn it. For as long as it endures, our bloodline will prosper. When it is destroyed, so will our lineage end.”

Even at such a young age, Katerina had vaguely understood the importance of such things, and so had solemnly nodded, fingering the strangely cut stone carefully, admiring the spun gold around its lustrous heart. Now, many years older, she did the same, remembering her mother’s worn expression, the frequent fights, the sadness of her childhood, her rebellion and its terrible consequences, all dimly perceived through the prismatic lens of the amulet, its cool surface absorbing the sorrows and joys of a hundred generations of women, herself included.

More than most, Katerina knew that riches brought sadness more easily than satisfaction, but the pendant was different. It was as much a part of her as her hair or her eyes. Gazing deep into its unfathomable depths, she found some refuge from the crudeness around her, a temporary respite from the tedious march south.

Her reverie was rudely broken by a cough outside the tent. A messenger, his form a silhouette against the tent wall, was nervously waiting outside the entrance.

“Your pardon, my lady,” he stammered, no doubt torn between fear of the witch and a burning curiosity to poke his head inside the canvas flaps. “General Erhardt requests your presence. He is at his standard with the officers of the watch.”

Katerina quickly stuffed the amulet back under the covers and sighed.

“Tell him I’m on my way,” she said testily, flinging the covers off and reaching for her travel-stained clothes. Putting the same garments on after days of riding and walking in them was an affront to her refined senses, but at least she didn’t sleep in them like most of the wretches outside in the mud. Her heart sinking, knowing the day ahead would be another trying one, she got dressed and prepared to put up with Erhardt and his tiresome attentions once again.

When Katerina arrived, Erhardt was busy in the nearby tent discussing tactics with his officers. Beside her, the army standard, a huge, heavily embroidered square covered with emblems and records of previous battles, hung limply at the top of a large pole driven into the soft earth. It was decorated with the enormous figure of a griffon, and festooned with gold thread.

After a few moments, Erhardt’s retinue emerged from under the canvas, only a couple of them acknowledging her presence. They were slightly less ragged than the men they commanded, having breastplates and helmets that didn’t look like they had been retrieved from the bottom of a village well, but the days of travel had taken something of the lustre from their elaborate wargear. Erhardt seemed to encourage an ostentatious display of wealth and prowess amongst his senior commanders, which was entirely in keeping with the man’s priorities. Once the mud and sweat had done their work, however, the effect was far from impressive.

Eventually, the general emerged. When he saw Katerina waiting, he broke into an insipid smile, and came over to greet her.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said, kissing her hand, “I trust you slept well. I did… eventually.”

He leered at her, no doubt attempting to be humorous. A slightly sick feeling welled up in her stomach. Like the professional she was, she smiled gracefully.

“Very well, thank you, my lord. Now, tell me, why have you summoned me from my bed? I’ll need my rest before we encounter the orcs. They cannot be far away now.”

“I daresay not,” said Erhardt, ushering her towards a map he had been studying with his officers. A few still stood around the table, murmuring about provisions and supply lines. Despite her protests about being roused from sleep, it was nearly noon, and the sun shone strongly on the tattered parchment fluttering in the breeze on a makeshift table inside the open flaps of the tent. “Look here and our position will be made clear. Here is Helmgart, to the south, and Altdorf, to the north.”

Katerina stifled her irritation and paid attention.

“Now, we are over a third of the way between the two, near the town of Weissbruck, which stands at the end of a long canal and to the side of the main road leading to the capital. By my estimations, the orc horde should be upon us soon, so I have sent scouts into the forests to the south to seek them out. We will make our stand here, far enough away from Altdorf not to trouble its good citizens with the business of war, but near enough for a swift return once we are victorious.”

Katerina frowned a little when she looked at the map. She looked around at the other officers. Their blank, polite faces indicated to her they had not been appointed for their tactical genius, but even a fool could see this was a bad place to meet the opposing force: it was low, wooded and muddy. The orcs, with their thousands of heavily armoured troops, would revel in such conditions, while Erhardt’s cavalry would make no appreciable impact. If she could see this, why couldn’t the general? She began to doubt if Klaus had really known what he was doing, recommending such a commander. He was ambitious and well organised, to be sure, but she wondered how often he had commanded a large force in a pitched battle against greenskins.

“Well, your Excellency,” she said, carefully, “I know little of such things, of course, but would it not be an idea to meet the orcs on higher ground? There are hills not five miles to our west, where we could command a greater view to the south. For my part, as your battle wizard, it would certainly help to have more space in which to work.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Erhardt gave Katerina a tolerant smile.

“My dear,” he said, “your magical assistance is highly valued, especially in view of the foe we face, but I can assure you that the strategy for this battle has been drawn up in accordance with the very best Imperial practice. This is the best location for our defence. They will come up the road, and we will meet them here.”

At his condescension, Katerina finally felt her irritation rising to boiling point. She had been too indulgent with this unspeakable man. He seemed to have forgotten his pathetic capers in Altdorf when he had literally begged for her favours. Her eyes flashed, and she prepared to cast her pretensions of subservience aside. Better to risk a fight with the army commander than die in a muddy village for want of proper planning.

Just as she was about to speak, there was a sudden commotion at the rear of the straggling camp. A blast of horns rose in the air, but was swiftly cut short. There was the thunderous noise of horses, and a different set of horns blared out. Erhardt looked around sharply.

“What is this?” he cried, racing to the entrance to the tent.

Katerina, intrigued, followed him, the remaining officers tagging along in a servile fashion. As she stepped into the sun, she saw a line of mounted knights riding straight through the rows of tents towards them. The sun flashed off their polished armour, and a series of banners and pendants snapped and rippled from the shafts of their glinting spears. The horses’ hooves churned the damp earth, spraying clods of mud into the faces of the startled foot soldiers emerging from their idleness, their mouths open and eyes wide. Lines of infantry could be seen marching in order towards the camp, behind the snorting horses, their stride regulated by the heavy beat of drums. Unlike Erhardt’s men, their uniforms and weapons seemed bright and clean in the cool breeze. There were many more of them too. This was another entire army, hundreds of men, led by armoured knights, flying the colours and devices of the Emperor.

Katerina watched with admiration, torn between the enjoyment of watching Erhardt’s face fall and the trepidation of what this new development might bring. She felt a sudden thrill of excitement at the sight of so many fine soldiers, just as she had when watching the parades from her father’s balcony as a little girl. No doubt Klaus had not expected this, and it could cause problems for her, but there was little she couldn’t work around, given time, and where there was change there was also opportunity.

Ahead of her, the lead knight dismounted heavily from his steaming horse. He was a huge figure, encased from head to foot in gold-rimmed armour, worn from use, but lovingly cared for. A standard bearer rushed to his side, planting a flagpole in the earth next to Erhardt’s colours. The new standard was smaller and looked older, but its heraldic signs were obvious: the champion of the Emperor Karl-Franz, the infamous Ludwig Schwarzhelm.

The mighty figure removed his helmet, revealing his bald, scarred head and bristling eyebrows. He strode forward decisively, his eyes burning. Behind him, his entourage of knights also dismounted and silently formed a semi-circle around their commander.

“Erhardt!” bellowed the old warrior, the anger evident in his booming, gravelly voice. “You will relinquish command of this army to me, at once. I am commandeering your forces. You will accompany me as commander of the rearguard. Should you perform with distinction, however unlikely that may be, I may choose not to raise this shameful matter with the Emperor on my return.”

Erhardt went pale. He looked from side to side nervously, aware that his officers still stood around him, looking to him for some response. He cleared his throat weakly.

“What can you mean, my lord?” he said in a slightly high voice. “What regulation have I transgressed? I have marched to defend the city, as is my duty.”

Schwarzhelm marched straight up to the diminutive figure, towering over him in his full armour and billowing cloak.

“You left Altdorf without permission and without consultation,” he spat, the veins in his mighty neck throbbing. “Your reckless actions have endangered this whole enterprise. You seem to know nothing of the foe you face. Your forces are insufficient to even dent such a horde. With enormous trouble, I have ridden south to repair the damage your actions have caused. Why you have chosen to camp in this Sigmar-forsaken marsh with the enemy only days away is beyond me, when there are the Skaag Hills within a morning’s march. We’ll leave for the higher ground at once. Collect your troops and raise this camp. We ride within the hour.”

Erhardt visibly quailed before the massive, implacable force before him. Schwarzhelm fixed him with a level gaze, and the general seemed to wilt.

“As you command, my lord,” he said weakly, bowing. His cheeks flushed with the humiliation, he motioned snappily to his officers. They roused from their gawping and left, marching quickly back to their men. Schwarzhelm’s bodyguard parted noiselessly to allow their passage, their faces impassive. Erhardt retreated to the shade of the tent, looking unsure what to do. Katerina smiled to herself. She knew Schwarzhelm by reputation, and was pleased to see that he did indeed know his business. She stepped forward and curtsied gracefully.

“My Lord Schwarzhelm,” she said, giving him a significant look. “I am the Imperial battle wizard assigned to this mission. I’m pleased to be of service.”

The Emperor’s Champion looked at her with barely disguised contempt.

“So you are the one behind this,” he said, his moustached lip curling slightly. “You can forget your wiles for the moment, wizard. They won’t work on me.”

At that, there was a commotion behind the line of knights. A horse-drawn carriage was laboriously making its way towards the standards. It was large and heavy, and suffered in the mud. Gaudy hangings swayed from its sides as the horses laboured. The brightly painted wooden walls were splattered with grime, but it was clearly the transport of an important figure. It drew close, and the coachman pulled the horses to a stop. With much effort and fuss, servants rushed to the side of the carriage and pulled the wooden doors open, laying reed mats over the worst of the filth below.

Katerina felt her mood plummet. She knew who was inside. She had seen the carriage before. Indeed, there were few battle wizards who would not have recognised it. The inhabitant was someone whom Klaus would certainly not have wanted to be there. She swallowed nervously, wondering how this little meeting was going to play out.

Schwarzhelm looked disapprovingly at the florid procession, but made no move to intervene.

“This is your replacement,” he said to Katerina gruffly. “Report to him, and he will report to me.”

He leaned closer to her.

“And understand this,” he said under his breath, “I don’t like wizards. Cause any more trouble, and I’ll have you hanged for a witch, whatever protectors you may think you have in the city. Forget your pride and follow my orders, and we may yet get on.”

He straightened to watch the descent of his senior battle wizard from the carriage. Ambrosius Kalliston, wheezing and grunting like an old boar, came heavily down the steps and waddled up to the stern figure of Schwarzhelm. He gave a dismissive look to Katerina, and bowed to the Emperor’s Champion.

“I see you have everything under control, my lord,” he said somewhat breathlessly. “What are your orders?”

Schwarzhelm did not hide his distaste for Kalliston’s flabby, sweat-streaked face, but made no audible rebuke.

“This is the Amethyst wizard of which your master spoke. Take her under your command, and inform her of the plans of battle. I want no trouble between you. We have a short march ahead to the Skaag Hills, where we will prepare and await the enemy. Until then, give me no cause to speak to either of you. I will summon you when I need your counsel.”

Then he turned on his heels and strode back to his horse. With a powerful vault, he thrust his powerful frame back into the saddle. A bugle call, a flourish of the standard, and he was away, his charger kicking the turf into the air. Katerina watched him in admiration. The situation was not quite ideal, she mused, but at least the army was now under decent command.

She took a look at the wobbly jowls of her newly appointed superior, and felt the opposite emotion. For all his unpromising looks, she knew from his reputation that Ambrosius Kalliston was not to be trifled with lightly. She made to present herself formally to him, when she felt a gentle tugging at her elbow. She turned, and saw Erhardt, sidling towards her.

“What are we going to do?” he hissed, his early air of self-assurance entirely dissipated. “We need to talk.”

Katerina gave him a look of pure contempt.

“Don’t be stupid,” she snapped, snatching her arm from his pawing fingers. “Things have changed. Keep away from me, or I’ll let the whole camp know exactly what you like to do in the privacy of your tent.”

Erhardt shrank back, a horrified expression on his face. Katerina gave him an icy smile, and went up to the newly arrived Gold wizard to make her introductions. Her mind was working quickly. She would need to work hard on Schwarzhelm if her position was not to become too precarious. But there was always hope, and there were few situations too difficult to be overcome by either cunning or charm. Possessed with plenty of both, Katerina bowed low to Ambrosius, her plans already formulating. It would be an interesting few days, she mused, and the orcs had not even arrived yet.

CHAPTER SEVEN

After so long waiting, the storm had finally arrived. All the land south of the castle was filled with countless orcs, leaping and howling, their frenzy as strong as it had been in the mountains. In the unwavering light of day, the full horror could be seen clearly: rank upon rank of loping greenskins, pale green skin splattered with mud, grime and blood, small red eyes fevered and staring. The ragged flanks were composed of smaller breeds: hook-nosed goblins mounted on lean, snarling wolves, their teeth long and yellow. Towards the centre of the army, the hulking forms were bigger and darker, their glistening hides clad in ill-fitting armour rather than rags and scraps of leather. The greatest of all were the mighty black orcs, thick skin the colour of yew trees, their armour heavy and hammered from iron, their roars booming over the tumult like thunder. They crashed through the muddied and churning waters of the B�gen before charging headlong up the near riverbank. As the mass of bodies surged towards the gates, many of the lesser kind were trampled underfoot, the smallest crushed to death in the press. Their pitiful squeals were drowned by the endless roll of the drums and the blare of crude horns.

It seemed like a morass of mindless, feral violence, churning towards the castle without thought or design, but amid the chaos of the assault, there was a malicious purpose, a guiding intelligence.

Orc champions mounted on huge, hulking warboars kept a veneer of order within the seething ranks, through the sheer force of their will. They were like tiny islands in a mad ocean. Their bellows and blows herded maddened thralls towards key strategic points, preventing the advance from becoming entirely without order, funnelling the anger of the entire army on to the fragile-looking walls before them.

But all of these champions were subordinate to the great mind at the heart of the horde, obscured behind its towering bodyguard, the grotesque form of the shaman, destroyer of Helmgart. Even hidden from view, its malevolence was evident, persistent, malignant, deadly. Like some bloated insect at the heart of the nest, it drove its slaves onwards, pulling the fury of the host into a single point, directing it, feeding from it. The embodiment of the waaagh, it was both master and slave to the unearthly forces that drove the greenskins, the chosen instrument of their crude and unknowable gods.

Lothar looked grimly down from the walls as they came. He could feel the throb of the drums as the serried ranks piled forwards, their beating feet making the very earth under them shake. He had to admit that the tide of frenzied forms heading directly for them had unsettled him. It was hard to remain composed in the face of such raw, unbridled hatred and bloodlust. He could feel his skin pricking with sweat, and his heart beating a little faster. With some effort, he worked to control his feelings. He found it useful to concentrate on the memory of his old master. Only his desire for revenge seemed to quell his fear.

Marius and Karsten stood beside him, their eyes fixed on the composition of the approach, carefully looking for patterns or weak points. It was hard to see how there could be any. The castle overlooked a wide plain to the south, now filled with leaping, slavering figures. What little habitation had existed in the open space was ruined and burning. Beyond that, the limitless forests closed in, making it seem as if they were utterly surrounded by malevolent creatures.

North of the castle, behind them, the land rose sharply, and the trees came much closer to the walls. It was difficult, rocky ground, and much less suitable for a sustained assault. They had to hope the orcs saw things the same way; their escape route was to the north, the only hope they had of getting away from the horde.

“By Sigmar,” said Marius, for once sounding impressed. “If I’d known how many there were, I think I’d have kept going north.”

“We killed many at Helmgart,” said Karsten quietly “They can be hurt, even if they cannot be stopped.”

Lothar felt hot anger rising within him. He couldn’t see the shaman through the mass of running forms, but he knew it was there. He gripped his staff tightly, feeling the pain of his wounds against the wood as well as the surge of latent power. The wait had been longer than anticipated, but he was rested and ready. Fear was giving way to hate.

“Aye,” he said grimly. “They can be hurt, and they will be hurt.”

“Remember the plan!” said Karsten sharply. “We cannot have any deviation from it, or all will be lost. Arrows are our best hope now. We can forget swords until the gates are broken, and then we flee. If Sigmar wills it, a day will come when we can fight like men, but for now our only chance is deception.”

Marius nodded, looking almost happy.

“So be it, castellan,” he said, his low voice rasping, his eyes bright. “I can direct death from afar. Ah! I can smell the green flesh cooking even now.”

With that, he stalked along the battlements to a vantage point directly over the gates, threw his ragged cloak back and prepared himself. On either side of him, a dozen archers drew their bows tight.

“And you, Lothar,” asked Karsten warily, looking into the wizard’s eyes, “are you prepared?”

Lothar looked back at him impassively.

“Aye, to hide like a thief, and then shield the escape from their eyes. I’d rather be with you. If I had one more chance to face the shaman…”

“Use your magic to fight with us now, and you’ll ruin everything. Your illusions are essential. Guard the gate, and don’t wish too hard for combat, it’ll find you again soon enough.”

Grudgingly, knowing the castellan was right, Lothar bowed, and descended from the ramparts down a rickety ladder into the courtyard below.

As he strode towards his station, he reviewed the strategy one last time. The castle was a simple design, a ringed wall enclosing a courtyard on the south, east and west, with the main gate placed due south. To the north, the keep rose up, its tall sides joining with the walls and looming high into the cold spring air. They all knew the assault would come where the citadel looked weakest, at the south gate, and so the north side of the citadel was lightly guarded. They had no wish to draw attention to their escape route, the hidden gate at the foot of the northern wall, by provoking a major assault anywhere near it.

Much depended on luck. If the narrow way out was spotted and attacked, they would surely all die. Aside from a few archers positioned against slit windows high up the sheer walls, Lothar was their main hope, his expertise in shadows and concealment holding the promise of keeping the little archway at the foot of the keep hidden from prying eyes. Once the order was given to retreat, his task would become even harder. He knew that warding the surviving soldiers as they sped north through the fringes of the horde would test his powers to their limits.

Lothar passed from the courtyard into the cool darkness of the keep, and went through the corridors quickly. He climbed up a spiralling staircase before emerging into a narrow, outward facing chamber on the north face of the citadel. A thin window looked out directly northwards. He was perhaps twenty feet up the walls. The chamber had been selected carefully for its position right over the gate. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see it directly, but he knew it was below him. He looked out through the window. The land beyond the castle rose sharply upwards. After a few hundred yards the open ground gave way to ragged clumps of bushes and trees, before turning into thick, heavy forest beyond. To his right, the silver ribbon of the B�gen glistened as it turned away north and east. Looking below him at as narrow an angle as he could, he noted how skilfully Karsten’s men had arranged rock debris around the approaches to the archway beneath. A casual observer would have seen nothing.

Sighing slightly, deliberately removing the frustration and fear from his mind, he relaxed, letting his inner eye detect the shadowy Wind of Ulgu around him and draw it towards him once more.

With a familiar surge in his blood, he felt the preternatural substance coil around, lapping at the foot of his staff like water running backwards towards its source. The power rose in him once more, and he began his low incantation, enjoying the sensation of power as his magical aura responded. His power extended forwards, and slipped out over the sill of the window. It crept, unseen, down the walls. Lothar, using his memory and magical sense to place the ward directly over the gate, smiled to himself as he felt the spell begin to work. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the form of the gate melted into the stonework of the wall, and passed from view.

* * *

“Let fly!” cried the castellan and the archers released their bowstrings in a single, disciplined volley. The arrows spun over the battlements and into the morass of forms beneath them. Wails and screams of anger and pain signalled that many had found their mark. Karsten peered through the gap in the stone, watching as the charge towards the gates faltered. Several huge greenskins tumbled to the ground clutching arrows at their throats and torsos.

“Second rank!” bellowed Karsten above the noise, and the front row of archers stepped back from the battlements. They were instantly replaced by a fresh line, who released their missiles with similar deadly force into the tide of greenskins crashing against the stone beneath them. More staggered and fell to the ground, but plenty of slavering forms leapt forwards to fill the gaps.

“First rank!” he cried once more, and the process repeated. Fresh arrows streaked towards their targets.

Karsten was pleased. Many of the men on the ramparts were from his garrison, and they knew their business. Even some of the newcomers were learning, and their pale faces and grim, determined looks were a far cry from their earlier carefree enthusiasm. The hail of arrows was constant, and was keeping the vanguard of the orc host from overwhelming the gates.

“Repeat!” he urged, striding up and down the narrow parapet, exhorting his men against fear. It was not easy. The roar of the horde was nearly overwhelming, as was the stench. “Don’t lose heart! There are many of them, but we are men! Children of Sigmar, inheritors of his realm! Keep your discipline! Second rank!”

Below, the orcs were beginning to respond to the steady hail of arrows. Crude black-feathered shafts rose up against the walls, clattering and skidding across the stone. More massive orcs, wading their way to the front of the slaughter, were able to hurl rocks at the defenders from crude slings, some of which found their target, crushing skulls and breaking bones where they landed amid the battlements. Karsten strode fearlessly through it all, his voice hoarse and cracking, sweat beginning to pool on his brow. His body ached, his mind worked hard. How long had they got before the assault reached the gates and broke them? It was so hard to tell, so hard to judge correctly.

He looked across the battlements, over to the narrow rampart surmounting the gatehouse. From the summit, Marius was hurling some strange, glowing substance at the orcs below. Whatever it was, it was generating whoops and shrieks of panic and agony. Karsten smiled grimly, and made his way to the wizard’s side, holding his battered shield high to guard against the rain of arrows, rocks and other debris looping up from the field.

“Good hunting?” he yelled over the ever-present roar of battle.

“Aye, castellan,” laughed Marius, his eyes bright, his cloak and staff swirling as he worked the Amber Wind, apparently without effort. “Forgive my wishing to leave you earlier. I’m beginning to enjoy myself up here.”

His staff shivered from root to tip, and the earth beneath the orcs’ feet began to heave and buckle. Karsten stood back, alarmed. Marius winked at him and smiled savagely. “You’ll like this,” he said with satisfaction. “Keep watching.”

Holding his shield over his head, Karsten crept towards the battlements and peered down through the narrow slit in the stone. With a mix of horror and a strange, thrilling fascination, Karsten saw the ground before the gates lurch and run like water. The orcs caught in the spell wavered, their frenzied attack suddenly checked as fear rippled through them.

Something was boiling and seething in the earth between their feet. The whooping and chanting ceased from the vanguard, and even a bull-necked champion on its boar, staggering against the movement of the ground, found its bellows checked and distorted. Like a mad, perverted springtime, the grasses and weeds of the field were growing, surging up like snakes, their tendrils and choking roots springing into the air with an animal frenzy, curling around the figures above them, dragging them down, smothering and squeezing.

“Ha!” roared Marius, and swung his staff once more, an angry, almost crazed, light in his eyes. “Crush and snap! Drag and choke! Throttle and squash!”

Karsten could only look on with amazement as the very soil seemed to rise against the invaders. The unnatural vegetation streamed into every gap in the orcs’ armour, winding and suffocating with terrible speed.

He steadied himself against the stone of the battlement. The effect was dizzying, as if the whole world had gone mad, the laws of the seasons forgotten and given over to frenzy. As the front ranks of the assault were dragged down by the winding fronds and roots, panic set in amongst the orcs behind them. The driving power of the waaagh was forgotten for a moment. The chanting stopped, and the orcs fell back, stumbling and crashing into one another, the momentum of the charge broken.

For a precious moment, the gates were free of assailants. A few laggards writhed pitifully against their supernatural bonds. Karsten winced slightly as one unfortunate beast, its broad back bound with thick vines, feet clogged and trapped by curling briars and creepers, was gradually crushed to death, its roars decreasing to wails, until a sickening, squelching crunch ended its agony.

Marius stepped back from the walls, slick with sweat, his temples throbbing, his breathing quick and shallow. He seemed momentarily dazed. Karsten motioned to the archers stationed around them.

“Keep up the volleys!” he roared. “Don’t let them regroup!”

The missiles kept coming, flying high in the air before looping back down and thumping into the backs of the disarranged orc lines, spreading yet more woe amongst the broken advance. Karsten, seeing the defence was safely in order, fell back from the battlements to attend to the wizard. Marius had slumped, limbs limp, against the stone floor of the rampart, his face red. He took a swig of some liquid from the gourd around his neck.

“Are you all right?” asked Karsten, full of concern.

“I will be, in a few moments,” panted Marius, his eyes still blazing with that peculiar savage light. “I just need a break, that’s all. It’s tiring work, this magic.”

“So I’m told. Well, you’ve earned a few moments to collect yourself. I’ve never seen such spellcasting, or such destruction.”

Marius smiled through his exhaustion, as open to flattery as any of his kind.

“Get used to it,” he said with pride. “You’re lucky to have me. Any wizard will tell you he’s the greatest in the Empire, of course, but they’re all wrong: I am. There’s more power in my fingers than in a regiment of normal book-reading, spell-memorising tricksters. I’m the best there is, the most gifted of all who have ever passed through the colleges. Give me a moment, and I’ll be up again.”

Karsten looked at him keenly. He had come to expect such bluster from wizards, who, with the exception of young Lothar, all thought they were the mightiest spellcasters between the mountains and the sea, but something told him that Marius was different. He meant it.

“Why are you out on your own, then?” he asked, almost without meaning to, his thoughts slipping into words.

A shadow passed across Marius’ face briefly, and his fire dimmed.

“If we get out of this alive, I’ll tell you sometime,” he said, some of the blood draining from his cheeks, his breathing returning to a normal level. Then he pushed himself upwards, and the two men went back to the battlements, using the stone to shield their bodies, looking through the gaps across the plain. It still boiled with moving forms.

“I’ve bought you some time,” grunted Marius, “but only a little. I can’t keep the spell going forever, and they’ll be back at the gate soon.”

“Aye,” said Karsten grimly, watching the orcs start to edge nervously forwards. The most heavily armoured amongst them shrugged the arrows off as they came, and beat their reluctant minions into line. “But where’s the shaman? Most of all, we need to lure it into the castle. It was at the forefront of the assault at Helmgart.”

“Maybe it’s learned not to lead from the front,” mused Marius, taking up his staff once more. “Who knows? Perhaps it was wounded. If it fancies its chances against me, I’ll let you know… after I’ve killed it.”

Karsten grinned, and made to return to his station further down the walls, raising his shield above his head.

“I like your attitude, Marius,” he said. “You almost convince me that wizards are normal people.”

Then he was gone, his voice rising in command as he returned to the archers. The whine of arrows intensified as the orcs charged towards the walls again.

Lothar worked quietly on the other side of the castle, subtly and slowly bending the fabric of the world around the stone archway beneath him, shifting the light of the sun away from it, making it blend into the earth as if it had never existed. This was simple magic, the basic technique of the illusionist, and it barely taxed him. Of all the arcane arts, deception and trickery were the lowest. The minds of men, and of orcs, were easily led, and to make things seem other than what they were was, most of the time, a trivial matter. It was the elemental arts, the summoning of substance from void, the breaking of the great laws of life and death, the conjuring of force and matter, which were the pinnacle of a wizard’s art. To be confined to such menial sleight of hand while the castle was under attack was an ignoble assignment, even though Lothar knew it was essential. He yawned slightly as he worked. The shimmer of his illusion played gently in the strong spring sun.

Then, something changed. There were orcs ahead of him, a hunting pack, mounted on wolves, sniffing carefully through the trees on the rise ahead. Lothar stiffened, and peered carefully at the interlopers as they picked their way towards the walls. They had clearly been sent to scout out any weak points in the north face. They were small, dark-skinned goblins, their narrow eyes glinting in the shadows under the branches. Above him, he knew that archers were poised at the windows, ready to loose their shafts if the gate were discovered. They would hold off until the last moment; at all costs, attention must not be drawn to the escape route.

Lothar clutched his staff tightly, using it to augment the spell of illusion over the gate, willing the narrow way to appear just like a smooth, blank wall of stone. There was a limit to how effective this could be, especially in the strong sunlight. As he couldn’t see the effects of his work, it was easy to worry. Was it really hidden? Was the ward in exactly the right place? For the moment, it seemed to be working. The pack wheeled away and back into the shadows, their mounts panting and wheezing.

Then, the last scout, a spiny, wretched-looking goblin hunched over a slavering wolf, seemed to sense something. He spat out a rough order, and the hunting pack halted. They were no more than a hundred yards from the walls, half hidden under the eaves of the first trees, watchful and alert. Lothar felt his heart skip a beat, and concentrated harder. Had they spied the gate? Leaning forwards a little, his face concealed by the shadows of the narrow window, he watched intently, feeling the sweat begin to prick his palms.

The goblin held its skinny hand up and its companions melted back into the branches. Gingerly, the scrawny scout prodded its steed forward, its red eyes staring hard at the bare, high walls. Its long nose was sniffing suspiciously. Lothar watched it every step of the way, keeping his staff high, ready to alter his spell at any moment. Under his breath, he whispered reinforcing words to his illusionary ward. The goblin lingered just under the cover of the trees. There was no clear line of sight for the archers, who were perched higher up.

The scout stared hard, shaking its narrow head from time to time as if trying to shake off drunkenness or sleep. It had clearly sensed something, some break or imperfection in the spell. Lothar held his breath, willing the archers to restrain themselves. He knew that the wolf riders under the trees would flee at the first sign of resistance, and there were not enough arrows to fell them all. Then more would come, and things would get much more difficult. So he stayed still, tense, waiting, willing the spell to stay in place, mouthing words of binding and support, letting the Wind of Ulgu swill across the windowsill and down over the stone walls, drowning the hidden way from view and shrouding the real world in deception.

After a few moments, the scout shook its head again, and pulled the suspicious wolf back towards the shelter of the trees. It had given up. Lothar felt a ripple of relief pass through him. The spell had held, but more orcs would come the longer resistance at the gate continued. It was a delicate balancing act, and lime was running out. Forcing his mind to concentrate, he continued to feed the illusion, wondering when the signal would come to break out. Despite the danger, it could not come soon enough.

“Here they come again!” cried Karsten, rallying the remaining archers on the walls. He batted a stray rock away with his shield. The force of his voice and will was all that was keeping the tired flow of arrows streaming from the battlements and urging strength of body and mind amongst the defenders.

It was no longer easy. The hail of rocks and darts from below had become a storm. The first grapnels had been thrown against the high walls, and the goblins had started their incessant scrambling up to the undermanned parapets. Karsten’s sword was heavy and dark with blood already, and the sun was still high in the sky. Many defenders had fallen to the knives of the climbers or the missiles from below, and the steady hammering from beneath indicated that the orcs were banging their rams freely at the heavy gates.

Karsten glanced over towards Marius, who was throwing bolts of lurid amber force into the thronged masses surging towards them, but his power was clearly waning. Even the mightiest wizard could only keep going for so long. The time had come. Karsten ran over to a grizzled archer at the west end of the ramparts. He was a veteran of Helmgart, and his scarred face was a mask of controlled hatred. Karsten placed a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s it!” he shouted over the bellowing noise of battle. “We’ve done all we can. Signal the retreat.”

The archer dropped his bow and took up a long brass horn. Its clear note blared into the air. It even drowned out the tumult of the orcs for a moment. In an instant, the defenders dropped their bows and drew swords. They hurried from their positions and down the winding stairs and ladders into the courtyard. From outside, a great roar of triumph rose up, and the hammering at the gate reached a deafening crescendo.

Karsten waited until the last of the archers had left his position before joining Marius in the retreat. Goblins were quickly clambering unopposed onto the high battlements behind them, their yells of triumph and scorn screeching after them.

“This is the test,” he hissed to Marius as the two of them tore across the flagstones of the courtyard. “By Sigmar, I hope Lothar is waiting for us.”

The ragged stream of defenders ran quickly across the open space into the keep, followed by Marius and Karsten in the rearguard. Behind them, more goblins dropped down on the inside of the walls. They hurled rocks and hooks after the retreating men, before turning to scrabble at the bars across the gate to let their larger kin inside, but their efforts were superfluous. The mighty oak doors were blasted apart from outside. With a chorus of squeals, the goblins were crushed beneath the wreckage, and huge forms began to pile into the narrow space with bellows of rage and triumph. Karsten, slipping into the keep, slammed the door behind him, threw the bolts across and ran after his men down the hallway, deep into the heart of the cool stone citadel.

“What was that blast?” panted Marius, tired from his spellcasting.

“I don’t know,” said Karsten, his armour clattering as he ran. “Something threw the gates aside, but whether by magic or force of arms I couldn’t tell.”

Behind them, a second crash told them the door to the keep was breached. The orcs were right on their heels. The men ran into a wide hall in the centre of the stone structure. The narrow passageway leading to the northern gate was in front of them, guarded by nervous swordsmen, clearly itching to be away. Lothar was waiting for them in the centre of the hall. The surviving members of the garrison stood beside him expectantly. All around them, lines of kindling stretched into the darkness, linking the little kegs of blackpowder with the dozens of others placed around the building. Piles of dry straw and wood littered every stone surface. They were at the heart of the conflagration to come.

“Is the north gate still free?” rasped Karsten to Lothar as he ran in.

“Yes, castellan,” replied the wizard. “There are orcs outside, but not many yet… more are coming.”

“Good work,” said Karsten gratefully, before turning to address the surviving defenders. “You’ve done well, men,” he said quickly. The noises of the approaching orcs were getting louder all the time. “Now we go with the Grey wizard. He’ll ward us as best he can. Keep together and head north. If any of you get separated, we’ll regroup at Wolf Crag in the Skaag Hills. Go swiftly, and may the Heldenhammer be with you.”

They needed no second command. Following Lothar, who held his staff high to guide them, the soldiers ran quickly down the low passage towards the gate, their swords glinting in the gloom as they went. Only Marius and Karsten remained.

“Do it,” said the castellan simply.

Marius closed his eyes, and a bright spark of flame burst into being at the top of his staff. At the same moment, a massive orc with tusks the size of a child’s arm burst into the chamber. Karsten swung his sword in a glittering arc, spraying black blood across the chamber. More orcs sprung into the hall. Marius whirled around, hurling tongues of an outlandish orange flame against the floor and walls, halting the orcs in their tracks. The fire caught quickly, streaking along the trails of kindling towards the barrels that lined the walls.

“Go!” roared Karsten, chopping savagely at the orc before him and turning on his heels. He tore towards the narrow exit passage.

In an instant, the hall was filled with light as the blackpowder kindled. A series of explosions threw their pursuers back to the walls. A ball of flame rose against the lofty ceiling, curling around and falling back in a ruinous, hellish shower of fire. The blaze followed Karsten and the wizard down the tunnel. A wall of heat and pain lapped at their feet. Marius cursed heavily as the flames licked his cloak, and then they were both out in the sunlight, hurled from the open gate by the booming pressure behind them.

Without pausing for a moment, they sprinted across the open ground outside the walls, racing to reach the cover of the trees ahead of them. It was a short distance, but it felt like forever.

Karsten could see the forms of orcs at the edge of his vision. They were watching the fires in the castle at the moment, but it would only be a matter of time before the ragged procession of men caught their attention. He and Marius staggered up into the trees, hearing the massed thuds of the barrels as they ignited inside the building. Karsten looked around desperately. There were more orcs in the trees, their eyes advancing in the shadows, axes wielded in heavy hands. Growling, they lurched forwards. Wearily, he raised his sword.

Then, everything went grey. It was as if a mist had suddenly descended. It crept over Marius too, shrouding them both in sweeps of insubstantial, ethereal raiment. Karsten looked up into the forest. There were other figures in the mist, his men, huddled together under a tall oak grove, dim and insubstantial in the unnatural fog.

“I underestimated him,” whispered Marius. “This is a mighty feat. We must get close, or he will tire quickly.”

Ignoring the muffled booms from behind them, the two men scrambled up the hill. The trees closed in around them. When all of the survivors were assembled, Lothar spoke, his voice trembling from the effort.

“Stay with me. There is a ward around us. Come quickly; it will not last long.”

Then he broke into a halting run, and they followed him, passing like shades of death in the night. Even though the spring sun burned fiercely, Karsten was cold, chilled by the swathes of magic circling around him. He could dimly see the dark forms of the orcs as they blundered around the edges of the ward, but none penetrated it. The men moved swiftly, and soon the orcish silhouettes faded and were left behind. They passed on up the hill, climbing far from the battlefield. After what seemed only a short time, Lothar fell to his knees with a gasp, exhausted from the effort. The mist ruptured and scattered, the tatters of unearthly substance dissipating like steam. The view behind them cleared.

Karsten turned around. They were high up the hillside to the north of the keep. Through a gap in the trees, he could see the way they had come. The river was now some way below them to their left. Black smoke was pouring from the castle. Orcs were flying in every direction, their roars of triumph turned to cries of confusion and anger. There were more explosions, muffled thumps as if the hammers of the underworld were ringing beneath them, and bright columns of flame shot into the sunlight sky.

Heedless of the danger, the castellan stood and watched. With a rolling crash, more powder ignited, and the topmost tower toppled. The plan was working. The castle was collapsing, walls falling in, arches tumbling, crushing all beneath them. Another boom and the fire really took hold, sweeping across the battlements. The desperate forms of goblins became visible from a distance as they hurtled to their deaths from the walls rather than burn in the inferno.

The column of smoke rose high into the air. More cracks and shuddering booms rang across the wide valley. With an almost dreamlike slowness, the keep dissolved into rubble. Piles of dust, stone and burning matter were flung into the sky. A shuddering, throbbing tide of noise rose into the air, and then subsided, leaving a cracked, broken ruin behind it.

“Was the shaman inside?” breathed Lothar, his voice a hollow shell.

“I don’t know,” replied Karsten.

Then the smoke cleared a little, and a new peril emerged. With the passing of the ward, they were exposed once more. Orcs on the fringes of the horde, creeping upwards through the trees, had spied them again, and with blood-freezing cries of malice they surged towards them.

“We’re not out of danger yet!” cried Karsten, snapping back into alertness despite his fatigue. “Run up the hill. We muster at the Wolf Crag! Sigmar be with you!”

The men turned on their heels once more, driven from their defences just as they had been at Helmgart, but this time the price paid for victory had been higher, and Karsten had a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he ran. They had bloodied them. He had done his duty.

* * *

General Erhardt sat slumped in his tent, pondering his options. Within the space of a day, his plans had been shattered. His failure seemed complete. Katerina was gone, and he still wasn’t sure whether he hated her for it or not. Now even his own troops barely acknowledged his commands. He had been a fool, a credulous dupe. Taking another swig of wine, he sank back further into the furs, the heavy pall of depression settling over his brow. If the orcs came now, he would welcome them. Fair, honest combat could hardly be worse than living in such a self-inflicted hell. He raised the near-empty glass high in mock salute and then drained it. It was only as he reached to pour more that he noticed the figure sitting opposite him, calmly watching. With a lurch of horror, he dragged himself out of his slouch, before the world spun around unpleasantly. He sank back down, the wine having its usual effect.

“Who…?” he began, his speech slurring slightly.

“Who am I?” said the intruder helpfully, his thin voice clipped and precise. “A good question, general. Perhaps you should ask your guards, who were lax enough to let me slip in here with the minimum of violence. This is not a taut regime, is it?”

The speaker was a slight, thin man with a balding pate and curls of brown hair hanging to his shoulders. His eyes were set deep into a grey face and the black lines around them spoke of fatigue, harrowing experiences, or both. His pinched features were calm and assured and he carried himself with an easy confidence, rather as if he owned the camp and all that was in it. He wore thick leather boots with expensive spurs and a long dark coat with the marks of travel on it. A beautiful pistol rested on his lap, inlaid with silver and marked with the twin-tailed comet. So that was it, thought Erhardt, a witch hunter. He struggled to clear his head, and made to speak, but the intruder continued talking.

“You need not fear for your safety, general,” he said smoothly, fingering his pistol. “I’m not here for you. Whatever your sins may be, heresy is not one of them. As you’ve no doubt guessed, I serve the Temple of Sigmar, one of its many agents. My name is Ernst von Huppelstadt, witch hunter, and I’m after more interesting quarry than a simple soldier, however many medals he wears.”

The shock and fear abating slightly, Erhardt felt his wits gradually creeping back. He cleared his throat, suddenly concerned for his dignity. He was at a significant disadvantage, which was never a pleasant state to be in.

“Herr Huppelstadt,” he said, as authoritatively as he could, “give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you drummed from my camp and clapped in irons this minute.”

He jutted his chin out in what he hoped was an intimidating way, but his aura, whatever it might have been in the past, had faded badly. Huppelstadt merely laughed, an unpleasant, slightly effeminate sound.

“You could try, general,” he said coolly. “Or you could show some sense and listen to what I have to say. There is a wizard in your entourage, a woman, Katerina Lautermann. I gather you and she have been… closely associated on this enterprise.”

Erhardt merely nodded, his sense of shame rising once more. He hated witch hunters; they always knew more than they let on, and what they knew was rarely pleasant.

“You may not be aware,” continued Huppelstadt, “but Fraulein Lautermann, as she calls herself now, is of a very noble family indeed. Let me tell you a little more about her. She was once the only daughter of Adolf Kohl, the courtier and banker, of whom I’m sure you’ve heard. They were close, very close, before a tragic family dispute left her disinherited and barred from the ancestral estates. As you’ll recall, Kohl and his wife died soon afterwards in circumstances that have never been adequately explained. All very unfortunate, amid so much that remains mysterious. In any case, the daughter passed from view, and the Kohl name vanished from the Altdorf landscape. Their estates were broken up and dispersed according to the immutable laws of greed and circumstance. She would like, perhaps, that none of this be known or talked about, but little escapes the determined ears of the Temple of Sigmar, and it’s foolish to try to hide from us for long.”

“Very interesting,” said Erhardt, resignedly, feeling he had thought quite enough about Katerina recently. “Now I’m sure you’re going to tell me why I should remotely care about any of this.”

Huppelstadt smiled again, his thin lips pursing unpleasantly.

“Quite so,” he said. “As we both know, young Katerina had not quite disappeared. She found a home in the strangest of places, the Colleges of Magic, and of all the colleges, she chose—or was chosen by—the Amethyst Order. Perhaps your magical lore is not what it might be, general, so let me enlighten you. The Amethyst wizards deal in death, in the Dark Arts, in the line between the bright light of the real world and the shadowy realm of souls. Many good, faithful people would say that such dabbling has no place in the Empire of men, for the ministrations of corruption are ever whispering at the hearts of us all. Who can tell what temptations and perils the practitioners of such arcane lore are subject to? And so, even though the Emperor in his wisdom has determined that such practices may be tolerated under strict mandate, we are charged with keeping tight watch over all that they do. It is a lonely, arduous, and yet blessed vocation.”

Erhardt felt his stomach turn a little, either from the decanter of wine he had drunk so quickly, or from the unwholesome whiff of piety emanating from in front of him.

“Let’s get straight to the point,” the general said, distastefully. “You’re telling me that Katerina is a witch?”

Huppelstadt raised an eyebrow in a noncommittal fashion.

“The only true tests are those of the instruments of agony,” he said in an offhand way that made Erhardt shiver. “It may yet come to that, but there is already much that leads me to believe she has fallen from the light. Her mentor is a man called Gunther Klaus, someone in whom the Grand Theogonist has taken an interest. There are gentlemen of great subtlety and power, even at the heart of the Empire, whose hearts belong to the Dark Gods. We believe he is one of them, may his soul rot in torment forever, but we cannot move against him yet. He is influential, and we need more information. He is collecting artefacts of power, by theft and by stealth, for what purpose we do not yet know, and Katerina is his most trusted agent. I’ve been on her trail for weeks, although I think recently she has begun to suspect something. She is a dangerous and intelligent adversary, someone I might admire were her intentions not so black.”

He leaned forwards, his eyes glittering with a strange, unsettling intent.

“Now things have come to a head. It is my mission to expose her, to arrest her, and to take her back to Altdorf in chains. I plan to do it before the battle commences. But now that I’ve tracked her down to this miserable place, I may as well make use of those who have been close to her. One is never free of doubt, after all. You are one such man, Erhardt, and a righteous servant of the Empire. Tell me, what do you think? Are we right to be concerned? Speak without fear; I only wish to know the truth.”

Erhardt thought carefully. What the witch hunter said was nonsense. Katerina was no more a witch than he was; amoral, avaricious, duplicitous, vain, quick-tempered and disloyal, certainly, but no sorcerer. To inform on her would, he knew, condemn her to the slow torture of the rack and irons, where even her adamantine will would be broken in the end, condemning her to a miserable death, extinguishing her bright and irreplaceable flame from the world forever. She did not deserve that, despite the way she had treated him. She had ruined his career, dragged his name through the mud, and shamed him before his own men, but even he was not so low as to falsely accuse her of witchcraft.

But then, as he thought back over her actions, his anger rose once more. Whether it was the wine, or some deeper-seated malice, awakened through humiliation and failure, he changed his mind.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, thoughtfully. “There have been a few things… Maybe I should have been more vigilant.”

As he spoke, he felt a thrill of vengeance rush through him. She may have brought him low, but he would be revenged.

“I think you may be on to something, Herr Huppelstadt. After what you say, I believe she could be involved in some secret activity. Yes, the more I think about it, she has been acting very suspiciously lately. How could I have been so blind? A witch! Oh, the shame of it…”

Huppelstadt gave him a searching look, holding his eyes for a long time before releasing them. Only after several moments did he seem satisfied.

“Very well,” he said, almost sadly. “My suspicions have been confirmed. We must move quickly when the time comes. Neither of us would wish the Emperor’s Champion to go into battle with a traitor by his side. You will aid me, and Sigmar will bless you for it. Should your efforts assist me faithfully, I can ensure that reports of your conduct will be passed to some very influential ears in Altdorf. Give me what I need, and you can yet salvage something from this campaign.”

He got up in a snake-like single movement.

“I’ll call for you at dusk. We must confront Schwarzhelm when he’s alone and gain his support. Until then, stay silent, and stay watchful.”

He slipped out of the tent, stepping delicately over the unmoving form of the guard outside. Erhardt sagged back into the chair once he was gone, unsure whether to feel pleased or disgusted with himself. To help him make the decision, he reached for the wine once more, and poured a mammoth glass.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The afternoon sun was low in the sky when the men finally stopped marching. Their legs were aching and their throats were parched. Lothar was weary to his bones. His efforts in summoning the ward had drained him even before the forced retreat from their pursuers. Thankfully, the race had not lasted long. The destruction of Grauenburg had broken the cohesion of the horde, and their half-hearted attempts to catch up with them had soon fizzled out. Karsten had driven them hard nonetheless, pushing his diminished and exhausted band until they had cleared the thick woodland and passed on to a ridge of high, rocky ground. Some of his men, scattered in the flight from the castle, had found them, but many others were still missing, perhaps slow to escape the orcs, or simply lost in the maze of hill country around them.

Lothar sat heavily, throwing his staff onto the ground beside him, grateful for the break in the endless marching. Marius sat down next to him. The Amber wizard scrabbled around for a filthy-looking gourd, half-full with something that might once have been water. He took a swig before offering it to Lothar. Despite his raging thirst, he declined. There was bound to be a stream or river soon. In any case, it was food he needed most. There had been precious little of it since the days of waiting at Grauenburg and he was beginning to feel his stomach ache with emptiness.

“That was a powerful spell you used,” Marius said, gruffly but sincerely. “We’d have struggled to get here without it.”

Lothar nodded weakly. He was too tired to take much pleasure in the escape.

“It ought to have been, I’m suffering enough for it,” he said, smiling grimly, feeling a fresh swell of nausea pass through his exhausted body. He waited for it to pass.

Karsten came over to join them.

“So, castellan,” said Marius, “what’s your next move? You’ve given them something to think about, but once they’ve got over their shock, they’ll come again.”

“Aye, that they will,” Karsten said, the fatigue evident in his voice, “but it was worth doing. There must have been hundreds of orcs in the castle by the time the blackpowder was set off. Even if some of them got out, that’s a lot of soldiers to lose. We may even have got the big one.”

Lothar shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said thoughtfully. “Ever since Helmgart, I’ve felt as if I’ve got some kind of link with the monster. I think I’d know if it had died. Don’t ask me how, I just do.”

Marius raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Karsten shrugged.

“Perhaps it would be too much to ask. Nevertheless, the shaman seems at least to have learned to stay away from the forefront of the attack. That may be something worth knowing.”

Marius sighed, and stretched his long legs out on the grassy surface of the ridge. They were facing south. In the gathering dusk, it was hard to make out much movement in the valley. Away in the distance, a thin column of grey smoke still rose into the cooling air, the mark of their destruction.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Marius at length. “What are you going to do now? There’re only a few dozen of us left, and your men are exhausted. You can’t fight the horde a third time.”

Karsten nodded.

“Our duty now is to get to Altdorf, to pass on what we know. With any luck the city will be prepared. They may even have raised an army by now. We’ve done all we can here. When we’ve rested, we must move again. It’s a long march, but we’ve got to keep ahead of the orcs.”

Marius grunted in assent.

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll come with you for a day or so, just to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed stupidly, but then I’ll leave you. I won’t go to Altdorf.”

His expression looked final. Karsten smiled a little through his tiredness.

“Why not, Marius?” he asked. “I know you look a bit odd, but you’re no worse than most of the people who live there. There are many inhabitants who dislike washing just as much as you do.”

Marius didn’t rise to the bait.

“Sorry, no debate. Once we clear the hills, I’ll head west. I’ve helped you as much as I can, and I have other things to do. Even killing greenskins gets boring after a while.”

There was an awkward pause, before Lothar lifted his head from his knees.

“I know why you won’t go,” he said quietly.

The other two men looked at him in surprise. Marius said nothing, but Karsten was clearly intrigued.

“You wizards are strange people,” he said, his voice half amused, half irritated. “Can you tell a lowly non-mage like me, or is this secret knowledge?”

Marius stayed silent. Lothar looked at the Amber wizard keenly.

“I know who you are,” he said, evenly. “I wasn’t sure at first, but it’s gradually become clear to me. I thought the name was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Perhaps you think that the colleges have forgotten your exploits? They haven’t. When I was an acolyte studying under Reiner Starke, your story was still being whispered down the corridors. You certainly left an impression. I can remember wanting to meet you when I was much younger. Now I’ve got my wish, although not in a way I’d have expected.”

Marius remained unmoved, uncharacteristically reluctant to speak.

“He was the greatest,” said Lothar to Karsten by way of explanation, “the best and strongest acolyte at the colleges since Gelt, perhaps stronger. Even in my time, his doings were legend. We all wanted to be the new Marius, but of course none of us were good enough. This was the student who broke the staff of the Master Pyromancer during his first practice combat, who smashed the Celestial College’s Prism of Dreams after a bet with an alchemist, and who managed to attract the attention of the witch hunters by raising an illusion of Magnus the Pious in the market square. I don’t know all the stories, and I guess some were made up, but if even half of them are true, he must have commanded a serious amount of power.

“Now, you probably don’t know about any of this, being unfamiliar with the colleges, but there’s more jealousy and resentment in those hallowed halls than you’d imagine. For every gifted acolyte who’s mastered a spell, there are a dozen trying to destroy his work. If outsiders knew how much rivalry and feuding there was inside the walls, no doubt they would hold us in even lower esteem than they do already. So it was with our friend here. He had a rival, one who was just about capable of matching him, or thought he was, in any case. Duels between competitors are forbidden, for obvious reasons, but don’t suppose that stops anyone. All I know is that they fought. There were no witnesses, but something went wrong. No one talked about it when I was a student, and I guess only a few knew exactly what had happened. He’s never been back to Altdorf since. It’s no good trying to persuade him.”

Lothar looked at the bearded mage with a crooked smile. “Am I right?” he asked.

Marius emitted a deep, earthy sigh, his tanned features creasing in a frown of displeasure.

“I’ve never tried to hide who I am,” he said, sharply. “If they’re still talking about what happened so many years ago, there’s clearly not enough gossip to keep them going. Some of what you say is near the mark, not all of it. However, you’re right about one thing. There was a duel, and that is why I’ll never go back.”

There was an awkward silence. Eventually, Marius took a long breath, his face looking pained.

“You may as well know the truth,” he said, resignedly. “I was at the Amber College, years ago, and I did enter a duel, something for which I’ve paid dearly. My opponent possessed not half my skill in magic. He was a showman, a flashy performer with more front than substance, but he impressed some in Altdorf, and many of them hated me. It was inevitable that we should become rivals, and maybe it was fated that we should fight. So we did, after some trifling argument over something so small I can’t even remember it. We were looking for an excuse.

“On the appointed night, we met, alone, on the pinnacle of a ruined tower north of the city, a place long used by wizards to settle their affairs. Within a moment of meeting, the sky was lit with our spells and incantations. We didn’t bother to hide our magic from prying eyes. We were so arrogant and young. The contest lasted for much longer than I’d anticipated. For all his idiocy, my opponent had some skills of his own. We traded spells and blows for what seemed like hours, becoming haggard and weak in the process. This was where the danger came in. As Lothar knows, the weak hand is the one that slips, and a wizard fears nothing more than a mistake, for he knows what it can cost him.

“In the end, we were both exhausted. I was searching for the final stroke, not to kill him, but to end the fight. I expected him to do the same, but he clearly thought differently. Just as I prepared my final spell, the most powerful I knew, I was cut down by some power I had never felt before. I was unprepared, caught unprotected, and I was destroyed. Never have I felt pain like it. My skin felt like it was on fire, and I fell from the tower in ruins. For the first and only time, I was defeated, and the bitterness of it remains with me.”

Marius paused for a moment, his face drawn. Lothar and Karsten listened in silence.

“I remember nothing from that moment until a few days later,” continued the wizard. “I’m told my body was found by servants from my college, sent to fetch me. For a year afterwards I was confined to my bed, pored over and poked at by the scholars of the Amber Order. They were as mystified as I was as to what weapon had been used against me. Only slowly did my body recover, and it still bears the scars of that terrible spell. For months afterwards, I could barely speak. I had to relearn all I had previously studied, and everything that had once been easy was now hard. I watched as my contemporaries left the colleges for lucrative work, while I was imprisoned within the cloisters, laboriously recovering my skills, suffering pain at every step. Never again would I wield my staff with the ease that had once been mine.

“Now, after every exercise of magic, the agony is greater, and yet I have been able to endure it all, for one reason: vengeance. Since the day I finally left the care of my tutors, I have been searching for the origin of that spell, the one that felled me. I’ve travelled the length and breadth of the Empire, just as I was doing when our paths crossed. I’ll know it when I find it, and when I do, I will master it, and return to the one who defeated me. Then we shall fight again, and the result will be different.”

Marius finished speaking, his voice shaking with emotion. Lothar found himself half regretting that he had brought up the topic, but fascinated nonetheless.

“And your opponent?” he asked, cautiously. “What happened to him?”

Marius snorted with disdain.

“He was protected by his college, and, needless to say, the truth never came out. In time, he became a wizard and worked his way up the ranks of his order. He knows that I seek the secret of the spell, and it fills him with fear. If I were to challenge him again, even though he still has the power that threw me down, he would run from me, I’m sure of it. But he need not fear yet. I’ll only come for him once I’ve discovered the forbidden knowledge. He stays in Altdorf these days, hidden by his friends in his college, cowering behind walls of stone and spell. I won’t go back there until I have the thing I seek, such are my memories of the place. And so, with regret, I’ll leave you before you come close to the city. Perhaps now you understand a little better why.”

Karsten shrugged.

“As you wish,” he said, evenly. “It’s your business where you go; you’re not under my command. But if you roam around as much as you say you do, are you never afraid you’ll meet your nemesis by accident?”

Marius laughed coldly.

“Have no fear of that. My rival is a man called Ambrosius Kalliston, a gross individual so fat, pampered and afraid of the outside world that he would only leave his private palace if ordered to by the Supreme Patriarch. No, we won’t meet until the time is right. If we did, I hate to think what would happen.”

Suddenly, there was a commotion behind them. Karsten sprang up instantly, his sword in hand. His remaining men, mostly further down the ridge, drew their swords too. There was the sound of hooves, and two horses broke from the cover of trees a few hundred yards away. Karsten screwed his eyes against the failing light.

“They’re men,” he said, relieved, “Imperial soldiers, by the look of them.”

One of the riders came up to them, saw that Karsten was in charge, and dismounted. He was armoured lightly—only a studded leather jerkin and helmet—and dressed in drab, earth-coloured clothes. A quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder, and a slim short sword hung at his belt. The fingers of his left hand rested easily on the pommel. They looked like scouts. Their well-maintained gear was in stark contrast to the ragged-looking clothes of those around them.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the scout demanded curtly. “There’s an army of orcs to the south, heading this way.”

Karsten gave a rueful smile.

“That’s not exactly news to us,” he said. “I’m Castellan Karsten of Helmgart, and we’ve been pursued by them since they came over the mountains. In fact, I could ask you the same question.”

The scout looked back at him, amazed.

“I’m in the service of Ludwig Schwarzhelm, the Emperor’s Champion,” he said, bowing to Karsten. “We’re camped north of here. From Helmgart, you say? We had no hope of meeting any survivors. This will be of interest to the commander. Will you come with me? I’ll guide you to where he’s waiting.”

“Give us food and drink, and we’ll go anywhere with you,” said Karsten, suddenly looking happier than he had done for days, “and if you have an army with you, that’s even better. There are things about this incursion that you need to know, and there are some among us who may be useful additions to your forces.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. Tell your men to prepare, and I’ll take you there. It’s a day’s march, no more.”

Karsten shouted a few orders, and the ramshackle camp began to rise. Lothar turned to Marius with an apologetic expression on his face.

“Sorry about what I said. I had no right to bring it up like that.”

Marius shrugged.

“Think nothing of it. Like I say, I don’t hide my past. In any case, it looks as if our plans have changed. I don’t think we’ll be heading to Altdorf any time soon.”

“Aye,” said Lothar, looking uneasily at the Imperial rider, wondering what this latest development would bring. “I don’t think we will.”

The march north was a torment. As the battered remnants from Helmgart struggled on, the land continued to rise, and the ground broke into a series of high, serrated ridges. They were deep in the Skaag Hills, a wild, forlorn corner of the Empire, thinly populated even before rumours of the orcs had driven the inhabitants north. Forested in the valleys and bare on the rocky hilltops, the land was good for nothing but a few lean, ill-looking sheep and even fewer, even leaner, bandits.

As he trudged, Karsten felt even his reserves of strength wane. At the end of each of the many marches, the company slept or rested fitfully in brief shifts, ever watchful for enemies. It took until the end of the following day before they arrived at Schwarzhelm’s camp, battered and aching. Lines of tents had been arranged on high ground overlooking a long, sloping area of grassland. In every direction, the few remaining trees had been felled, giving the sentries a commanding view of the area. Imperial standards, their rich tapestry showing the devices and emblems of many regiments and noblemen, rippled over the rows of canvas. As they limped towards the sentries standing guard, Karsten gave a grunt of approval.

“There are hundreds here, many hundreds,” he murmured, looking around, “all in good order, too. This Schwarzhelm may even be as good as they say he is.”

Neither Lothar nor Marius replied, looking as if they wished to keep their thoughts to themselves. Some food, drink and a sheltered patch of earth to sleep on would no doubt restore some life to them, but such a hope was in vain. They barely had time to find a spare plot of ground to sit on before the order came to brief the commander on their progress. Wearily, Karsten, Lothar and Marius made their way to Schwarzhelm’s tent, a large but spartan expanse of heavy canvas at the centre of the sprawling encampment. Waved through by the guards, cold eyes gazing at them impassively, they ducked under the low entrance, and entered the presence of the Emperor’s Champion.

The commander sat on a simple seat at the end of a crude wooden table, his mammoth figure enclosed in a heavy cloak. Even without his heavy armour he was an imposing figure. His thick, grey beard rested grandly over a barrel chest. His arms, as wide and thick as most men’s thighs, rested on the wooden surface. There was a calm solidity to his presence. He seemed to be the centre, not just of the tent, but of the entire camp. Under protruding eyebrows, he watched the party enter, his pupils glittering with a silent, perceptive intelligence. He gestured for the guests to sit, and Karsten, Lothar and Marius took empty stools at the near end of the table. Cups of reasonably drinkable beer were passed to them, which seemed to be the extent of the hospitality. In the shadows, only barely illuminated by the few flickering candles in the tent, Schwarzhelm’s captains, a bunch of scarred, cold-eyed veterans, sat looking over the newcomers with a cool, professional interest.

“Welcome,” Schwarzhelm said, his deep, heavily accented voice rumbling around the enclosed space. “My men have told me who you are, and the information you bring. You’ll be tired, so I’ll keep this brief, but the orcs are near, and we need all the tidings we can muster. Introduce yourselves, and tell us all you know of the greenskins.”

The formalities were brief. Karsten told the tale of their encounters with the horde as quickly as he was able, banishing his exhaustion. When he had finished, Schwarzhelm fixed the newcomers with a steady, unchanging look.

“If what you tell me is true,” he said, “you’ve achieved much. You have my thanks, and the gratitude of the Empire.”

Karsten nodded politely, too weary to offer more acknowledgement. He stole a glance at Lothar, sitting beside him, guessing he would be the most exhausted of all. The mage was quiet, to be sure, but remained upright and alert. Karsten was beginning to have respect for his resilience, especially after the impressive spell of concealment at Grauenburg. Having been in such close proximity to wizards for an extended period, he felt as if he half understood the mixed blessing of magical ability. If it gave awesome powers with one hand, it delivered terrible penalties with the other.

“For my part, I can let you know what has happened since your report left Helmgart,” said the Emperor’s Champion, his enormous hands resting lightly on the pommel of his sheathed sword. His vast form loomed over even Marius. “For reasons that I need not go into, there was some confusion over the response to your message, and two armies were dispatched south to meet the incursion before it got near Altdorf. The situation has been resolved, and I’m commanding both forces. Many of my own knights are here, as well as two regiments of battle-hardened troops fresh from the scouring of Arenshausen. With the addition of General Erhardt’s soldiers, several hundred drafted men and our mercenary corps, the numbers we have are as many as we could have reasonably expected. Your actions at Grauenburg have been of great value. I’ve no doubt that, were it not for you, we would have been engaged by the enemy already, certainly to our disadvantage. This very afternoon, I’ve taken possession of five artillery pieces, commandeered from the Nuln armouries. Used right, they may well turn the tide of battle. I also have the services of two battle wizards, which will come in handy against this shaman.”

“With respect, sir,” interjected Lothar, looking extremely unsure of himself, “this shaman is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. My master, who was a battle wizard of many years’ service, was killed by it, and it destroyed the citadel at Helmgart almost by itself. I wouldn’t presume to offer you advice on the arts of war, but I believe the incursion cannot be defeated while it lives. Even after the destruction of Grauenburg, the horde is so massive that its power is all but unstoppable. Only by magic can we hope to halt the invasion.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Schwarzhelm looked at the young wizard with disapproval. Lothar did his best to hold his ground, but his reddening cheeks gave his discomfort away.

“You’re right, master wizard, not to lecture me on the ways of war,” said Schwarzhelm slowly, the threat evident in his voice. “I’ve had enough dealings with your kind to know of your desire to direct every aspect of the battle so it suits your peculiar talents. Never forget that you operate under the sufferance of the Emperor, and that if it were not for the honest swords of normal men, you would all have been consumed by the Dark Gods long ago.”

Karsten could feel Marius begin to bristle, and moved quickly to dampen the situation. After coming so far, a fight with the Emperor’s Champion was the last thing they needed.

“Indeed, sir,” he said hurriedly, “I’m sure young Auerbach meant no offence. He’s served us in the garrison with distinction at Helmgart and since. Were it not for his skills, we’d never have escaped the castle at Grauenburg. I’m sure he wished merely to be helpful.”

Schwarzhelm looked darkly for a moment at the two wizards, and then nodded.

“Very well, castellan,” he said eventually. “I’ll take your word for it, if only out of respect for the work you’ve done as a soldier. Don’t presume that I take the threat of the shaman lightly. My battle wizards are already included in my councils. The three of you will join them. In the little time we have left, we must come up with a means of defeating the horde, knowing what has failed before. The orcs have been following you, but my scouts tell me we have at least a day before they reach us here. I’ve called for a council of war at dawn to agree our tactics. I’ll expect you to attend. In the meantime, night has fallen, and you must be tired from your journey. Rest now, and be ready for the morning. I sense this will be the last chance you will have to sleep before battle is joined.”

At that, it became obvious that the Emperor’s Champion was eager to have the tent to himself. Seeing that they were no longer required, Karsten and the other men rose, bowed and made their exit.

“Pompous bastard,” mumbled Marius as he left the tent with Karsten and Lothar.

“That’s the Emperor’s pompous bastard,” said Karsten wryly. “I’ll leave you here. I need to see that my men have somewhere to sleep. Then I’m going to rest. While I’m gone, try and stay out of trouble, eh?”

Erhardt awoke from a heavy slumber into the kind of throbbing, blinding pain that only expert drunks know. Something was shaking his shoulder. With agonising slowness, the something coalesced into the form of a someone. Huppelstadt had come back. With a lurch of nausea, Erhardt willed his eyelids to peel open properly. When they did, he found he preferred it when they were closed.

“What d’you want?” he grunted, still swimming with effort up from the depths of a wine-induced coma.

“Your breath stinks,” said the witch hunter with distaste. “Have you no sense of shame?”

“At least I don’t creep around other people at night,” muttered Erhardt, coming round a little. He pulled himself upright in the chair. He was in his tent in the middle of the camp. He must have fallen asleep seated, fully clothed. He felt disgusting. Every movement he made seemed to amplify the banging in his temples. “I’m fine, really. What time is it?”

“An hour after nightfall,” whispered Huppelstadt, looking around the tent carefully. “Our time is running out. More soldiers have arrived this evening, flying before the orcs. The assault may come tomorrow. If we hesitate, all will be lost.”

“What do you propose doing?”

“The Emperor’s Champion has just dismissed his captains for the night. If we go to his tent now, we can demand an audience. At all costs, that witch must be removed from his side before the Council of War at dawn.”

“Council of War?” said Erhardt, the sharp pain in his temples being replaced by a low, thumping agony at the top of his skull. “Attack tomorrow? You’re very well informed. Why haven’t I been included in any of this?”

Huppelstadt gave him a withering look.

“You’ve been incapacitated all day, but there’s time to put all to rights. You’re still a general, after all. Come with me. We must expose our friend Fraulein Lautermann for what she is.”

The witch hunter made to leave, but Erhardt hesitated. His insides felt like they were trying to rearrange themselves into new and horribly impractical configurations.

“Wait, we can’t just barge our way in there. This is Schwarzhelm; he doesn’t tolerate anyone disturbing his private time.”

“Do you not think a heretic and a traitor in our midst a good enough cause to disturb him?” hissed Huppelstadt. “Besides,” he said, brandishing his pistols with the twin-tailed comet motif, “witch hunters have a licence to enter the most private of domains. Don’t be such a coward. We have work to do.”

Grudgingly, feeling a fresh wave of nausea well up within him, more nuanced and chronic than the initial bouts, Erhardt stood up shakily, his forehead clammy and eyes red-rimmed.

“Anything you say,” he muttered, pulling a cloak over his shoulders and trying to ignore the astonishing variety of pain coursing its way through his body, “but I think this is a mistake.”

The two men strode out of Erhardt’s tent and into the night. Without provoking more than a glance from the lines of soldiers huddled around smouldering fires, they went quickly towards the centre of the camp. Soon, Schwarzhelm’s tent loomed before them. The vast Imperial standard, its heavily embellished surface covered in ornate script recording great victories of the past, hung limply in the cool, airless night. An armoured figure, the guard captain, stepped up to meet them. Behind him, half a dozen soldiers rose and placed their hands on their swords. Schwarzhelm, as might have been expected, had a heavy guard.

“What do you want?” asked the captain in a flat, impassive voice. “The commander is not to be disturbed.”

Huppelstadt stood confidently before him, ensuring that the pistol at his belt was visible. Erhardt swayed slightly in the gloom, wondering why the earth continued to move long after he had stopped walking.

“He will want to hear my news,” said the witch hunter brusquely. “I am an envoy of the Temple of Sigmar. Stand aside and let us pass.”

The captain stepped forwards ominously.

“You could be the Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard, and I still wouldn’t let you in. He’s not to be disturbed. That’s very important. Now go back to your Temple and petition for an appointment tomorrow. This is not the time.”

For a moment, Huppelstadt’s eyes locked with the guard’s in the low light of the campfires. Then he turned his gaze towards Erhardt.

“I am with General Aloysius Erhardt, perhaps you recognise him at least. This is important business.”

Erhardt, realising at last what his role was in all of this, stepped forward as authoritatively as he was able. When the guard captain saw his face and uniform, his expression betrayed his sudden uncertainty.

“I’m not sure about this, general,” he said, uneasily. “We have clear orders.”

Erhardt made to speak, but Huppelstadt was quicker and more impatient.

“We have no time for this, captain,” he said brusquely, pushing his way past the hesitant figure before him. All around them, the other guards drew their weapons, clearly torn between their orders and their natural deference to a general.

“Stand back!” ordered Erhardt, remembering his position, and the two men pushed their way through the soldiers, towards the tent. Quickly, Huppelstadt strode through the tent entrance, thrusting the flaps aside with a brisk flick of his wrists. Erhardt hurried after him. For some reason, his heart suddenly warned him that something was wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the guard captain reach to pull him back, so he plunged forwards, under the low canvas and into the tent.

A few candles still burned within, illuminating the interior with a dim, suffused light. It took a moment for Erhardt’s eyes to adjust. Next to him, Huppelstadt was similarly peering into the gloom.

“My lord,” he said, nervously, “May we…”

He never finished his sentence. His vision clearing, Erhardt took in the full sight before him. Schwarzhelm lay on his long camp bed, partly covered in furs. He sat up quickly, his expression a mixture of confusion and anger. He had not been asleep.

He was not alone. As Schwarzhelm’s heavy figure rose from the furs, something else was revealed behind him, the dark form of a woman. Another face emerged from the shadows, smiling. One Erhardt knew very well. It was Katerina.

“Oh, by the Lords of Ruin,” he groaned, his misery complete. She must have known her danger and moved swiftly to neutralise it.

“Mother of Ulric!” roared Schwarzhelm, erupting from the furs like a force of nature roused from some elemental imprisonment. “Who are you?”

Huppelstadt, caught like a fox between hounds, quailed for an instant, perhaps considering whether to brazen it out, then turned on his heels and fled into the night. There was the sound of a scuffle outside, and then the discharge of a pistol. It sounded like he had let it off into the air to buy himself time, and then made his escape. Erhardt was not so lucky. Slowed clown by his curiously thick head, he lurched unsteadily to one side, and tried to run, before working out that he had fallen into the mud and straw on the floor of the tent. Raising his head painfully, he found himself staring right into the eyes of an enraged, bristling, naked Emperor’s Champion.

“Erhardt? Is that you?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” began Erhardt, his voice draining miserably out of his tortured mouth, but he instantly knew it was no good. From the corner of his eye, he could see Katerina looking at him from the bed with detached amusement. She collected the furs to her and blew him a kiss. She, at least, seemed to see the funny side. The next moment, he had been hauled to his feet by his collar. Schwarzhelm’s face was in front of his, the commander’s incandescent anger burning through even his thick, bleary vision.

“Listen to me, you miserable worm,” he spat, his voice terrifyingly cold and low, “this is the last army you will ever command. For the rest of your career you will be on duty patrolling the frozen border of the Northern Wastes with a hand-picked bunch of cutthroats, murderers, heretics and other assorted scum. I shall see to it personally. Now, get out of my sight and crawl back to your tent before I have you clapped in irons and thrown to the orcs as a token of my goodwill. And, believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do.”

With that, Erhardt was flung from the tent with a force that nearly snapped his spine. Schwarzhelm stalked back to the bed, yanking the flaps of the tent closed as he went. From inside there came a fresh bellow of rage, followed by the cascading sound of a woman’s laughter. Erhardt gingerly rearranged his limbs into their normal order, and painfully clambered to his feet. His head felt like it was possessed by an overactive blacksmith, his stomach by a whole family of unidentified slimy creatures. Katerina was as safe as she could possibly be, and there was no possibility either of revenge on her or redemption for him. Huppelstadt, the craven bastard, was nowhere to be seen. All around him, guards looked down at him with amusement, any remaining hold he had over them shattered.

“Well, that went well,” he said bitterly to himself, before staggering awkwardly back to his tent.

On the far side of the camp, Marius and Lothar walked aimlessly through the huddled bands of men, most already snoring by the embers of their meagre fires. The moon had risen, casting a gentle sheen over the hillside. The air was chill, but not unpleasantly so. For an army on the brink of battle, it was a surprisingly tranquil scene.

“I guess I should feel glad we’ve got here in one piece,” said Lothar as they walked. He felt gloomy and preoccupied.

“You’re a morbid one, Lothar,” said Marius, sounding faintly amused. “Most wizards in your position would be boasting about their accomplishments by now. It’s almost like you’ve got no pride. What’s wrong: did your tutor beat it out of you?”

“I don’t have a tutor. Helmut Anselmus was my last, and one of the few who would take me. After all this is over, I doubt I’ll find another. I was Malgar’s pupil, you see.”

Marius raised an eyebrow.

“You worked with the Traitor?” he said, and gave a low whistle. “No wonder you’re so unsure of yourself. Were you there when he turned?”

“No,” said Lothar. “He sent me away before the battle. Some stupid assignment. Perhaps he still had enough pride not to want me to see his treachery for myself. I heard the news when everyone else did, after the carnage was complete. I often wonder what would have happened, had I been there. Nothing, probably. He was far stronger than me.”

“Maybe,” mused Marius. “The treacherous have their own weaknesses. But don’t be too concerned about it. There are many powerful Grey wizards plying their trade in the service of the Emperor. In time, there’ll be an opening for you again.”

Lothar sighed, and shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“Maybe,” he said, resignedly. “There’s not much value in having an acolyte with my history. And there are so few Grey wizards actually in Altdorf: most of them are wandering all over the Empire on some secretive mission or other. It’s a wonder that Starke can keep on top of it all.”

Marius stopped walking, and placed a hand on Lothar’s shoulder.

“Listen, I like you,” he said in a surprisingly tender voice. “You have more subtle power than you realise. You need to learn confidence, but that will come. When this is over, go back to your college. Reiner Starke is a good man, one of the few good men in that nest of vipers. Who knows, he may decide you no longer need a teacher. There are many battle wizards in the Empire who could not have done what you did at Grauenburg.”

Lothar appreciated the words, but failed to hide his disappointment. Even if he survived the coming encounter, the future seemed as bleak for him as ever. He was about to reply, when Marius suddenly stiffened.

“I don’t believe it,” the Amber wizard breathed, his gaze fixed ahead of them.

Lothar turned. A fat man in expensive robes was walking towards them, followed by a man carrying a long, narrow box. The lead figure had a golden aura around him: a wizard. As he came close enough to see them, his face suddenly creased in fear, and he grabbed his staff in both hands, dropping whatever it was he had been carrying.

“Kalliston!” cried Marius, his staff raised also, his voice thick with hatred. “By what chance?”

Lothar stayed at his side, unsure how to react. The fat wizard before them looked terrified.

“What are you doing here?” he stammered, his face pale. “The Amethyst wizard is the only other…”

Marius stormed towards him, his eyes blazing. With his wizard’s sense, Lothar could detect the powerful forces pooling and boiling around him. This was dangerous. He began to prepare to intervene, though the thought filled him with dread, since both were wizards of more status and power than him.

“Why aren’t you cowering in your palace, you fat fool?” cried Marius in a mocking voice, full of bitterness. “I was only telling of your treachery yesterday!”

Ambrosius visibly quailed, but held his ground, his flabby jowls wobbling as he brandished his staff, now glowing with a dull golden sheen.

“The lies you’ve told them are none of my concern, Joachim,” he said, his face inches from Marius’. “You may not assail me here. I am the appointed battle wizard, master of all mages assigned to this campaign.”

Marius laughed scornfully.

“How much gold did they have to give you to get you out of the city?” he spat.

With a sudden flick of his wrists, his staff sprung up towards the portly figure. Ambrosius, with surprising speed, moved to parry the blow, but it was a feint. Marius’ staff swung hard and low along the ground, catching the robed figure with a crack against his ankle. With a cry of anger, the Gold wizard unbalanced and lurched backwards. Marius gave him a savage push to help him down, and then stood over him as he lay on his back in the grime.

“Where you belong,” he said with malice, and spat on the struggling form of his old adversary.

Ambrosius’ face was purple with rage and fear. With an almighty heave, he pulled himself up.

“How dare you,” he hissed, laboriously standing again. “You think you know about me, but you know nothing. You were a shameful embarrassment then, and you are now. By the Wind of Chamon, look at you. You’re a disgrace.”

Marius’ eyes glittered brightly in the night with fury, his breathing heavy.

“I hoped I’d never see you again,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion, “at least not until I’d discovered your final trick, but fate has played its hand once more, and we both know what that means.”

Ambrosius looked blank for a moment, and then grasped it. He went pale, as if trying to think of a way out, but then nodded fiercely.

“If that’s what you want,” he said, his voice dripping with poison.

“It is,” said Marius, his whole form shivering with anger. “Find a suitable place. I’ll come to you.”

With that, he stormed away, back down the path towards the centre of the camp. His ragged cloak swirled around him as if consumed by a rage of its own. Ambrosius was left to brush himself down, his enormous form flushed and shaking. His servant cowered in the shadows.

Lothar hesitated, unsure whether to follow Marius or try to pacify the figure before him. Something told him that Marius would not want company, so he stayed, keeping a respectful distance. Absorbed with rearranging his elaborate robes into some sort of order, Ambrosius initially failed to notice him at all. Then his eyes flickered towards him, giving away his barely concealed panic.

“And who are you?” he asked acidly, calming himself down, his wounded pride evident.

“Grey Wizard Lothar Auerbach,” he said simply. “I arrived this evening from Helmgart.”

Ambrosius gave a small, thin smile.

“Seems to be an evening for chance meetings,” he said, without humour. “First that snake Joachim, now you. I heard you’d survived the rout at Helmgart, and was on my way to find you. I shouldn’t have bothered, and waited for daylight. For some reason it seemed important to find you tonight, before the Council of War. Not that I care one way or the other whether you’re alive or dead, but there are soft hearts in the Grey College who do. Here, I was bringing this for you. It’s from Master Starke, in the hope you would find your way to us. I’ll be glad to be rid of it.”

He beckoned to the servant, who cravenly presented him with the box. Ambrosius handed it with distaste to Lothar, who took it uncertainly.

“How did you—” he began, before Ambrosius cut him off.

“I can’t stand here gossiping with half-trained boys like you,” he snapped. “I was just the messenger. You can thank whatever gods you worship that we met here. I’ll call it luck, perhaps good, perhaps bad.”

He sighed heavily, looking anxious and flustered.

“Take it and leave,” he said. “I’ve got things to do. Don’t try and find Joachim, he’ll be busy, and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

With that, he turned heavily in the mud, and waddled back the way he had come, heading for a brightly decorated carriage that stood some way off under the shelter of some trees.

Lothar looked down. The long, thin box, nearly his own height, was ornate, carved in dark wood and bound with iron. It looked notched and battered, as if worn by years of use and travel. Near the top, it was inscribed with an arcane device, scored deeply into the smooth, dark wood. A chill passed through him. It was the sign of his old teacher, Hadamus Malgar, the traitor.

CHAPTER NINE

Marius laboured up the narrow ridge, his cloak and robes flapping wildly as the wind took them. The weather was turning. During the night, heavy rain clouds had begun to pile up on the western horizon, driven across the Reikland from the far-off sea, their tall, dark crowns hidden in darkness. The wind began to pick up. Far below in the camp, the Imperial standards were rippling strongly, the soldiers beneath them grumbling in their sleep and pulling their ragged blankets tighter around their necks. On higher ground the air was chill and sharp. When the dawn arrived it would be cold and shrouded in grey, but that was still hours away.

Mannslieb, the healthier of the world’s two moons, shone steadily, though its light was dimmed by the encroaching storm. Not that the Amber wizard cared much whether there was light to see by. He was in the mood to set the entire hillside aflame if necessary.

He went quickly his staff plunging before him. As he climbed, he reflected on his feelings. There was no fear in him. Years of bitterness had burned away any nerves about the encounter. But there was that nagging doubt, the insistent concern over the secret spell, the one that had undone him before. He had rooted through every library he could find, questioned the oldest and most secretive loremasters, often with the threat of force, and still the nature of the counter-spell eluded him. It was not surprising; the Empire was vast, and he had barely travelled across a fraction of its territory. In addition, there were lands beyond the borders, including mythical realms of magic and lore beyond the dreams of the colleges, but he would never live long enough to see even a fraction of them. So the mystery remained. Where could the knowledge have come from? And would it still retain its potency after so long?

He knew that there were magical techniques that relied upon a certain time of year or particular season to work properly, and many more that depended on the right location to be effective. Some required the preparation of materials or sacrifices, others needed the weather to be just right, or the moons to be in a definite quarter of the sky.

If any of this were the case with the spell in question, he doubted that Ambrosius would be able to use it again, but somehow he knew that it would not be constrained by any of these things. The knowledge was out there somewhere. If he faced the power, he knew he would be destroyed, just as before, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. The chance of revenge for his long years of pain was at hand, however dangerous. Better to die trying to avenge his loss than wander the world for eternity, chasing a secret he might never uncover. Perhaps it would even be something of a relief, to end the everlasting quest. As he aged, he knew his obsession had weakened him, driving all the other parts of his character into abeyance. There were wizards who had gone mad in the search for knowledge, ending their lives alone and raving in the forgotten places of the world or the airless dungeons of the witch hunters. Yes, better to die swiftly than suffer such a fate.

He came to the top of the ridge, which opened up on to a wide, flat hilltop. He wondered what the name of the place was. It was bare, wild and sinister. No doubt the scattered inhabitants of the land had some crude term for it. The wind moaned around it, and the clouds began to spread across the risen moon. The featureless hills rippled away like a dark, unquiet sea, in every direction. At the edge of vision, almost lost in the swirling dark, a single figure stood, waiting. His features were hidden, but he was a large man, robed in a heavy cloak, his staff by his side. The two of them, Marius and the shadow, were far from the lights of the camp, far from anywhere. Alone, hidden from the prying eyes of the non-gifted, the mages met once again.

“You’ve chosen well,” said Marius, his gruff voice still heavy with anger.

Ahead of him, Ambrosius was waiting, his gold-tipped staff glinting in the gloom.

“Just like before,” he said, unable to keep a faint quiver of fear from his voice. “No one will disturb us here. You’ve made a mistake calling for this duel, Joachim. I do not want it. We settled our dispute long ago. If you wish to revive what has passed, that is your choice, but the same fate awaits you. You’ve been wandering in the wilds too long. I’ve stayed near the roots of our power, becoming stronger, learning new things. If you wish, even now, I’ll forget your insults. There’s a battle looming. Why not put your grievance aside, and join me in fighting the shaman?”

Marius snorted his derision.

“The matter would have been settled long ago if you had followed the code of our kind. The spell you used was forbidden, it must have been, beyond anything I would have employed against you. We weren’t fighting for our lives. We were young, and you know the rules. It’s not defeat I hate, but treachery. No doubt you didn’t linger while I was suffering, didn’t see the pain you left me in. No, you were busy forging your own career, far away from the troublesome Amber wizard you had laid low. I guess you profited greatly from my humiliation. Of course, you couldn’t officially claim the victory, but everyone knew it was you. You tried to murder me, Kalliston. I’ll never put that grievance aside, not if all the orcs in creation were coming towards us. I’ll kill you tonight, if I can. If you can still remember what you did to me that night, you’ll have to do it again. Nothing else can stop me.”

The rain began to fall, a steady drizzle, scything across the face of the Amber wizard, turning his straggling beard into a morass of dark tendrils. Ambrosius swallowed audibly, preparing himself. Marius knew that his opponent’s fear was real, but also that he had genuine skill. Ambrosius was a senior wizard, a confidante of Balthasar Gelt and rich in the Gold lore. To underestimate him again would be unforgivable. He felt his old staff resonate slightly in the gathering rain.

“So be it,” said Ambrosius, his voice growing stronger as he prepared himself. “I had no wish for this day to come. Not through fear, as you seem to think, but because some things are best left hidden. You’ve brought this on yourself. There’s no alternative now. To the death, then, and perhaps by killing you I’ll rid the world of a greater menace than you know.”

The two men stood still, facing one another across the wide, circular space. The rain fell harder, coursing in rivulets down their robes. The first rumble of thunder ground out to the west.

Marius let his mind relax, taking in the surroundings with his inner sense. This was a good location for him, far from the stench of the city. In the wilds, he was in his element.

He could feel the Wind of Ghur, the Amber essence, coursing around him, eddying in vivid shades, seeping into the air and hillside, flickering towards his raised staff like the tongues of snakes. This was good. Yet he knew too that Ambrosius was no fool. He was a Gold wizard, a servant of the Wind of Chamon, the part of the magical spectrum that drew itself towards the earth and the ore within it. There would be lodes of metal under their feet, shards of hidden substance from which his own arts would draw strength. Although unable to perceive them clearly, Marius knew that the heavy, throbbing substance of the Gold Wind was in this place too. So it was an even match, a worthy sequel to the original.

A forked flicker of lightning briefly lit up the western sky, followed by a fresh rumbling. As if a signal had been given, Ambrosius placed his staff before him and began to chant. Marius stepped forwards, feeling the energy flow between his fingers and the gnarled wood they held. Darts of a heavy bronze appeared from the air over Ambrosius’ head in an instant. With a word from the Gold wizard and a flick of his staff, they spun around to face Marius and flew towards his face. The Amber wizard casually flicked them aside, using the crackling tip of his staff to cut them down in mid-air. Too predictable, the standard arsenal of the Gold Order. Then he noticed something disquieting. The broken darts, littering the ground around him, began to flow and ripple like molten metal. In a moment, they had repaired themselves, and sprung back into the air. Ambrosius conjured more, and they all flew towards Marius. With some alarm, he stepped backwards, fending off the incoming missiles more frantically, letting the amber glow from his staff bloom into a ball of streaming fire.

Ambrosius laughed grimly.

“You’ll find all my spells have new little twists,” he said with satisfaction, spinning more darts from the air.

“So I see,” grunted Marius, parrying the spikes quickly, noting out of the corner of his eyes that the shattered shafts reforged themselves and leapt back into the air. “Flashy, but futile, just as I remember you.”

With a quick command, the amber aura swelled and became hotter. The darts melted as they touched it. Like a fire-eater at a travelling fair, Marius swung his incandescent staff across the darts as they streamed towards him. One by one, they melted into a pool of bubbling metal. Before they had time to reconstitute, a second command opened the earth beneath them. The turf gaped and then snapped shut over the slopping substance. Great gouts of steam issued from the rain-soaked ground as it doused and crushed the magical arrows.

Marius turned his mind to the offensive. He was feeling strong, powerful, and still angry. He cried his spell out loud, enjoying the sensation of the magic bubbling up within him. In an instant, he was no longer alone. Three insubstantial creatures, their forms translucent and shadowy in the dark, had shimmered into being by his side. They were like wildcats, their backs arched and claws extended. They leapt at Ambrosius, snarling, one at the throat, two at the body. The fat, robed form swung his staff with a speed that belied his appearance, making the cats yowl and spit as they stalked around him. Marius lowered his staff, murmuring words of support to his unnatural companions.

“Never liked cats,” muttered Ambrosius with distaste, backing away, his staff fizzing with energy, “and I like these even less.”

Uttering a quick counter-spell, he spun in an arc, rainwater showering from his robes as he did so. The cats were suddenly wearing heavy iron collars, dragging them down into the increasingly sodden earth. As they tried to leap towards Ambrosius, the weight of the metal pulled them earthwards, crushing their forms into the mire. Marius frowned, and whispered a modification. The cats grew in size, draining more of the precious Wind of Ghur from the hillside, mutating into wolves, their eerie grey flanks shining in the sparse light. The iron collars burst into pieces, disappearing as they fell against the ground. In an instant, the wolves leapt, their fangs bared. Ambrosius met one charge with his staff tip, and the wolf exploded in a shower of amber light, but the others found their mark, one clamping its magical jaws around his ample forearm.

“How do you like dogs, then?” taunted Marius, feeding the spell more power.

Ambrosius grunted with pain. He broke free from the vice-like jaws and staggered backwards, waving his staff in front of him jerkily. A fresh burst of gold emerged over his head, and streams of brilliant power coursed towards the wolf-shapes. The argent streams wrapped around the animals, turning their snarls of aggression into yelps of pain. Ambrosius pulled his fist towards his body as if tightening a noose, and the golden substance sliced through the wolves. Their forms dissolved into the rain with an echoing whimper.

“That all you’ve got, wild man?” he asked, smiling, but the words came with effort, and Marius could tell he had been tired by the attack.

The Gold wizard moved slowly, giving Marius time to recover and prepare to meet the next attack. He looked up, expecting to see fresh bolts of energy spring from Ambrosius’ staff, but when the assault came it was of a different kind. Marius suddenly felt a great heaviness in his limbs, as if his blood had congealed. Ambrosius stood unmoving before him, his head bowed, his forehead lined with sweat amidst the rain. He was attempting a transmutation: blood into lead. Marius staggered backwards, feeling his limbs seize up, gradually aware of the power of the spell enveloping him. With a lurch of pain, he countered it. The struggle swayed one way and the other within him: the deadening, crushing weight of metal against the animal life force, their respective essences in direct contact. Marius felt a ripple of panic pass through him, the first he had encountered for many years. The spell was strong, as strong as the lead in his body. With a deep intake of breath, he pulled the tendrils of the Amber Wind to him, willing his muscles to remain limber, pushing with effort against the cold substance creeping through his organs. Gradually, achingly, the turn came. Mastering his body once more, he pushed the unnatural transmutation from his body, feeling with relief the surge of hot, human blood rushing back round his veins. Ambrosius, the link broken, staggered away, looking faint from the effort he had expended.

Marius, seeing his moment, pushed forwards, beginning a new spell, but underestimated how much the struggle had taken out of him. Talons the length of shinbones sprung from his hands, but the spellcast was imperfect. One ripped through his skin, flaying blood into the night air. A crash of thunder muffled his agonised cry. Ambrosius looked up, breathing heavily, just in time to see Marius fly at him, the talons raking the air like a bear’s claws. The Gold wizard was hurled back by the onslaught. He desperately warded himself with his staff, but Marius’ talons dripped with amber energy, and where they slashed, there was no defence. Ambrosius cried out as a swipe passed through his heavy robes, tearing at his flesh. His breath hot and heavy, his eyes wide and teeth bared, Marius had become more animal than human. He let slip a guttural roar of triumph and pressed forwards, his preternatural claws scything before him.

His pale face panicked, Ambrosius hurriedly erected a fresh ward: his staff became an iron shield, hexagonal and thick, its substance apparently drawn from the lodes beneath them. But it was only a partial defence. Marius tore down on him, slashing madly, his lust for revenge beginning to well once again in his pumping heart.

“Kill!” he blurted, madly, his throat gurgling. “Rend!”

His voice was not entirely human, and there was more than a note of the beast in its feral timbre. The iron shield, fuelled by Ambrosius’ desperate spell casting, swelled in size, and the Gold wizard cowered behind it, driven steadily down the far side of the hill, slipping and teetering in the mud.

Finding he couldn’t penetrate the thick iron, Marius leapt back, intending to shift his form into something more guileful. But he was suddenly overcome by a wave of heavy fatigue. In his frenzy, he had overreached himself. Staggering slightly, he slipped against the steep slope, letting the talons fall from his fingers with painful tugs. He felt dizzy, and nearly lost his footing altogether. A few yards below him, Ambrosius let the shield dissolve back into the form of his staff, his breath ragged. The rain lashed down, soaking them to the skin, blood and sweat mingling in pools at their feet.

“Had enough yet, fat man?” croaked Marius, his throat aching from the half-transition from beast back into man.

Ambrosius rose to his feet again, his staff shining once more.

“If that’s the best you can do,” he rasped, his voice shaky, “then we’ve only just got started.”

His forehead suddenly seemed to blaze with a golden light. It illuminated the sodden hillside around them, and made the rivulets of muddy rain coursing down the steep incline sparkle like spring water. It looked like a crown had been placed on his head, tall and encrusted with jewels.

“Fool!” he hissed. “Do you think I chose this place by random? There are many metals beneath our feet, all of which fuel my powers. You had your opportunity to withdraw. Don’t think I’ll give you the chance again.”

He stretched out his staff in front of him, and a stream of molten, sparkling golden energy surged towards Marius, still on his knees. With a huge effort, the Amber wizard lifted his staff to meet the onslaught, and the bright essence exploded into a cloud of spinning sparks. Marius gasped, and was pushed backwards once more, the relentless Gold magic coating his staff, his wounded hands and his arms. The force was breathtaking, the very air seeming to rip and furl as the thick, lustrous substance tore towards him. He felt fear well up within him for the second time, and watched in horror as his fingers were doused in the metallic energy. He was being frozen into a burnished skein of gold, turned into a monstrous replica of Balthasar Gelt. There seemed to be no means of repelling it. He cried spell after spell out loud, retreating back up the hill, urging his staff to respond, but nothing seemed to loosen the golden grip steadily enveloping him.

Ambrosius grunted in satisfaction. His fingers were outstretched, and the living metal poured from his dripping hands like water. Nuggets fell from his staff and hissed against the liquid earth. He advanced up the hill, pursuing his quarry, giving Marius no time to collect his thoughts. The Amber wizard struggled harder, flexing his wounded fingers within their new golden shell, fighting both the devilish coating and his own rising panic. For some reason, he found it increasingly hard to tap his native powers. Something in Ambrosius’ attack seemed to be interfering with his link to the Wind of Ghur. Frowning, still retreating, holding his staff high against the unnatural energies engulfing him, he began to collect his thoughts, ignoring the chaos around him.

With sudden inspiration, he saw the cause of it. Ambrosius was using an emotion spell, feeding off his own fevered state, turning his rage and fear against him. It was beautifully crafted, masked by the golden fireworks around them, but the real danger came not from the surging visible substance, but from the battle within his mind. Against all the urgings of his exhausted body, he relaxed, letting the stress and fury leak out of him like water from a sponge. As he did so, the wave of gold reared unopposed over him, dousing him in sparking yellow energy, covering him completely, smothering and dampening. Quelling the flickers of panic, he let himself be overwhelmed. He felt the clamp of his adversary’s hidden spell suddenly loosen. His mind serene, he sensed the Amber Wind rushing back to him once more. With a smile, and a single word, the gold case around him shattered, dissolving into the storm as quickly as it had been summoned. Before him, Ambrosius stood, exhausted.

Marius smiled grimly.

“Nice try,” he said, his energy and vitality returning, “but I haven’t lost my head entirely. Now it’s my turn.”

He raised his hands together, and the storm seemed to respond to him. The wind tore downwards, funnelling into a vortex above his fingers. Now that his link with the magical world was restored, his command over the elements waxed and strengthened. With a grunt of effort, he directed the morass of rainswept air towards Ambrosius. The fat form teetered, and then fell awkwardly, blasted from the hillside. He rolled in ungainly, flopping movements through the slick, dark mud, ending up flat on his back. Marius sprung after him, surrounded by what seemed like the spectral growls and snarls of animals. Ambrosius tried to rise, but Marius was on him, his shining staff striking him hard on the forehead, pushing his head back into the earth. Its tip burned with a bright, savage brilliance. The Gold wizard squirmed, but was pinned, his vast form mired in filth, his eyes dull, his breath ragged.

“Do it,” snarled Marius, his eyes flat with hatred and expectation. “Unleash the spell!”

Groggy with fatigue, Ambrosius looked back at him blankly.

“I have defeated you,” continued Marius, his voice insistent. “You can only save yourself by using it again. I must know what it is! Do it!”

Slowly, Ambrosius seemed to understand. He shook his head slowly, streams of rain water falling from his heavy cheeks.

“I can’t,” he mumbled, miserably.

Marius roared with frustration. He bent down and grabbed Ambrosius by his robes, hauling him up off the ground, his fury lending him the strength to manhandle the much bigger man as if he was a child. Ambrosius didn’t resist. He wavered slightly in the rain, his energy gone, his face gaunt.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” screamed Marius, spitting his anger at the reeling Gold wizard, looking as if he wanted to tear his eyes out.

Ambrosius shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. He leaned heavily on his thick staff.

“There is no spell, you fool,” he said, heavily, his eyes heavy-lidded.

For a moment, caught in the rain, Marius looked back open mouthed. A dozen different emotions flickered through his mind at once.

“Of course there is,” he said, uncertainly, the torrent of his anger replaced by a sudden, terrible feeling. “You nearly killed me with it. I’ve spent ten years looking for it.”

Ambrosius shook his head.

“It suited me for you to think that. As you rightly guessed, though I could never openly admit it, the belief that I had found a unique power over you, the mightiest acolyte of our generation, was useful to me, but it was a lie. I had no such master spell. Yes, something was unleashed that night that nearly destroyed you, but I didn’t do it. You did.”

Marius suddenly felt dizzy, as if everything around him was swimming and insubstantial. He staggered backwards, collapsing against the hillside hard, his staff loose in his hands.

“Lies,” he mumbled, but without conviction.

Ambrosius sat down heavily opposite him. His wheezing had subsided slightly. He shook his head, almost sadly.

“Why would I lie?” he asked, sounding almost as miserable as Marius. “I’ve nothing to gain; you could kill me now if you chose. It’s the truth. That night, you attempted something, a spell I’d never seen before. There was a new presence alongside you, a new colour, dark as ink, as if it were a combination of all the others. You tried to use it, or it tried to use you. It was a mistake, Marius, a dreadful mistake. You presumed it had come from me. I let you believe that, in my pride and foolishness. It couldn’t last, such a lie. I knew one day you’d discover the truth, or come after me to find out. There, it’s done. I’ve spent my magic, and still you’re stronger. If you wish to kill me, I can’t stop you.”

Marius only half listened. A terrible knowledge had suddenly re-emerged, buried under years of forgetfulness, a memory that filled him with a deep unspeakable dread. Like a key turning in a door, the Gold wizard’s words unlocked the hidden secret he had searched so long for. An agony of pain and futility welled up within him. His anger, briefly quashed, flared up again. His eyes blazed with a yellow light, like a feral cat. He stood up, his face turned towards the heavens, his fists balled, teeth clenched. Then he lost control. Emptying his lungs, he howled his grief towards the hidden stars, his fury and horror blasting the grass flat on either side, his staff blazing with a mad amber incandescence. Ambrosius, cowering, hid his eyes. There was a rush of movement, and it seemed as if the wind surged in sympathy, the elements augmenting and amplifying the grief of the Amber wizard.

After a few moments, Ambrosius let his hands drop from his face, and shivered from the cold. The hillside was empty. The wind moaned. Rain fell like tears from the wide, storm-scoured sky. Marius had gone.

The pale light of dawn crept furtively over the camp. Grey fingers of mist and dampness had settled in the shadows and curled around the tattered standards. The sun was weak behind layers of thin cloud, but the worst of the storm had passed. Grumbling and cursing, soldiers were kicked from their sleep by officers. Their clothes were heavy and chilled from dew. Awkwardly, slowly, the mass of men stirred into life, shaking stiff limbs and stretching like cats.

Lothar walked uneasily towards Schwarzhelm’s tent. The new staff felt strange in his hands. Its wood was dark and smooth, worn away by years of use, and there were strange marks carved into its surface. A wizard and his staff shared a bond that took time to cultivate. Lothar felt it would take him a while to get used to his new instrument, but he couldn’t deny the craftsmanship. It was a rare item, and he handled it cautiously, knowing he would have to use it soon enough. Even so, part of it chilled his soul, especially the knowledge of who had wielded it before him.

As he neared the tent, he saw the tall form of Karsten making his way towards him. He waited. The castellan looked rested and alert, his pale eyes sharp and eager.

“Well,” he said, stamping his feet to shake off the cold, “here we are at last, the Council of War. I hope you’re not going to say anything stupid. Talking of which, where’s Marius?”

“No idea. Maybe he’ll be along later.”

In truth, Lothar was worried. He knew more of the ways of duels than Karsten, but kept his fears to himself. This was their business, and none of his concern. The castellan looked hard at him for a moment, but seemed to decide to let it drop.

“Well, we’d better get inside, mustn’t keep the Emperor’s Champion waiting.”

They went up to the large, long tent, and were admitted by a sour-faced guard captain. On either side of him, his men stood making a great show of being alert, as if they had something extra to prove to their commander for some reason.

They were the last to arrive. Inside the tent, the knights of Schwarzhelm’s retinue, grim men with scarred faces and notched armour, were already seated around a long, rough table. Before them were lists and diagrams covering the army’s composition and strengths, as well as sketched maps of the area. The tent smelled of damp grass, old clothes and sweat. Karsten went to take his place among Schwarzhelm’s captains, getting a curt, respectful nod from many of them as he sat. On the other side of the table, Lothar saw Ambrosius and another wizard, no doubt the second of the two Schwarzhelm had mentioned. The fat Gold wizard looked in a bad way. His face was pale and tired-looking, and his jowls were mottled and greasy. The woman, an Amethyst wizard, by her aura, was entirely different: slim, dark-haired, cool, wryly amused. He noticed that it was she, not the senior wizard, who was seated in the position of honour next to the vast armoured form of Schwarzhelm. He bowed politely to her in greeting, and received an amused nod in return. As he sat next to Ambrosius, who seemed lost in thought, he couldn’t resist one whispered question.

“What happened between Marius and you?” he asked, arranging his robes around him.

“You’ll find out,” said the Gold wizard, looking tired and irritable. “Don’t bother me with it now.”

Schwarzhelm sighed deeply, looking as if he hadn’t slept a wink during the night.

“Very well,” he said in his rolling, deep voice. “We’ve had the reports from the scouts; the orcs will be here before nightfall. They’re working their way from the valley towards our position. Weissbruck has been burned, but that couldn’t be prevented. Thanks to the Castellan of Helmgart and his company, the march has been delayed for long enough for us to muster our full strength. They know where we are, and they’re coming to meet us. We’re prepared, provisioned, and ready. The plan of our deployment is agreed. The only question is this: what do we do about the shaman?”

He looked around the room darkly, fixing each of the council members with a penetrating stare. No one responded.

“Now, I place my faith in very few things,” he said, a hint of rough pride in his voice, “steel, good gunnery, proper formations: simple stuff. But we’ve been told this is different. A force is coming that honest men cannot fight alone. I’ll wait and see before I believe all of that, but we soldiers have had our time to debate and plan, and now we must listen to the masters of magic who sit amongst us. There are some here who have already encountered this fabled beast, and it’s right that they speak first this morning. So let’s hear it, how are we going to stop this damned horde?”

Lothar felt his face reddening again, and looked down. He sensed the heavy gaze of Schwarzhelm on his shoulders. But, as was proper, Ambrosius spoke first.

“My lord,” he said authoritatively, “a shaman is a primitive beast, a slave to the rhythm of the horde that drives it. I have encountered such creatures before, and on each occasion they have been destroyed. They do not have command over a sophisticated system of magic as we do. They are limited to channelling the raw field of energy created by those around them. We do not fully understand how it works, but if you can blunt the power and anger of the massed ranks, then the power of the shaman will be diminished.”

Karsten frowned.

“That’s what my battle wizard told me at Helmgart,” he said, dryly. “It didn’t seem to help us much there. The shaman entered the castle ahead of the horde, blasting the walls aside as it did so. There were too many behind it. We couldn’t even dent its power.”

Ambrosius waved his hand dismissively.

“Your battle mage was a Grey wizard,” he said. “What do they know of such things?”

Lothar started, his anger rising at the casual reference to his master, but before he could speak, Katerina had intervened.

“There are more colours in the world than gold,” she said coolly. “Perhaps the Lore of Shadows may prove stronger than you think.”

Schwarzhelm grunted disapprovingly.

“That’s enough. I won’t have this meeting turn into a squabble between magicians. The only thing I wish to know is how to kill it. We’ll be hard pressed as it is, with all those greenskins to cope with. I don’t want a rogue shaman making things worse.”

He turned his heavy gaze back to Lothar.

“You,” he said, looking him directly in the eye. “You had something to say about this last night. What’s the matter? Lost your tongue?”

Lothar stole a quick glance at Karsten, who gave an encouraging nod.

“Well, my lord,” he began, hesitantly, “the horde is enormous, and the shaman has learned to stay hidden at the heart of it. I don’t believe it will show itself as it did at Helmgart. Despite the perceived weakness of Grey wizards, it was severely tested by my master in a duel, and will fear to enter another.” He allowed a little bitterness to enter his voice, but didn’t look at Ambrosius as he spoke. “So we have a problem. The horde’s power is nearly unstoppable. It will be hard, perhaps impossible, to break through its ranks to strike at the beast, and yet, if we can’t do this, its magic will wreak havoc on your soldiers. Some of it may be countered by battle wizards, but having seen the monster in action, I fear much will get through. With respect, I cannot agree with Master Ambrosius’ prediction. There’s nothing primitive or simple about this shaman.”

Lothar swallowed nervously, and stole a quick glance at the Gold wizard sitting next to him. Ambrosius didn’t respond, apparently preoccupied with his thoughts. Katerina looked thoughtful, her mind obviously working away at something. One of Schwarzhelm’s captains, a lean, bald man with a giant black moustache and eye-patch, snorted derisively.

“So what you’re saying is that the horde protects the shaman, and the shaman protects the horde. They’re interlinked. We have neither the men nor the magic to deal with both at once.”

“That’s my view,” said Lothar, his cheeks burning. He felt small, and young, and out of his depth.

Katerina, her dark eyes intently following all that had been said, placed her elegant hands on the table.

“The solution, my lords, is obvious to me,” she said, her voice quiet but compelling. “We have three wizards amongst us. Deploying us all in the same place will solve nothing. One of us must attempt to engage the shaman directly, hoping by stealth to accomplish what cannot be done by force. The orcs, as we all know, fight in a direct way. When the madness is on them, no troops are kept in reserve; they will come at us in a single surge. If luck is on our side, a small band, kept hidden on the flanks, may be able to penetrate the lax defence of the rearguard and strike at the shaman at close quarters. Even if the attack is not successful, the distraction will aid the main army. This is the answer we seek. I am experienced in the lore of deception, just as the wizard Anselmus was. If there are no other volunteers, I’m willing to go.”

She had a look of quiet excitement on her face. Lothar wondered what her motivation was: duty, or glory? Schwarzhelm frowned, weighing up the options.

“What do you think, Fenring?”

The man with the eye-patch, evidently Schwarzhelm’s second in command, placed his hands together and looked sourly at the wizards.

“It doesn’t affect our main preparations. I’d prefer to have an extra wizard at the rear of my own men to give us extra cover, but we already have more spellcasters than we expected. If the threat is so great from this thing, then I have no objection. Let a small group try and creep around to the rearguard. At the very least, it’ll create a disturbance our main forces can exploit.”

Katerina seemed satisfied with this, and looked hard at Schwarzhelm, as if she could persuade him using only her thoughts. The old warrior remained impervious, however, evidently still thinking the matter over.

“I couldn’t spare many men for such a thing,” he said. “We’ll be outnumbered as it is, but perhaps it does offer a chance. Castellan, where is that other wizard you dragged here from the mountains? The one that looks like a vagrant tinker?”

Karsten shook his head.

“I haven’t seen him since last night, my lord. I will send out soldiers to seek him out, but if it’s men you need, I can offer mine. We’ve fought the shaman twice, and many of those still with me have seen it face to face. They won’t run. They fear nothing now. As for me, I’m beginning to think it’s my fortune to oppose this monster. It destroyed my castle and killed most of my garrison, so I owe it something in return. There are only two dozen of us left. By your leave, I’ll lead them on the mission. Perhaps I’m fated to do so.”

“I don’t hold with fate,” Schwarzhelm said, irascibly. “What counts is how many men you have, and how much stomach they have for a fight. But you’ve earned the right to choose your role in this, castellan. I’ll give you leave to try it, if your men will follow you.”

“They’ve come with me this far,” said Karsten, a glimmer of pride in his severe voice. “But there’s one more thing. At Grauenburg, Lothar concealed us from the horde. The men trust him. With no disrespect to you, my lady,” he said, motioning towards Katerina, “over the past few days we’ve come through a lot together. I’d rather take the Grey wizard.”

Katerina looked surprised, and raised a graceful eyebrow.

“The boy?” she asked. “He’s a novice. If the shaman is so powerful, why take him?”

Lothar decided he had had enough of other people talking about him, and leaned over the table once more.

“True, I don’t have the experience you have,” he said, keeping his voice flat and passionless with effort, “but my order concerns itself with illusion. If I were placed somewhere in the main army and ordered to fire magic bolts against the orcs, I could do it, but not as well as either of you. I do know that I can shroud men in the mists of magic, enough perhaps to bring a small party within range of the shaman. And, if the raid fails, it would be better to have you at the heart of the army to bolster the main defence. Believe me, I would do anything to face the shaman one more time. I’ve done it before, and I have no fear of it. It killed my master, and since then my only wish has been to avenge him.”

He sat back, gripping his staff tightly. The captains opposite him remained unmoved. Katerina shrugged, and looked to Schwarzhelm, who seemed pensive.

“What’s your view, Kalliston?” the Emperor’s Champion said, turning his glare on the Gold wizard. “You’re the senior wizard here. I’ll defer to your judgement.”

Ambrosius stayed silent for a moment, pondering. Lothar looked at him closely. With a sudden cold certainty, he knew what the Gold wizard would say. Lothar was the only one who knew of the duel between him and Marius. Ambrosius would assign him to the mission, if only to keep him from telling a soul. If he died, well that was just unfortunate. Lothar gave the Gold wizard a meaningful look, letting him know that he was aware of how things stood, and the fat man let his eyes drop. Such were the ways of his kind.

“I vote to send the boy,” said Ambrosius at length. “He has the skill, and the desire. And he’s right: if the plan fails, only I and the Amethyst wizard can hope to combat the power of the main horde.”

Schwarzhelm looked at him darkly, clearly in two minds. After an awkward silence, he sighed, his enormous shoulders rising and falling beneath his heavy plate armour.

“Well, it’s your business. I won’t overrule you. Castellan, you will prepare your raiding party once this council is concluded. Take the wizard Auerbach with you. If Sigmar wills it, your job is to kill the shaman while the main force absorbs the attention of the horde. Lautermann and Kalliston will remain under my command, to deflect the frontal assault we expect. A risky strategy, but perhaps our only option. Now, we need to discuss in detail how this is going to work. We’ve a whole army to worry about, not just wizards, and I want no mistakes. Captain Fenring, talk us through the main deployment; there is still much for all of us to discuss.”

The grizzled figure leaned forwards and began to outline the composition and planned arrangement of the main army. As he spoke, Lothar’s gaze caught Karsten’s eye for a moment. An unspoken understanding passed between them. The chance for revenge had come. Lothar smiled inwardly, only half listening to the detailed account being presented by Fenring. His heart began to beat hard with anticipation. The assault was still hours away, but now that he knew what his role would be, it could not come soon enough.

CHAPTER TEN

The sun was high in the sky. The clouds of the night had been driven eastwards by a fresh wind. The Imperial army was arranged on a long ridge looking south. Before them, a gently sloping field of uneven grassy earth ran away for a mile or so towards the base of the hill, ending in a tangled confusion of woodland. The pennants of the knights rippled in the breeze, and the sun glinted strongly off their armour. Chargers stamped their hooves expectantly, their reins held firmly by their riders, eager to mount when the call came. Ranks of foot soldiers stood on either side of the central block of cavalry, strung out in long lines. The archers stood behind them, their longbows held in readiness. At the west end of the Imperial lines, three of Schwarzhelm’s artillery pieces had been positioned on a hastily constructed earthwork, ringed with pointed wooden stakes and guarded by a troop of soldiers from Nuln wearing heavy armour, blackened with use and ornately carved. The final two cannons were at the other extreme, perched on a natural rise and similarly protected. Between them, the gunnery crews could survey the entire field, their deadly round shot piled high in preparation for deployment.

Katerina stood with Ambrosius and Schwarzhelm in the centre of the formation. A company of knights stood gravely beside their commander. They made up Schwarzhelm’s personal guard and the most deadly swordsmen in the army. The air of expectation hung heavily over all of them. Few around them spoke. The only unguarded noises were those of the horses as they stamped and whinnied. The Imperial forces kept their positions, looking down the slope towards the thick line of trees at the base of the hillside. If the scouts’ reports were correct, the orcs should have been coming through the forest, hacking and slashing as they went, but there was no sign of them. The wind sighed, ruffling the grass in waves, shaking the crowns of the trees. And so, they waited.

“Could they be coming another way?” whispered Katerina to Schwarzhelm, even her battle-hardened spirit daunted a little by the silence.

“No,” said Schwarzhelm, standing quietly next to his grey stallion, his helmet in hand, poised to mount at any moment. “They’re coming all right. I’ve made sure they know we’re here, and they won’t pass up the chance to fight, even if they have to run up the hill to get to us. That’s our great hope. I’d never pick a fight from their position, but they will. Greenskins would charge through solid stone to get to us, and if their numbers are anything like as big as the castellan thinks they are, we’ll need to make them pay for the ascent. Let’s see how it goes.”

His rumbling, thick voice was unperturbed, as solid as the earth beneath their feet. Katerina took some comfort in that, as ever admiring the way Schwarzhelm carried himself. Despite her best intentions, she realised she was feeling something uncannily like affection for the bull-necked, grey-haired old warrior. Of course, it made good strategic sense to keep close to him, especially knowing that she had enemies in the camp. While it had been a chore to cultivate Erhardt’s fawning attentions, there were definite attractions to sharing a tent with a man like Schwarzhelm.

She smiled to herself, and looked back down the hillside to the dark edge of the forest below. Idly, she wondered what had happened to Erhardt since his humiliation during the night. He had been conspicuous by his absence since then. The only slight concern was the other figure he had been with. Something about that man worried her, just as the mysterious pursuer in Altdorf had done, but there was no time to do anything about that now. Clutching her staff tightly, she started her mental preparations, feeling the heft and weight of the wood turn easily in her practised hands.

Then, it started. The beat of drums became faintly audible, a low thump muffled by the trees in front of them. Some of the soldiers began to shuffle nervously, and the horses tossed their heads. The branches were shaking more vigorously, and it wasn’t just the wind. Under the strong clear sun, it was evident that something large was coming through the trees towards them.

“Hold your positions!” shouted Schwarzhelm, donning his helmet quickly and mounting his huge steed. Around them, his knights did likewise, their steel-tipped lances rising high into the air like glittering points of ice. “No one is to move until I give the word!”

Katerina took a deep breath, waiting for her first sight of the horde, so long talked about, and now finally coming towards them. On her left shoulder, Ambrosius had also taken up his staff in readiness. Ahead of them, far down the slope, the branches of the trees shook more vigorously, waving as if being thrown around by some invisible hand. The drums rolled louder. Cries and bellows dimly emerged from the shadows. She felt the first pricks of sweat start on her brow. Her heart pumped hard. The sound of bowstrings being pulled taut rippled along the ranks, and the tips of the archers’ slender longbows were raised high over the lines of infantry in front of them. Flints were struck by the gun crews, and the pungent smell of blackpowder wafted across the lines on the breeze. Schwarzhelm had done his job well, and all was prepared. The army waited, tight as a drum, poised ready for his orders.

Then, they broke from the cover of the trees. Goblin outriders burst into the sunlight on wolves, their manic cries rising high into the air.

“Hold your positions!” cried Schwarzhelm again, his eyes surveying the approach of the enemy with cold concentration.

They kept coming, a tide of running, scampering lumbering forms, apparently without end. The bearers of the drums emerged from the forest, thrusting the thick branches aside like twigs. Their booming rolls echoed across the wide open space. Stringy orcs with long, curved horns leapt from cover, blowing brazen calls across the battlefield, summoning more of their kind from the forest. The space between the armies began to close. Swarms of pale green-skinned creatures poured across the tussocked hillside. Greater orcs emerged behind them, towering over their lesser brethren, their bull-like roars deafening even from a distance. They came forward slowly, swinging heavy axes with every stride, their tiny eyes wild and red beneath heavy iron helmets. At the flanks, more hooded goblins burst from cover on their slavering mounts, goading them with studded whips, cackling with malicious glee.

“Hold your positions!” bellowed Schwarzhelm for a third time, taking up his lance in his right hand and hefting it easily to his side. The lines held firm. Katerina let the meagre Wind of Shyish, the source of her order’s power, collect around her. There was little for her to draw on in such a place. For an Amethyst magician, shadows, secrecy and death were the tools of the trade, but she knew that within moments the first blows would fall, and then the Amethyst Wind would gather swiftly. It would come, as it always did, when the men and orcs died. Beside her, she could feel the resonance of Ambrosius’ staff. The Wind of Chamon must be strong. The fat wizard glanced towards her for a moment, before turning his face back to the orc advance.

“Stay close to me,” he muttered acidly. “Follow my lead.”

Katerina let a wry smile pass her lips.

“Of course,” she said sweetly, and made ready for the order to charge.

Ahead of them, the orcs were closing. At the rear of the advance, ever more brutish monsters clambered into the open, some bearing ragged standards. The largest were enclosed from head to foot in thick metal plates. They growled with a rumbling menace as they came, trampling their attendants underfoot. Their thick arms wielded huge, crude blades the height of a man. Boar riders tore through the ranks, their tusks rearing wildly. Tiny, imp-like snotlings scampered under the feet of the mightier warriors, each holding a spiked cudgel or twisted gouge. They shrieked and howled even as they were slapped aside and crushed in the mad onslaught. The energy of the waaagh pulsated almost visibly. The horde was like a single giant beast, gradually choking the space and light from the hillside as it hauled its massive bulk towards the Imperial lines.

Schwarzhelm waited a few moments more, and then the time came.

“Archers, let fly!”

A storm of arrows flew high into the air over the heads of the infantrymen, plummeting down like rain on the heads of the oncoming orcs. Shrieks went up immediately, the feathered shafts piercing deep into the advance. The vanguard stumbled. Those behind leapt with abandon over their fallen kin.

“Again!” bellowed Schwarzhelm, still standing still as stone.

Fresh arrows rose and fell, causing more green forms to stagger and fall. The air was thick with them, but the advance only slowed slightly. The gap between the forces was narrowing. A third wave of arrows coursed into the air. Even Katerina began to feel her nerves fray.

“Gunners! Fire!” roared Schwarzhelm, and the crack of exploding blackpowder echoed across the field. Low chains of grapeshot were hurled into the advancing orc lines, causing immediate havoc. The arrows kept coming while the gunners reloaded, and then another volley tore into the enemy. Blood splattered across the uneven ground, bones cracked, armour dented, and still they came. The killing had begun, and Katerina felt the stirrings of Shyish around her.

She screwed her eyes against the glare of the sun, peering over the endless morass of figures labouring up the hill, trying to catch sight of the shaman. Nothing was visible. The only vague indication of its presence was an insubstantial feeling of foreboding, a nebulous dread that seemed to shimmer in the air. Wherever it was, it was biding its time. She swallowed, and looked back at Schwarzhelm. He glanced down at her for a moment, his scarred face grim, but there was something else in his eyes, a savage, almost joyous sparkle.

“Men of the Empire!” he bellowed, turning to address the waiting ranks, even his powerful voice only just audible over the gathering tumult. “Remember your orders! Go with honour, and do not fear death! There is nothing nobler than to fight and die for hearth, home and kin! Look not for mercy from these dogs, but kill them! Kill them all! Follow me, trusting in Sigmar and the Emperor, and ride to victory!”

A huge roar rose from the massed ranks, drowning for a moment even the chants and jeers of the orcs. The men of the Empire raised their weapons into the air as one. With a kick, Schwarzhelm thrust his charger forward. He and his knights thundered down the slope, their lances lowered, the beat of their hooves churning the earth as they went. The arrows, flew either side of them, landing amid the flanks of the orc horde still coming towards them. The cannons cracked, and with a massed cry of fury and aggression, the lines of swordsmen, halberdiers and greatswords fell in behind their commander. Men surged down the hill, their faces distorted by battle-cries, their weapons light in their hands. Katerina whirled her staff around, sending a shroud of magic over Schwarzhelm’s head, its aura protecting and guiding.

“Go well, champion,” she breathed, as he disappeared into the churning, boiling mass of the battle, his company riding beside him.

At her side, Ambrosius was conjuring golden essence from the earth, ready to hurl it against the wall of greenskins. She did likewise, pulling Amethyst force from the air, relishing the sensation of power at her fingertips. She pointed her staff at the orc lines, watching for a suitable target amidst the clash of arms. The familiar thrill of superiority passed through her.

“Let’s get started,” she said, her staff shimmering, her wicked, knowing smile firmly in place.

* * *

Lothar crept along, his staff held low, hugging the shadows. Karsten was ahead of him, and the rest of the men were close behind. All told, they numbered just under two dozen, all survivors from Helmgart who had made it as far as the Skaag Hills. For such a large garrison, it was a pitiful return. Lothar hoped at least some others had escaped the horde in the mountains. Those who remained wore grim masks of determination. Having fought the monster twice, they knew exactly what to expect. This was not a job for cowed conscripts. They were here because they wanted to see the shaman killed, to extract revenge for the deaths of so many of their comrades.

Lothar looked around, trying to gain his bearings. They had set out an hour ago, skirting far to the west of the expected orc approach, travelling under the cover of the forests that flourished in the valleys between the bare hilltops. Now they were heading south, hoping to loop around behind the advancing horde and emerge within charging distance of the shaman at the rear. At least that was the plan. Lothar couldn’t help but reflect on how much of it was dependent on hunches and good fortune. Suppose the shaman led from the front against Schwarzhelm? Or that it was too well protected to attack? Or they were spotted before they even got close? But such speculation was useless. He cleared his mind of such worries; he would need to be alert for the task ahead.

In front of him, Karsten held up a warning hand. The company halted, crouching low amid the shadows of the trees. Lothar shuffled towards the castellan.

“What is it?” he whispered, his eyes struggling to see far in the leafy gloom. Though his magical sight was excellent, his normal vision was no better than average.

“Not sure,” said Karsten in a low voice. “We’ve been heading south, and should be well to the rear of the horde. I’d like to start tracking back towards them, keeping under the trees. In time, we’ll follow them to the battlefield, which lies to our north. The assault must have started, and we don’t have all the time in the world, but I thought I heard something ahead… maybe nothing.”

The men stayed crouching for a few moments longer. Lothar’s heart thumped strongly. His grip on his staff was tight.

“Do you want me to conceal us?” he asked softly.

“No,” said Karsten. “Save your strength. You’ll need it if we get to the battlefield in one piece.”

He motioned to his men to continue, and they rose soundlessly like spectres from the forest floor. They started walking again, travelling in long strides as quietly as possible. After only a few more paces, Karsten seemed to tense again. Then, suddenly, it was evident why. Two goblin wolf riders crashed through the undergrowth ahead, loping through the trees, apparently unaware of them, heading north. They were either stragglers from the main army, or just lost. Either way, they cared little for being seen. Their dirty red cloaks fluttered behind them as their snarling mounts carried them towards the battle.

“Down!” hissed Karsten, frantically waving to the men behind him.

Once again the company shrank into the shadows, but this time too slowly. One man near the back seemed to lose his footing and crashed noisily through a briar patch, letting slip a muffled curse. The goblins immediately pulled up their steeds, sniffing suspiciously. The wolves paced in their direction slowly, tongues lolling, their lean muzzles held low against the ground. The riders were hooded in rough, patched rags, but their teeth glinted darkly in the shadows of their cowls.

Karsten drew his sword, soundlessly, keeping the blade flat along the ground. Lothar whispered the first words of a spell, but it was risky. Once the wolves were startled, they couldn’t hope to catch them, and if the goblins got free, then it was all over. The wolves crept closer, now within two hundred yards, their long noses sniffing with awful persistence. There was an agonising wait as they shuffled around, coming no closer, the search appearing more aimless. Then there was a muffled crack from some distance away, as the Imperial guns were fired. Both goblins stiffened, and looked north to the source of the noise. One gestured to the other, and said something in a coarse, unintelligible rasp. They both began to move off, pulling savagely at the strands of studded leather that served as crude halters for the wolves. Lothar let the nascent spell dissipate, holding his breath. The goblins headed away from them.

Then, apparently for no reason, one of them looked over its shoulder, directly towards their position. Even hidden under bracken and low creepers, some glint of a helmet or visor must have been visible. The greenskin let out a shriek, and suddenly the goblins tore towards them, the jaws of their wolves gaping wide.

There was nothing for it. Karsten leapt up, swinging his sword at the nearest wolf rider as it approached. The other men jumped from their cover, racing forwards to protect their captain. Their assistance wasn’t required. With a single, clean blow, Karsten’s sword sliced the leader’s head from its shoulders, drenching the castellan in thick, viscous blood. The wolf rounded on him, snarling, ready to leap. It was felled with a quick blow from Lothar’s staff, tipped with a strange grey glow. As the magic struck its flanks, the wolf yowled in pain as if burned and limped backwards, clearly struggling with some mysterious wound. Two men ran after it, swords in hand.

The second goblin, surprised to see so many bodies rise from cover, cursed in a shrill voice and pulled its mount up sharply. With a snarl, the lean grey shape halted in its tracks before turning and bounding away from the company. Lothar spun his staff towards the departing shape and fired a hastily cast bolt of dark, inklike matter in its direction. The spell was not delivered correctly, and the magical substance burst harmlessly against a tree trunk, barely touching the fleeing greenskin. Karsten hurled his sword after it in despair. It spun harmlessly into the bracken behind the raised tail of the wolf. The goblin was away, goading his mount hard, leaping over logs and clumps of undergrowth as it went. There was nothing they could do to stop it. It would alert more of its kind, and the raid would be over before it had begun. Lothar felt a deep sickness well up within him. Even Karsten looked pale. They had failed.

Then there was a crash in front of them. Two heavy branches, old and gnarled, seemed to tear themselves from the forest canopy and fell into the path of the fleeing wolf rider. Leaves were flung up into the air, whirling in a vortex of destruction. With a bellow, a shaggy form leapt from behind the fallen branches, straight at the bewildered wolf, now backing away, snarling. A bright amber light flashed briefly. There was a sickening crack as something hit the ground hard, and a dog-like howl of pain and confusion.

“Run!” cried Karsten, gathering his wits and sprinting to retrieve his blade. “We may still catch it!”

Lothar felt sudden recognition, and instantly knew who was behind the surprise intervention. Stifling a cry of relief, he ran after the wolf rider with the others, only to arrive well after the event. The goblin’s twisted body lay on the ground, its neck snapped. Thick blood pooled under its distorted limbs. The wolf had been similarly treated. Its back was broken, and its glazed eyes stared sightlessly into the air. Marius was leaning heavily against the crossed tree branches, his breath coming in heaves. He looked even worse than normal, his straggly locks hanging in greasy bundles about his face, and his eyes rimmed with red. When he saw the company approach, he smiled wearily.

“I leave you on your own, and look what happens,” he wheezed. Despite the lightness of his voice, there was something different about him. He seemed to have aged somehow.

Lothar looked around him watchfully. The forest was quiet. For the moment, the danger had passed.

“What are you doing here?” asked Karsten, his voice a mix of anger, gratitude and confusion. “You were due at the Council of War. Schwarzhelm will kill you when he finds you.”

Marius laughed bitterly.

“By the time this is over, Schwarzhelm will be in no position to do anything, nor will any of you. I’ve seen the size of the horde, and we’ve barely touched it. I could ask you the same question, castellan; why are you not with them?”

“He’s escorting me,” said Lothar, quietly, but with an unaccustomed edge to his voice. He was feeling tired and anxious, in no mood for Marius’ bickering. “We’re hunting the shaman. Time’s short, and we need to travel quickly. If you’re with us, than come now. If not, then leave.”

Marius turned his glance to the slight, frail-looking youth.

“I see you have a new staff,” he said, looking Lothar up and down, “an ancient one, though you may not know it. Has it driven you mad, to attempt such a thing?”

“You thought the same at Grauenburg, and we succeeded there. It can be done. Your help would be welcome, but I’ll attempt it with or without you. The thing must die, or all will be lost.”

Marius shrugged uncaringly.

“So you seem to think.”

Then he laughed again, looking to the heavens with a rueful smile as if to acknowledge some joke, perhaps played on him.

“I’ll come with you, of course,” he said, a dangerous mix of flippancy and intensity in his expression. “It seems we’re fated to stay together for a while longer, and I’ve nothing left to lose.”

“Let’s go, then,” said Karsten, breaking into the conversation between the wizards, clearly itching to be away again. “The battle’s started, and we must hurry. The battlefield is to the north. When we break through the cover of the trees, we’ll be amongst the rearguard. Then we must trust to Sigmar.”

The company started to head towards the distant sounds of gunfire, hugging the shadows under the trees, their swords held unsheathed.

“So, what mad plot have you cooked up this time?” whispered Marius to Lothar as they crept forwards. “Any more blackpowder in your pockets?”

Lothar resisted the urge to snap back at the ragged figure by his side. It was difficult enough to retain his composure without sniping from Marius, who seemed to have returned from his meeting with Ambrosius in a dark and strange mood.

“We’ll draw near to the northern edge of the forest, shortly. The orc army should be ahead of us, locked in combat with Schwarzhelm’s forces. Once we near them, I’ll shroud the company once more, and we’ll advance towards the shaman. It’s our hope that the monster will be at the rear of the horde, distracted with the attack on the Imperial lines. When we’re close enough, I’ll cast the shroud aside and attack it. If I can kill it, so be it. If not, then at least we’ll have distracted its attention long enough for the Imperial army to go on the offensive.”

Marius laughed, a low, rasping sound.

“True to form, that’s a terrible plan,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you. Never mind. You seem determined to kill yourself, and I don’t have much to live for. So let’s do it.”

Lothar gave Marius a quizzical look, and didn’t reply at once.

“So, what happened?” he asked at last. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

Marius’ eyes flickered towards the form of the castellan and his soldiers, but they were paying no attention to the whispered conversation as they stealthily slipped between the trees.

“I discovered something about myself that I didn’t particularly like,” said the Amber wizard, looking resigned, “something about my power, where it comes from. I’ll spare you the details, but it’s given me something to think about. Perhaps meeting this shaman again is no bad thing. To be honest, I’m not sure I know anything much anymore.”

Lothar looked at the grimy, creased face of the Amber wizard. An uncomfortable feeling ran through him. Marius could be a conceited oaf at times, but his familiar bluster was far preferable to the embittered, doubting character who had returned from the encounter with Ambrosius.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Lothar, his voice uneasy, “but I’m glad you found us. Together, maybe we’ll have a chance.”

Marius didn’t meet his gaze, but kept staring ahead, as if he could see hidden messages in the shadows around them. After a moment, it looked as if he was about to reply, but he was prevented. Karsten had raised a warning hand, and the company once more sank into the undergrowth. The castellan crept over to Lothar and Marius.

“We’re close. The trees start to thin ahead of us, and the horde is beyond them. Now we need protection. Lothar, are you prepared?”

Lothar nodded, feeling his heart start to beat hard again. He closed his eyes, and began to prepare the spell. Familiar energies rippled up and down the new staff. Its dark surface trembled slightly as the Wind of Shadows answered the wizard’s call. Marius stood back respectfully as the other members of the company waited patiently under the cover of the trees. Slowly, smoothly, a grey mist was rising from the hollows of the undergrowth, sliding and coiling upwards like tendrils of an unnatural creeper. As the insubstantial substance began to veil the world around them, each member of the company remained silent. There was no turning back now. Once the ward was complete, they would head north, through the remaining trees, and into the horde.

Katerina staggered back awkwardly. Sweat was beaded across her brow and her cheeks were flushed with effort. Her staff trembled, its wooden surface almost warm to the touch. The last spell had been a difficult one, especially when her exposed position was surrounded by determined greenskins, all of whom wanted the prestige of getting past her guards and dragging her down into their midst. Ahead of her, the bodies of both orcs and men littered the battlefield, their dark blood strewn across the sodden earth. She had remained on the high ground, the elevation giving her room to throw her magic far into the mass of orcs lumbering their way towards the Imperial lines. But things were getting too busy for comfort. The last brute had nearly got through the lines of soldiers and stakes that protected her vantage point, and now lay in the mud, its huge head bent at a crazy angle, its thick hide still smoking from the power she had unleashed.

She looked around, breathing heavily, trying to take stock. For the moment, the assault had been driven back. All around her, Imperial troops were holding their ground. Schwarzhelm was in the thick of it, his lance discarded in favour of his mighty broadsword. Time and again he and his knights would fall back from the fiercest fighting and regroup near the top of the hill, only to thunder back into the limitless orc ranks, driving the wretched beasts further down the slope, dividing their forces and sowing confusion.

The artillery was still untouched, and its expert gunners were sending shot high over the heads of the Imperial soldiers and into the mass of swarming green forms. The Empire troops were outnumbered, but still had the advantage of the higher ground.

With a thrill of excitement, Katerina realised they were more than holding their own. They were actually pushing the orc advance back. She cast around, looking for Ambrosius. Eventually she caught sight of him. He was further along the ridge. His position looked as if it had been overrun by goblins.

For a moment she wondered why the greenskins weren’t attacking him. Then she noticed that none of them were moving. Their eyes were blank, and their skin strangely metallic. She grinned, watching as the guard around him regrouped, appreciating his art. He was an arrogant bastard, to be sure, but he knew what he was doing. It was time to get back to work.

She turned lightly on her feet, and began to prepare a new spell. Then something happened, something terrible. The air of oppression, present since the beginning of the attack, suddenly seemed to intensify. Even in the midst of combat, she could see the soldiers around her stiffen and look up. There was a new presence, an emanation rising from the base of the hill. Katerina backed higher up the slope to gain a better view.

Her heart was suddenly gripped by a nebulous fear. The drums and horns of the horde rose to an even more frenzied pitch. A weird, green shape was rising above the orcs, insubstantial and flickering in the strong sunlight. She shaded her eyes, and peered intently at the new development. It was growing in size and solidity. It appeared to be in the form of an orc, but massively greater, surrounded by a shimmering, sickening aura of lurid emerald. It was three times the height of a man, and as wide as a house. Its features were hard to pick out, and seemed to shift in the air, rapidly changing through a gamut of different orcish expressions, all of them savage and brutal.

The horde began to rally, chanting feverishly. Their aimless cries and bellows started to coalesce into something more rhythmic, something with a focused intent. It was hard to make out exactly what was being chanted. It sounded to her like endless repetitions of a single word: Gork! Gork! Gork! From her viewpoint, she looked hurriedly towards Schwarzhelm. He was embroiled in heavy fighting, his armour streaked with blood, his sword rising and falling quickly. He had seen the apparition, and was moving towards it fearlessly. His knights followed him, cutting a glittering path towards the monstrous form.

“No,” Katerina breathed, feeling her heart lurch into fearfulness. “You can’t fight this foe.”

Hurriedly, she began to prepare a counter-spell, hoping Ambrosius was doing the same. The ghostly figure was solidifying fast. It started to lumber forwards. All were crushed under its enormous feet, orcs and men alike. The greenskins around it seemed to pass into a crazed delirium. They lost all restraint, hurling their bodies after the rampaging figure. Arrows soared up into the air, but passed harmlessly through the magical flesh of the apparition. As it strode forwards, the nearest men to it began to break, falling back before its advance, their faces pale from fear. They were charged by the gleeful, resurgent orcs, who piled after the confused troops with abandon. Katerina saw men cruelly cut down, their bodies hacked and mutilated by the jubilant greenskins. A shudder seemed to pass through the Imperial ranks. Whatever the ghostly figure was, it was something they couldn’t fight.

Katerina heard Schwarzhelm’s powerful voice roaring from the vanguard, trying to muster resistance, but even his exhortations seemed strangely insubstantial next to the bestial roar generated by the orcs.

Collecting her thoughts, she forced her mind clear of fear and on to the business of magic. Something had to be done. The Wind of Shyish flowed in strong, clear patterns around her, every one of the dead men on the field below contributing to her magical strength. She closed her eyes, murmuring words of power, feeling the rush of hot energy surge through her limbs. Amethyst essence crackled and spat around her, flickering towards her staff tip like lightning. Her preparations complete, she opened her eyes, all trace of her usual smile erased from her elegant features.

Ahead of her, the baleful orcish figure was wading through the rows of soldiers, casting them aside with ease, crushing and maiming with strange, ethereal fists. None could stand before it. With a pang of grief, she saw a huge, tall knight of Schwarzhelm’s company brushed from his horse with contemptuous ease. His armour-encased form was dragged into the mud. In moments, his broken body was surrounded by screeching goblins, which hacked and tore at his rent armour. The giant waded forwards.

With a quick prayer to Morr, her patron god, Katerina unleashed her power. Spinning gem-like points of Amethyst energy flew from her staff towards the huge striding figure. Where they struck its green aura, they exploded in bright coruscating light, momentarily blinding all who gazed at it. For an instant, the chanting of the orcs beneath was interrupted. The massive form bellowed, an utterly unearthly sound, which froze even Katerina’s blood. It staggered, reeling from the magical projectiles, and seemed to shrink slightly. Katerina spun her staff, and sent a fresh batch of glittering missiles whistling across the air over the battlefield. When they connected, the figure roared once more, flailing its huge arms around wildly in pain and anger. For all its enormous strength, it seemed slow to react, and almost blind. Howling with an incoherent fury, it began to stamp frantically around, blundering across as many orcs as men.

Feeling her strength begin to falter, Katerina prepared a final volley of gems, and hurled them into the air. Her fatigue was beginning to tell. Only a few found their mark. The rest fell to the earth like embers. It was enough, though, to diminish the monster a little further and provoke fresh roars of pain and rage. The creature had become demented. Its translucent limbs thrashed wildly, throwing bodies in every direction. Slowly, confusedly, it began to turn around, its attention turning back towards its origin. An uncertain cheer rose from the Imperial troops, many of whom halted their ragged retreat and began to hold their ground. By contrast, the greenskins wavered, looking skywards with sudden concern.

It didn’t last. Fresh streams of green energy coursed into the air from the rear of the horde, augmenting and sustaining the monstrous apparition. Something was feeding it, the shaman no doubt. Katerina cursed under her breath. It felt like her ability to counteract such sorcery was fading. Where was Ambrosius? More importantly, where was Lothar? She gritted her teeth, preparing to combat the monster once more. From the corner of her eye, she saw Schwarzhelm rally his knights for yet another valiant, but increasingly futile charge. With a muttered incantation, she raised her staff once more, knowing that time was rapidly running out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The world was swathed in layers of shifting grey mist. The company moved slowly within the magical barrier, careful not to pierce the protective covering with a stray hand or sword tip. The trees beyond them loomed darkly as they passed by. The noise of the battle ahead was strangely muffled, as if coming from miles away. They all knew that the fighting was well within eyesight, if only the ethereal shroud were not there to mask it. No one spoke. The ghostly forms of orcs blundered into the margins of the concealing curtain of mist around them, before being halted by the force of the spell. They were ejected, confused and staring back into the world of noise and colour. Not a single figure penetrated the shroud, despite the dozens that milled around them.

Lothar walked forwards slowly, knowing that they were passing from the eaves of the forest and out onto the battlefield. To disguise the company from so many thousands of eyes was not easy, but it helped that the orcs’ attention was focused away from them, towards the Imperial forces further up the slope. If any greenskin walked into the shroud, it would merely experience a certain coldness, and a strange and unexplained feeling of dislocation. A few steps back into the sun, and it would forget about it, its primeval rage returning in an instant. It was a powerful spell, but one that required careful tending. After only a few moments, Lothar could already feel the drain on his strength. He clutched his old master’s staff tightly, as if some comfort could be drawn from the cold, scarred wood. For whatever reason, the ancient instrument did seem to augment his natural magical strength. Lothar knew that a wizard’s staff was more than just a rough pole, and that there was a strange and secret art in their construction. Even so, he was surprised at the energy this new staff gave him, at least compared to his old one.

They crawled forwards slowly. Lothar cast his mind beyond the boundaries of the shadowy ward, seeking the unmistakable aura of the shaman amidst the bustle of bodies ahead. He knew he would recognise it even from some distance. A magician’s presence was as unique as a signature, a giveaway combination of ethereal clues that marked him out from the dull, washed out shades of the normal world. With humans, the signature was based on the colour they employed. With the shaman, it was different. There was nothing familiar about its appearance. It was rooted in the strange, unknowable ways of the greenskin mind, and was utterly foreign to human senses, and yet, it was detectable if one knew how to look for it. As Lothar walked slowly, feeding words of encouragement and enrichment to the shifting barrier enclosing the company, he felt its presence. With each step, he knew they were getting closer. With a sudden thrill of both fear and excitement, he knew that the shaman was positioned, just as they had hoped, at the rear of the horde. They had emerged from the forest behind the orc lines, following the looping route planned by Karsten and Schwarzhelm hours earlier, and their quarry was close.

Lothar stopped walking. He angled his head slightly, trying to make sense of the various emanations echoing from outside the cloying mist of the barrier. The castellan stood beside him, his expression pensive.

“What is it?” he whispered.

Lothar straightened, a slight tremble of his fingers giving away the effort he was expending to maintain their concealment.

“We’re out in the open,” he said. “The horde is all around us, although their attention is directed north, away from us. We can’t go much further. The way ahead is thick with orcs. I can sense the shaman, it is close. My ability to maintain this spell is waning. The time is right to emerge.”

With a deep breath, Karsten nodded. For all his courage, he was nervous. The chances of any of them emerging alive were low, and he knew it. He drew his sword, and turned to his men.

“The wizard will remove the shroud now,” he said. To his credit, his voice remained free of even the smallest tremor, and he stood tall. “When it fades, we’ll be revealed to the enemy. Our only task is to protect the wizards. All else is unimportant. If we die, at least it will be an honest death, given in the service of the Empire, and no one will ever accuse the men of Helmgart of rejecting their duty. We’ve given ground twice, when we had to. A third time will serve for all. Draw your swords, and may Sigmar guide you.”

As one, the soldiers unsheathed their weapons. The naked blades gleamed coldly in the shallow light. Their faces were drawn, pale, but unflinching. Hulking shapes moved dimly beyond the protective shroud. Lothar nodded to the castellan, and steadily began to dismantle the wall of force surrounding them. Marius came to his side as the grey substance started to thin and drift away. The world was rushing back into focus.

“Good work, lad,” he said in a low voice, his expression alive with expectation. “Now let’s finish this thing, you and me.”

With a shudder and a sigh, the ward collapsed. Bright sunlight flooded in, as did the shocking noise and the stench of battle. They were in the heart of the horde, alone and far from help. Red eyes swung round to face them, green faces snarled with surprise and anger. Ahead, something huge stirred from its concentration, something clad in rags, its gnarled staff raised high over its hunched back. It turned, its weary, weeping eyes fixing on them with a terrible, noxious malice. A flicker of recognition passed across its wrinkled, ruined features. As it brought its staff down, clasped tightly in both claw-like hands, it smiled.

* * *

Where was Ambrosius? Katerina was beginning to get angry. It was unreasonable to leave her to deal with the abomination on her own. Her robes were splattered with blood and grime and her face ran with sweat. She had fallen back, along with the entire army, in the face of the stampeding apparition. Its strength had been renewed, and once more bodies were flung in every direction as it staggered forwards. The chanting had resumed � Gork! Gork! Gork!—whatever that meant. Nothing seemed to stop it, and the orcs were jubilant. Wearily, she gripped her staff one more time. There was little strength left in her, but there was no choice. No one else in the army could stop the apparition.

She raised her hands, and then paused, her half-recited spell sticking in her throat. Something was happening to the spectral green form. It shuddered, as if a breeze had passed through it. Like a guttering candle flame, it seemed to pass in and out of existence rapidly. Frowning, she walked slowly forwards from her vantage point, trying to get closer and make out what was happening. It looked as if a figure stood at the very base of the apparition, his arms raised as if in supplication. He was surrounded by some of Schwarzhelm’s knights, but the champion was busy marshalling a desperate defence of the right flank. She peered closer, in disbelief. The man holding the apparition back was Ambrosius.

“You!” she cried to a young captain preparing to lead his company of men against the orc lines. “Come with me. I need to get closer to that thing.”

“Closer?” asked the captain, horrified. “Are you mad?”

Katerina gave him a look of contempt.

“I may be tired, but if you don’t escort me to Lord Kalliston right now I’ll flay you alive where you stand.”

The man swallowed noticeably, and nodded. Calling his men, they formed a cordon around her. Together, they hurried down the hillside towards the cluster of knights. The greenskins in their path were swept aside in the charge, but as they neared the heart of the fighting, the press of orcs around them became thicker, and men began to be dragged down into the mire of the battlefield. Eventually, and with losses, they cut their way through to the press of knights at the centre of the conflict. Ahead of them, the lurid apparition loomed close, fighting hard against some magical impediment.

“What’s happening?” asked Katerina, leaving the captain to fend for himself in the confusion and hastening to the side of the leader of the knights. Schwarzhelm was still nowhere to be seen, caught up in fierce fighting elsewhere.

“The lord wizard is attempting to banish the apparition,” said the knight brusquely, slashing his broadsword in a savage arc against a row of ravenous-looking orc warriors. “If you’re here to help him, then do it. If not, get out of the way!”

All around them, the orcs pressed forwards. Their eyes were like points of fire, their grinning jaws bestial and ferocious. In the thick of combat, the clamour was deafening. Katerina stepped back from the fray, working her way between the knights towards Ambrosius. Protected by his armoured bodyguard, he was casting bolt after bolt of golden energy directly at the gigantic figure before him. It was working, the apparition was being weakened, dissipated, flung back to whatever mysterious realm it belonged in. The orcs raged against the wall of Imperial troops, but the line held. Ambrosius was exhausted, his fingers streaked with his own blood, his eyes wide and staring. It looked as if he was near the end of his strength.

Katerina joined him, silently, raising her own staff in unison with the panting Gold wizard, willing her strained powers to regenerate. With a cry of pain, she managed to summon more of the gem-like projectiles. Dizzy from the effort, she flung them at the shifting figure. She saw, with satisfaction, that they still had some effect. The raging monster staggered and diminished, its lethal blows halted amidst the rain of gold and amethyst bolts. The orcs around them, seeing their talisman thrown back, were being driven mad with frustration. They clawed desperately to get at the two wizards, but the line of knights held firm. Their heavy armour turned the crude blades of the greenskins, while their swords laboured against the enemy, slick with blood and gore.

“It’s a summoning,” gasped Ambrosius, his breath coming in shallow heaves, “some strange sending of their primitive god, the essence of the waaagh. A spell, no more, but the power! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Katerina nodded grimly, trying to drag up reserves of more strength from somewhere, but she was nearly on her knees with fatigue. Her ability to tap into the Wind of Shyish was weak and uncertain. She looked upwards grimly, seeing how close the apparition was to dissipating, its edges fraying in the wind. With a sigh, she began to prepare a fresh spell, not knowing whether it would work. Perhaps it would fizzle out, or engulf them all in ruin. Then she turned back to Ambrosius, a sixth sense making her suddenly afraid.

He was making a strange sound, and his eyes were wide and bloodshot. Something had gone wrong. His palms seemed to bulge, as if something was crawling under his skin. His voluminous robes flapped unnaturally, as if a flock of birds was trapped beneath them.

“Ambrosius!” Katerina cried, forgetting protocol in her anxiety. “What is it?”

“I… ah…” began the Gold wizard, foam frothing at his mouth, but the words died in his throat. He was being consumed by something, a spell gone wrong, the price paid for his extreme fatigue. Katerina watched in horror as the consequences of his error began to magnify.

“Fall back!” she screamed at the knights around her. They ignored her, busy with the slaughter before them. Even if they had heard her, they wouldn’t readily take orders from a wizard. “Retreat!” she cried again, trying physically to drag them backwards. “Get away from the wizard!”

Ambrosius was lurching back and forth, clutching his throat, vomit streaming down his chest. A weird, throttled cry escaped his crimson lips, as unearthly as anything the orcs were uttering. Gradually, despite the chaos of the battle, he began to be noticed, and the press of bodies, both orc and man, started to edge away from him. Flashes of gold exploded from his pierced skin, spraying blood into the air. The knights began to retreat up the hillside, their eyes fixed with alarm at the disintegrating form of the Gold wizard. The orcs hesitated to charge after them. Even their brute minds were caught up in the terrible spectacle unfolding before them.

The knight commander looked down at Katerina sharply.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, his face at once sickened and confused.

“He’s made an error in spellcasting,” said Katerina quickly, anxious to get away. “Withdraw! He’s unleashed some power he can’t control. Fall back, I beg you!”

Ambrosius was gurgling blood. What remained of his face was purple and swollen, and his breath came in frothing heaves. More bright golden energy was erupting from his broken palms, spraying into the air like water from a fountain. He started to spin around uncontrollably, wrestling with the elemental forces he had unleashed. The knight commander needed only a second glance to see that she was right.

“Fall back!” he roared, and the knights started to back up the hill more quickly, watching the orc lines carefully all the time.

Katerina pulled away from the spiralling form of Ambrosius, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew more than the others what was happening, the thing a wizard feared more than anything. The belief that wizards truly controlled the magic they used was an illusion, and they all knew it. Perhaps only the elves really understood what forces they had at their command. With humans, the possibility of catastrophic failure was always just around the corner, especially when under stress or fatigue. So it had proved with Ambrosius. Katerina turned briefly from her retreat, a safe distance from the stricken figure. She looked on with mingled pity and horror. He had been a pompous, self-important man, but didn’t deserve such a fate.

With a lurch and a rip, his torso was torn open by the golden energy flooding from within him. Gore was flung across the few orcs slow or stupid enough not to have retreated far from the grisly scene. With a crack and gruesome squelch, he was torn apart by the raw magical essence boiling up within him. Once released, the golden substance tore outwards like a blackpowder explosion, flattening all in its range, tearing across the battlefield like molten ore from the ovens of a forge.

Even from some distance away, Katerina was floored, and her chin hit the ground hard. She felt the hot material splatter against her. The copper taste of blood rose in her mouth. She flipped over, mindful of the orcs nearby, and scrabbled desperately for her staff. All around her, Imperial soldiers were picking themselves up, scraping gobbets of steaming metallic substance from their armour. Somehow, in his dying moments, Ambrosius had staggered towards the apparition, itself reeling from the earlier attacks. It had been shattered, blown apart into a hundred flickering green shards of insubstantial essence. The air shimmered and glowed where it had been moments earlier, but the strong wind was driving even the memory of its presence away. The orcs clustered underneath seemed momentarily uncertain, but the knights around her did not hesitate. They were used to war and its rapidly changing fortunes. With a roar of aggression, they charged down the slope, and the harsh sounds of battle resumed.

Feeling drained, sick and useless, Katerina dragged herself to her feet. There was little she could offer until her strength returned. She would have to find some spot of relative safety and wait for her reserves of power to replenish. All around her, men were locked in combat with greenskins. The balance of power was still poised delicately. Shading her eyes, watchful for rogue orcs breaking through the lines of defenders, she scanned the battlefield for Schwarzhelm. It was hard to make anything out in the confusion. Despite the monstrous apparition having being destroyed, greenskins swarmed with abandon in all directions. The dreadful power of the shaman still animated them. She wondered whether Lothar had even made it through the forest and into the rearguard. Her head thick, her vision blurry, she staggered upwards, away from the worst of the fighting. Too late she heard the orc approach behind her. Turning quickly, she saw the huge form slavering madly, its cudgel raised high.

“By Morr…” she started, raising her staff against the blow.

But then the weapon fell, and pain, and then darkness, overwhelmed her. Falling heavily to the ground, she crumpled in a heap. The orc warrior raised the bloodstained cudgel high in the air above, bellowing in triumph.

* * *

Lothar looked around quickly. Karsten and Marius were by his side. The rest of the men brandished their weapons uneasily. They were at the rear of the huge orc host, surrounded by startled, angry greenskins, but surprise was quickly turning to deliberate malice. Ahead of them, the shaman grinned greedily, distracted for a moment from casting its baleful magic at the Imperial lines. It lumbered in their direction, wheezing and cackling. The orcs rushed in towards them. They were huge black orcs, the mightiest of their breed, draped in thick armour and brandishing heavy cleavers. Their tusks dripped with anticipation, and their crimson eyes burned with madness.

“Protect the wizards!” yelled Karsten, and his men fanned out in a circle around them. With a clash of steel, the fighting began. The soldiers, hopelessly outnumbered, fought with the ferocity of men knowing they were destined to die.

For a few moments, the charge was halted, but they knew it could not last long. Lothar and Marius walked forwards quickly to a small gap in the circle of defenders, straight towards the grinning form of the shaman. Beyond, the sounds of the battle were everywhere. In the distance, across ranks and ranks of whooping orc warriors, Lothar could make out the wavering Imperial standards. They looked like ships lost in a large and stormy sea. He should have been exhausted after conjuring the protective ward, but he was only angry. His fury with the grotesque form fuelled him, burning through his veins like pitch.

He felt Malgar’s staff hum in his hands, in anticipation. At last, the terrible sequence of events kindled by the attack on Helmgart would end, one way or another. He looked deep into the crazed eyes of the beast, seeing its madness and agony. He forced his expression to become impassive, flat and cold.

“It finishes here,” he hissed, feeling the surge of power around him as Marius raised his staff.

In a blur of activity, the two wizards let fly two streams of crackling energy from their staffs, each targeted directly at the shaman. One was dark, apparently drawn from the shadows around them, its grey surface dull and hard to make out. The other was bright amber, flicking and writhing like a herd of trapped beasts. Together, the different magics met at the shaman, and exploded in a bizarre mixture of colours: gold, green, grey and others besides. Any orcs stationed near the shaman were blasted aside. Ripples of deadly force whipped across the ground like snakes, driving the greenskin bodyguard backwards.

With a grunt of effort, Marius slammed his staff into the ground, cracking the earth apart, toppling the orcs in their heavy armour, crushing them between the moving, fluid slabs of mud and soil. The area became a maelstrom of magic, a burning cauldron of force and power, searing the air with its intensity. Lothar whirled his staff, feeling the eddies and flow of the Wind of Ulgu, directing it in waves of dark force towards the hunched figure. The air was thick with diffused heat, burning like the heart of a furnace where the rippling streams of magical energy stroked.

From the heart of the storm, the nexus of the unleashed forces, a strange sound emerged. It was almost inaudible amid the clamour around them, a low wheezing, a grating coughing. It was the shaman. It was laughing. With a stamp of its great, clawed foot, the magical energies swarming around it were shrugged aside like water. The deadly bolts of force from the two wizards were hurled carelessly into the air.

It came forwards. Its shambling form wobbled and swayed as it moved. Even through his anger, Lothar felt the horror of its being acutely. It seemed to have grown in size since he had last encountered it, even though that was surely impossible. Its wizened, cruel talons clutched at the gnarled staff tightly, its drooling mouth fixed in an inane, bleary grin. Dribbles of green fluid seemed to leak from every pore in its pockmarked, leathery skin. The stench was almost overpowering: animal aromas, putrid ritual incense, manure, sweat, and a hundred other indefinable substances. Its tusks rose high up its wrinkled cheeks, scoring the flesh deeply. Every exposed slab of skin was riddled with sores and scabs. It looked like it was in permanent pain, a tortured existence, driven on by the whims of the greenskin gods, both the victim and the chosen instrument of their inscrutable, violent ways.

Lothar was dimly aware of the fighting around him, and the thin cordon of men labouring to keep the horde from their backs, but he couldn’t think about that even for a moment. All his attention was focussed on the shaman as it lumbered towards him. The monstrous form raised its twisted staff, and bellowed some obscene gibberish into the air. For a moment, nothing happened. Marius strode forwards, preparing to unleash a second stream of Amber energy. But then it struck, a tidal wave of pain, hammering at Lothar’s temples, crushing his will, forcing him onto his knees. Somehow, the shaman had unlocked some door deep within him. Lights burst in his eyes, and his heart began to race out of his control. In his mind’s eye, he saw an endless tide of greenskins marching over a blasted, ruined world, nothing but ashes and dust beneath their bloodstained feet. Lothar staggered backwards, only just keeping a hand on his staff, his whole being descending into agony and confusion.

As if from a far distance, he heard what sounded like Marius’ voice shouting, but he couldn’t make out what was said. Instead, he felt as if he was being drawn into the fevered mind of the shaman, caught in a nightmare existence with no hope of escape or rescue.

He screwed his eyes shut, fighting against the excruciating sensations coursing through his body. All he could see, whether his eyes were open or not, was the vision of endless ranks of orcs, their mania running all over the Old World, drowning everything in an endless tide of war. He felt his blood pulse thickly in his veins, clogging and bursting. With an effort, he stopped retreating, but the pain got worse.

With a sudden chill, he knew what was happening. The shaman was trying to crush his very self from the inside. It was as if the torment within its ruined mind was being transferred to his. In an instant, he understood something of what life must be like for the wretched brute, forever driven by bloodlust, always goaded onwards by the never-ending gaze of Mork, prevented from rest, from health, from peace, from anything except destruction and madness.

Lothar shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the crushing terror, but it was no good. The shaman was as strong as iron, as immoveable as stone. He attempted to calm down, to find some solution before all was lost. Why did he know the name Mork? Why had he given that term to the dreadful presence infesting his mind? Someone had used that name once, a long time ago. It was so hard to think, so hard to concentrate. Who had it been? More words came, unbidden, to his mind, like cool drops of water on a fevered brow.

I have confidence in you. You’ve got potential, that’s for sure.

The words were reassuring, like a childhood memory, but it wasn’t that long ago, it was nearer, much nearer.

A wizard’s power is in his mind, his will, his imagination.

It was Helmut Anselmus, standing like a forgotten figure of lore in his mind, with his long face and serious eyes. With a lurch of grief, Lothar felt hot tears spring into his eyes. He would not fail that memory. He could not stumble now, not when the chance for revenge was in his grasp.

His mind, his will, his imagination.

Slowly, he felt his mind begin to resist the shaman’s invasion, to push back the visions of madness and death.

It was just as Anselmus had always told him. The power of a wizard lay in his will. The flashier magicians might grab the attention, might perform the wildest deeds, but the ones who truly mastered the art did so through the strength of their inner selves, their resolve to control the instinct and talent within them. That was being tested by the shaman. Lothar pulled some final, hidden reserves of self-belief from deep down, like weeds from a well. The small part of him that had not been driven into insecurity and doubt by Malgar’s legacy still remained.

With sudden certainty, he knew he could not be overcome. The shaman fed off doubt, the doubt that had plagued him since Malgar’s defection, the doubt that would be his downfall. Calmly, ignoring the pain, Lothar began to drive the alien presence from his mind, coolly allowing the visions and madness to pass. The real world began to reassert itself around him in all its violence, noise and glory. His confidence grew. The shaman withdrew the spell, hissing with frustration.

Lothar emerged from the madness, gasping for breath, like a swimmer bursting from underwater. He looked around frantically. The scene was desperate. Marius continued to engage the shaman with furious streams of Amber magic, his long hair flying around as he parried and attacked with his staff. He looked like a force of nature made manifest, his teeth bared in a snarl and his cheeks flushed.

Karsten’s men were faring badly. Most had been dragged down or crushed by the orcs around them. Only the castellan and a few others remained, pushed back towards Lothar and Marius, their swords flashing quickly against the furious onslaught. Even as he watched, one more was killed, skewered through the chest with a jagged, blunt spear by a great orc champion, the scream echoing even over the general tumult. Only the bravery of the few remaining soldiers and the crackling aura of magic in the air kept the rest of the horde from overwhelming them. With a grimace, Lothar turned back to the shaman and sent a dark bolt of shadowy essence straight at its cracked, leering face. It exploded across its eyes, seeming to blind it for a moment. Lothar followed with a second spell, summoning shadows from the ground around him and looping them around the monster’s flailing arms.

“Nice to have you back,” said Marius sardonically, wielding his staff with undiminished energy. “What happened?”

“A trial of strength,” replied Lothar grimly, weaving and hurling shadows with a newfound intensity, “and it isn’t over yet.”

The Emperor’s Champion pulled his sword from the corpse of the orc warrior with a heave. The body went limp, the red fire in its eyes extinguished, and it collapsed to the blood-soaked earth. With a terse grunt of satisfaction, Schwarzhelm looked around. Things were bad. He had lost his horse to a vicious pike thrust, and now went on foot although with most of his entourage. The Imperial lines were pressed hard on every quarter. The sheer numbers of orcs hammering away was wearing the defenders down. They still had the advantage of the higher ground, but the endless swarm of greenskins was beginning to tell. Since the disappearance of the monstrous apparition things had gone better, but he knew that time was not on their side.

He strode towards Fenring, taking a moment casually to smash aside a lone goblin, small and foolish enough to break through the ranks of Imperial soldiers and leap towards him. The old eye-patched warrior was limping a little, his left arm bandaged, but otherwise looked in decent enough shape.

“We’re being pushed back,” Schwarzhelm said simply, leaning on his sword heavily.

Fenring dispatched a loping, long-armed orc with a swipe and a thrust of his sword, before coming over to the Emperor’s Champion.

“Aye,” he agreed, his breathing heavy. “It’s hard work, but better since that apparition was destroyed. Maybe wizards do have their uses.”

Schwarzhelm nodded.

“The fat one, at any rate. The other is on the ridge, casting her spells from afar.”

Fenring frowned.

“I don’t think so. She was with the Gold wizard when he ripped himself apart.”

Schwarzhelm gave him a level look, something like fear showing in his eyes for the first time.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice urgent. “I told her to remain at the rear.”

The officer looked uncertain.

“I could be mistaken, but…” he began.

Before he had time to finish, Schwarzhelm had raised his sword, hefting it lightly in his dented gauntlet.

“I need to find her,” he said, his voice grim. “Hold the line; I’ll be back when I can.”

Fenring gazed at him in amazement.

“She’s just a…” he started, but seeing the commander’s look, wisely held his tongue.

Schwarzhelm gave him a hostile stare, and was gone. He plunged through the orc ranks with abandon, his powerful frame throwing them aside as if they were children. His gore-splattered armour was soon running in fresh blood, his sword rising and falling like a blacksmith’s hammer. His expression was intense, unwavering. Despite all his training, all his experience, all his sense of duty, only one thing mattered to him at that point. Find the woman.

Lothar gritted his teeth, and sent fresh nets of shadows rippling towards the hulking form of the shaman. From the corner of his eye, he saw yet another of Karsten’s men collapse in agony to the ground. His heart ached with anger and frustration.

“We’re running out of time!” he cried to Marius, himself busy with a fresh spell.

The Amber wizard looked at him crossly.

“He’s too strong!” he yelled back, his own impotent fury evident. “I’m doing all I can.”

Lothar felt a deep, sickening fear begin to well up within him. It was just as it had been with his master at Helmgart. The shaman was too powerful. Nothing seemed to hurt it, and the horde came ever closer, lapping at their feet like the rising tide. No escape was possible. He had neither the time nor the energy to conjure a fresh ward. Even if he had, the thought of flight barely occurred to him. Vengeance was all that mattered, and it was going to be denied him. The shaman was too cunning, too old and too drenched in evil. He felt the first stirrings of fatigue creep into his limbs, the warning signs that his body was nearing its limits. With a yell of impotent fury, he pulled a brace of iron daggers from the air, just as he had done at Helmgart, and sent them spinning towards the lurching, drooling form before him. As before, they clattered harmlessly away, mere toys beside the deep, feral force commanded by the shaman. It was over. The orcs were closing on them, and they were out of ideas.

“Lothar!” called Marius, his crackling staff whirling around him in a sparkling sweep of amber. “This can’t go on! I know what must be done! But I need a moment. You must hold its attention for a few seconds. Do it, and you may yet survive!”

Lothar stared at him stupidly.

“What do you mean?” he yelled back, stepping into a vicious blast of green energy from the shaman. His staff sent the preternatural substance fizzing and spitting into the ground, scorching the earth where it fell. Despite his parry, the blow felt as heavy as iron, and his arm throbbed from the impact.

“No questions! No time!” cried Marius. “I know what this is about now! Keep it busy, that’s all you have to do. I know you have the power. Do it, Lothar!”

Wearily, hardly seeing the point, Lothar prepared a spell of confinement, a less ambitious version of the technique Helmut had used to contain the shaman at Helmgart. While Marius tied the hulking figure up with rapid bursts of luminescent amber claws, raking at the air like disembodied wildcats, Lothar hurriedly took the necessary steps. This would be his last meaningful contribution to the struggle. He could feel his remaining capability drain from him rapidly. And, it would be useless. At best, the spell would only hold the shaman in place for moments, not nearly enough time for either of the wizards to draw fresh strength. With a sigh of resignation, he spun a thick shadowy substance from the air, moulding it into a ball with his staff tip, caressing and coaxing the dark, fleeting forms into life.

“So be it,” he said to Marius, before hurling the cloudy material towards the lumbering shaman. While in mid-air, the tight-knit substance burst open, floating like a spider’s web, and gently draped over the vast orcish figure, settling in diaphanous skirts over his fevered, staring face. Leaning heavily against his staff, feeling a deep-seated exhaustion begin to set in, Lothar whispered words of command to the ghostly essence, reinforcing it and building it. With a roar, the shaman issued a counter-spell. The fragile-looking substance rippled and pulled, but it was stronger than it seemed. The translucent webbing clung tight around the shaman’s powerful limbs, blinding and constraining, sucking itself onto the orc’s ruined flesh and squeezing with vicious force. The shaman roared with frustration, and started to thrash wildly against its bonds. They held, but only just. His brow lined with sweat, Lothar continued to support the spell, feeling the last drops of his power drain from his body.

“What are you going to do?” he hissed at Marius, his teeth clenched.

The Amber wizard was swaying gently, his eyes closed, looking as if he was trying to recall something from long ago.

“I know what I did, back then when I was young,” he said dreamily. “It wasn’t Ambrosius, that fat fool. It was me. I unlocked something forbidden, with power beyond the dreams of all those old men in their towers and libraries. So long, searching for the secret, and it was within me all the time.”

His eyes flicked open, and there was a strange, unnatural light in them. His cloak looked as if it was alive with flickering flames, but they were hard to focus on.

“Perhaps I suppressed the knowledge deliberately. Or perhaps I really forgot. It matters not. Now I remember. I remember it all. The power that consumes, the knowledge they never teach us. Of all the colours, the most potent, because it is all the colours combined.”

Suddenly, Lothar knew what he was going to do. He slipped in his incantation, and the shaman struggled free. A great claw burst through its temporary prison, grasping at them. It came forwards.

“No, Marius,” cried Lothar, “this is forbidden!”

Marius grinned, his face apparently lit by distant flames, even though none could be seen. His eyes were wild, ecstatic.

“Not for me!” he cried, his voice tinged with a manic laughter. “What have I got to live for? My life is a fraud, a joke! Not for nothing was I brought here. No mightier wizard has ever walked the earth, and I will prove it!”

The shaman screamed its defiance, and shrugged off the last of its bonds. With a roar of anger and triumph, it raised its hands into the air. Green energies of frightening power began to crackle above it.

“Marius!” cried Lothar, oblivious to all but the terrible force drawing towards the Amber wizard. “Do not do this! For the sake of your soul…”

It was too late. While the shaman had been distracted, Marius had invoked something terrible, something that was rushing towards them like the thunderous clouds of a storm. It couldn’t be stopped. He had repeated the dreadful spell he had uncovered so many years ago, a spell so powerful it had nearly killed him. Now he was so much stronger, its effects would be even more destructive.

“Feel the power of it!” cried Marius, raising his arms towards the heavens as if in prayer. “Dark Magic! The soul of Chaos! None shall stand before it!”

A ball of darkness exploded from his chest with a shuddering roar, rushing into the real world with horrifying speed. It grew phenomenally, spiralling into the air like a globe of black fire, its unnatural flames flickering against its circumference like stabbing snakes’ tongues.

Lothar was thrown backwards hard, flattened by the force of Marius’ summoning. His staff was ripped from his fingers, and flew far beyond his reach. Around him, he was dimly aware of bodies being crushed and thrown about madly.

“Marius!” he cried, but uselessly. The vortex around the Amber wizard was gathering pace, destroying everything in its path. With a high-pitched scream, the pent-up energies surged towards the shaman, its ragged form wreathed in spectral green light. Where the two magics met, the world seemed to rip apart. A great gouge in the earth opened up. The shaman was borne down by the black fire, its skin ablaze, its wide maw open in terror and fury, its claws clutching reflexively, but without purpose. The dark wind howled around it, throwing men and orcs to the ground like toys.

The shaman fought with all the fury and tenacity of its race, bellowing like a stricken bull. Green energy flew from its flailing fingertips like whips of fire, immolating any still close enough to come into contact with it. But the Dark Magic was too powerful. It dragged the shaman down, dousing its emerald flames, choking and sucking it towards the earth, blocking out all light, draining the vitality from whatever it touched. Slowly, horrifyingly, the crazed form began to disintegrate. Its dark blood spurted high into the air, its jaw opening and closing in agony.

Gradually, the lurid green light stopped coming, and the bent, stooped form diminished further, howling like a mere goblin of the mountains. The Dark wind churned, consuming, devouring, scouring. The shaman was crushed. Its blood ran freely, staining the mud of the field black. The wind howled in triumph, and then relented, its fury spent. As quickly as it had come, it rushed back out of existence, the only sound of its passing a hollow whine on the air.

The shaman’s gnarled staff stood still for a moment, poised in the air before the pile of rags that was once its master, wavering in the world’s breeze as if sustained by its own power. Then it toppled and fell, rolling across the tattered remnants of the mighty spellcaster, coming to rest against the pile of burning flesh that was once its claw.

Lothar knew he was near his end. The blood was running freely down his forehead from where Marius’ blast had caught him. Lifting his head with pain, he could see the scorched ring of earth surrounding him, the piles of bodies, some of them moving, some of them still. With a pang of grief, he saw the broken form of Karsten, an orc’s scimitar jutting from his breast, his pale eyes sightlessly staring into the sky. He had done his duty.

Casting his eyes around, he searched for Marius, but there was no sign of him. Only his staff, blackened and severed, lay on the ground where the Amber wizard had stood and laughed. Lothar felt tears spring to eyes. Marius had triumphed at last, but at what cost?

He felt his awareness begin to slip away. Dimly, he remembered the danger he was in, and tried to rise from where he lay. It was no good, his mind and body were broken. He heard the sound of bodies running, men or orcs? It made no difference now. His head spun, pulling him towards forgetfulness. On the edge of hearing, he thought he heard someone calling his name, a woman’s voice. Then the world lurched on its axis, and his head fell against the ground. The darkness came, and he knew no more.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Tell me again,” said Katerina, her eyes shining. “I enjoy hearing it.”

Schwarzhelm rolled over, feigning weariness. His torso was covered in slashes and scratches. He groaned, and took a long swig of ale from the mug on the table by the bed.

“You were about to have your beautiful head smashed in,” he said, grunting with grim amusement at the memory. Outside the narrow window of the chamber, the pointed roofs of Altdorf rose high into the night sky. The city slept as peacefully as it ever did, its panic long since banished by the returning Emperor’s Champion at the head of his victorious, if battered, army. The head of the shaman, shrunken and blasted, was on a twenty-foot pole in the main square, any trace of its former terror long since gone.

“I’m sure I was about to do something about it,” said Katerina, laughing.

Schwarzhelm snorted derisively.

“You were out cold, or I’ve never seen it,” he said, helping himself to more beer. Katerina thought he looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him. Perhaps this was the way he always celebrated after a victory.

“That’s what I wanted it to think,” she said, frowning slightly. “You have no idea what tricks a wizard can play when flat on her back.”

Schwarzhelm smiled.

“I reckon I do,” he said, but his amusement seemed slightly wistful. He sank back against Katerina’s expensive bolsters, looking thoughtful.

“You know, I’ve been in dozens of battles,” he mused. “I’ve never had a problem keeping to the plan. It’s what’s made me the man I am. If a common soldier had done what I did—leave his post, charge across the ranks, madly looking for some woman he’d only known for a few days—I’d have him flayed alive. It’s out of character, and that bothers me.”

Katerina didn’t reply at once. She pulled herself up against the bolster next to him, the pain from her head wound now only a dull throb.

“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with it?” asked Schwarzhelm, suspiciously.

Katerina raised her eyebrow in surprise.

“You mean, something magical?” she asked. “My dear Ludwig, how many times do I have to explain? Magic isn’t something you can just turn on and off, casting a love-spell here or a summoning-charm there. It’s difficult, dangerous work. Anyway, I wouldn’t dream of trying to influence you. You’re too strong a character. Maybe, at times, I’ve had to steer weaker minds in a particular, helpful direction, but it’s not easy, and I was in no condition to try anything like that on the battlefield. You’ll have to accept it: you’re madly in love with me, and the thought of my being dragged off to a hole in the ground by an orc was more than you could live with. Don’t feel bad about it. I quite like you too, after all.”

Schwarzhelm gave her a warning frown, but he looked amused.

“Maybe,” he said, his deep voice rumbling under the covers. “It is damned odd, all the same. If you’d followed orders and stayed at the rear, none of it would have happened.”

It was Katerina’s turn to look serious. The memory of Ambrosius, flailing around in his death agony, came to mind again. She gave an involuntary shudder, and pulled the blanket tight up to her neck.

“Perhaps it was foolish,” she said, “but it’s hard to stay away from the action. The apparition was very powerful, as was the spell used by the shaman to drag it into being. When I think about what that Grey wizard must have done to defeat it, I’m at a loss. To be honest, I thought he was just a boy when I first saw him. I was amazed when Kalliston let him lead the raid, but he did it. I’d never have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

She lay back against the bed, remembering the final charge down the hill, her head bandaged and aching. Schwarzhelm had revived her after riding hard to her rescue, and it had turned out her head wound was not as grave as it first appeared. By then, even he could see that some enormous magical forces were being unleashed, and the whole battlefield was in disarray. The knights had rallied, and she had been given a hasty bandage and a fresh mount, and told to get clear of danger. Then came the explosion, the furious discharge of magic, and it felt as if the Earth was being knocked off its axis. The knights had ridden towards the disturbance, passing almost unopposed through the suddenly confused masses of orcs. Disregarding everything she had been told, she had gone with them. The greenskins seemed suddenly weak and directionless. Lothar had looked half dead when she had found him, his hands and face burned horribly by the fire, but his heart still beat. Whatever he had done to kill the shaman, he had survived it.

“My impressions of him were as poor as yours, to start with,” said Schwarzhelm, thoughtfully, “but I’d like to see him when he’s recovered. He was brave, that lad. After the shaman was killed, the fight seemed to go out of the greenskins. He was right, that monster was the key to it all. Did he speak to you much, on the way back?”

Katerina shook her head.

“While you were organising the remaining fighting, driving the orcs back into the woods, he hardly spoke to me. I’m no healer, but I could help with some of his pain. Even when we started the journey home, he barely uttered a word. He’s been horribly wounded, of course, but even so. It seemed as if he was somehow ashamed. I told him that he was a hero, the slayer of the shaman, and he should be proud. That seemed to make it worse. He’s been taken in by his college, and I haven’t seen him since.”

Schwarzhelm shrugged.

“War affects men in different ways,” he said. “He did well, though, not like that ragged beggar who deserted the night before the battle. You know, the smelly one with the beard.”

Katerina looked thoughtful.

“The Amber wizard? I didn’t meet him, but I knew the castellan had come to the camp with two wizards in tow. Strange, that he should disappear like that. You know, I think Kalliston was terrified of him for some reason. I wouldn’t like to guess what was going on there. Some things are best left uncovered.”

Schwarzhelm snorted derisively.

“Well, if I ever see him again, he’s for the scaffold,” he said dismissively. “I don’t care how powerful or valuable he might be, a deserter is still a deserter.”

He shifted awkwardly against the sheets, his body laced with wounds.

“Anyway,” he said, “that’s in the past. What are you going to do now? You’re quite the heroine, as I’m sure you know.”

Katerina smiled sweetly, always enjoying a compliment.

“Of course I am,” she said, “and I intend to make the most of it, but enough of this talk. Why did we come up here in the first place? Ah, I remember now.”

She gave Schwarzhelm a wicked grin, and took his flagon quietly from his hand.

“Well, if you insist,” said the Emperor’s Champion, smiling beneath his grey-flecked beard. “At any rate, that knock on the head certainly doesn’t seem to have affected your enthusiasm.”

They reached for one another once again, and within a few moments all talk of wizardry was forgotten.

The Jolly Ploughman alehouse nestled between two grime-splattered houses of ill repute, in a rundown, decrepit part of the city. How it had acquired its excessively cheerful name was a mystery, its few patrons being neither jolly nor agricultural. For the most part they looked pale, tired and diseased, just like most of the poorer inhabitants of the Imperial capital. The building suited them. The cheap stools and tables in the main room were flimsy and stained with use, while the uneven floor was strewn with old, mouldering straw. The stench of stale beer sat heavily in the air, as well as unsavoury aromas more hard to place. It had a slumped, weary air, just like the listless figures sitting in the darkness of tallow candles, cradling their drinks as if they were sick children.

Balthasar Gelt brooded as he sat in a cramped side room. His golden fingers drummed absently on the cracked tabletop, his tasteless glass of cheap wine untouched. He was robed and hooded, but this was not nearly enough to conceal his unusual features. The innkeeper had visibly trembled when serving him. Around the dark room, the few other drinkers kept to themselves. A sour aroma of beer and sweat pervaded the place.

After a few moments of waiting, another figure entered the inn. He was slightly built, and wore a long leather coat. Catching sight of the wizard, he came over to the table and sat opposite him.

“I suppose you’re going to explain why we should meet at this Sigmar-forsaken hole?” rasped Gelt crossly in a low voice. “It’s not as if I don’t attract attention even in more exalted circles.”

The stranger bowed in apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but my sort isn’t usually welcome inside colleges, even by invitation, and I’d like to keep my face out of the way. I’m sure you understand. I often use this place. I have an understanding with the owner, who’s very discreet.”

Gelt sighed irritably.

“He’d better be,” he snapped. “It’s bad enough you asking for a meeting in the first place. Do you realise how busy I am? This had better be worth my while.”

The weasel-faced man bowed again.

“I understand, Supreme Patriarch,” he said smoothly. “I’m grateful that you came, and I appreciate your position. It won’t take long, but I wanted to give you the information personally. It’s a delicate business, after all.”

He looked around casually, but they were out of earshot of the few gloomy-looking souls lingering in the shadows.

“I know about your little feud with the Amethyst College,” the man said, “and I know why you’re worried about them. My people are too. I was close to catching one of Klaus’ agents at work. Regrettably, she proved a slippery quarry, and she’s currently very well protected. Right now, we can’t touch her, but I’m sure that will change with time. Lust is such a fickle thing, don’t you think?”

His thin smile made Gelt feel nauseous.

“You mean the Lautermann woman,” he said distastefully. “I know of her. She would die for Klaus, of course. He rescued her from a life of poverty and disgrace, but what of it?”

“If you wish to catch the spider, first examine his web. A reliable source told me she was involved in necromancy and witchcraft. I would very much like to speak to her. I’m sure the two of us would have much of interest to discuss.”

Gelt gave him a look of contempt, hidden, as ever, under his serene gold mask.

“No doubt,” he said. “I’m sure you have your reasons, but why are you telling me this?”

The man smiled again.

“I could be wrong, Supreme Patriarch,” he said carefully, “but it seems to me that our interests in this matter coincide rather nicely. Klaus is powerful. His protégée has returned to Altdorf at the head of a heroic army. What’s more, she’s hanging around with the Emperor’s most trusted commander. For the first time I can remember, people are saying nice things about Amethyst wizards: unusual, and unnerving. By contrast, your senior wizard was killed. There are whispers going around that the Gold College is not what it used to be. Things appear to have slipped. It doesn’t look that good.”

The thin-faced man leaned forwards. His eyes were pools of darkness in the gloom.

“I need to go after Klaus, Supreme Patriarch,” he said. “You need to bring him down a notch or two. Lautermann is the first step along the road. With things so delicately poised, it’s always good for friends to stick together, is it not?”

“You’re no friend of mine,” said Gelt with a sneer.

The stranger shrugged.

“As you wish,” he said, “but think on my offer. I’ll continue my quest to rid this city of the taint of corruption. It would be easier to have you on my side. No one need ever know, not even your colleagues in the Gold College. Believe me, my organisation is very good at keeping secrets.”

Gelt gave a snort, pushed his untouched wine away and stood up.

“I know you are,” he said, his voice rasping even more than usual. “It’s not something necessarily to be proud of. I’ll ponder what you say. When I’ve made up my mind, I’ll get a message to you. Until then, stay out of my way. Your presence sickens me.”

With a rustle of his long, rich cloak, Gelt strode out of the inn and into the night. After his departure, the innkeeper standing at the bar gave an audible sigh of relief.

Ernst von Huppelstadt turned back to the table, helping himself to the wine. The meeting had gone about as well as he could have expected. His features were cool and impassive. Deep within, however, the fire of his humiliation still burned, gnawing away at him. Dealing with wizards of any sort was a trial, but it was necessary. He would go to any lengths to see that witch burn at the stake. If that meant dealing with a bastard like Gelt, then so be it.

He drank deeply, feeling the thin liquid warm his stomach. He had time, and plenty of it. The zeal of the witch hunter never died and never tired. Sooner or later he would meet her again. His lips pursed slightly at the thought. He could wait.

The breeze outside the open window was cool. Lothar let the night air waft across his face. He lay in a long, low bed, the burns on his arms and body swathed in white dressings. The day before, attendants had removed the linen bandages from his face. He had no mirror in his room, but he could feel the charred flesh of his cheeks with his fingers if he wanted to. When the fiery scars healed, he knew he would be left disfigured forever. It would be his mark, the sign of failure.

He looked dispassionately out over the inner courtyard of the Grey College. The wide lawns, surrounded by arched stone cloisters, glowed darkly under the moonlight. Paved pathways crisscrossed the clipped grass. Their ancient stones were rimmed with moss, and crusted with pale lichen. The narrow windows high in the walls were empty and black. The sound of running water from the fountain in the centre of the courtyard was soothing, but empty. The whole place looked forsaken, as if men had departed years ago and had never come back. But it was not entirely without life, and even in the dark, a few ravens hopped lazily around the edges of the lawn. They were always there. If all the Grey wizards were driven away, all their accomplishments forgotten, he had no doubt that there would still be ravens in the place, keeping watch over the crumbling buildings with their shining eyes. He sighed deeply. For a moment, he found himself envying their simple, untroubled lives. They stared back at him, their long black beaks glinting in the starlight.

From the corridor outside the room there came a low knock. Lothar knew who it was.

“Come,” he said, his voice reduced to a dry croak.

The door swung open and the master of the Grey College entered soundlessly. His long, white beard seemed to shimmer in the dim light. He closed the door quietly and pulled a wooden chair up to Lothar’s bed.

“It’s late, but I thought you’d be awake,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Lothar gave a wry grin.

“Not as bad as yesterday, and twice as good as the day before,” he said. “So I suppose that’s progress.”

“Good,” said Master Starke, casting his ancient eyes over the livid welts on Lothar’s cheek. “You’re young and strong. When they first brought you here, I confess I worried that we might see the end of you, but you never stopped fighting. That’s good. I’d hate to lose you too, like I lost Helmut.”

At the mention of his old master, sharp tears sprang to Lothar’s eyes. In his weakened state, his grief occasionally got the better of him. Turning his face towards the window, he blinked away the evidence of his sorrow.

“Maybe it would have been better if I had followed him,” he said, bitterly.

Starke sighed.

“You may think so now. Things will seem different in time. At any rate, there are many in the Empire who will be glad to know you’re set for recovery. I have a long list of names in my chamber, all of whom want to pay their respects, some very important people. You’ve done a great thing, Lothar. The incursion has been turned back, and the remaining orcs have been chased back to the mountains. Without you, who knows what ruin that shaman would have accomplished? From what I gather, he was a stronger spellcaster than many of us have faced before. Such monsters only appear once in a generation. It was a mighty deed, to slay him.”

Lothar felt sick. What could he say? That it hadn’t been him? But then he would have to explain where Marius’ body was, and if they started sniffing around, what then? He was already tainted by the rumour of Chaos. If anyone found out that Marius had turned too, had harnessed the power of the Dark Gods to defeat the shaman, what consequences would that have? Maybe Marius had indeed died. It was easier to imagine that he had, but the ways of Dark Magic were strange. At times, during his fevered dreams, he still saw him, laughing in the shadows, beckoning him onwards, inviting him to join him. Just dreams, but they were vivid, more vivid than any others. Damn them, they had no right to even ask what had happened. It was his business, his memory to live with.

So he didn’t correct the master, but merely sighed, and nodded his head in tacit agreement. All those who knew Marius had returned were dead, save him. The knowledge would stay secret, unless the time became right to reveal it.

“May I ask a question, master?” he said, feeling that an exhausted sleep was creeping up on him again, and wanting to change the subject.

“Of course.”

“When I arrived at Schwarzhelm’s camp, the Gold wizard Ambrosius Kalliston gave me a new staff. He said it came from you. I still have it. It was Malgar’s old one, retrieved from the battle after he turned traitor. Why did you send it?”

Starke smiled.

“A good question,” he said. “I wasn’t even sure myself. Call it a hunch. When news of the invasion came to me, I couldn’t be certain that you were even alive. But if you were, whether or not Helmut was with you, I knew the task would be a difficult and dangerous one. I felt it right that you should inherit Malgar’s old staff after so long. It was well made, and has a noble history, despite its owner’s fall from grace. To turn the weapon of a traitor into an instrument of valour has a nice irony, to my mind. I thought that, if it found its way to you, it might prove useful. Take it as a token of your maturity.”

Lothar lay silently, digesting the words slowly. He remembered how easily the magic had come to him on the battlefield, how quickly the Wind of Ulgu seemed to flow around the dark wood.

“Is there anything special about it?” he asked.

Starke frowned.

“Not that I know of; it is old, and has a long heritage. Other wizards wielded it before Malgar, but a mage’s power is within him, not in the tools he uses. If you’re interested, there are loremasters in the college who may know more.”

Lothar nodded, feeling uneasy despite the master’s words. There was something odd about the staff, although nothing tangible enough to put into words. In any case, he felt the pull of sleep begin to drag at him. His body was still weak, and the pain of his searing burns would not leave him. Starke looked at him with some concern.

“Lothar,” he said, his face grave, “after all that’s happened, you’re no longer an acolyte. You’ve earned your place alongside the other mages of the college. If you fulfil your potential, I believe you’ll be as formidable as any Grey wizard has ever been, but a long road lies ahead of you. I’d like to keep you here for a while, away from the dangers of the world. Time will heal, and perhaps help you to appreciate the great good you’ve done.”

Involuntarily, Lothar winced.

“With respect, master,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the hard bed, “Altdorf is the last place I want to be. I’ll go where I’m ordered, of course, but if there’s anything for me to do elsewhere, somewhere far away, the further the better, I’d prefer that. I can’t say why exactly, but the thought of staying here for longer than I need to fills me with horror.”

Starke frowned slightly.

“You’re still young, Lothar. There are people here who can help you recover, teach you new things.”

Lothar nodded resignedly.

“I know, and if you command me to, I’ll stay. But if I had a say in it, I’d leave as soon as I could walk. I know it sounds stupid, but if I remain here for long, with all the people who want to see me and give me advice and congratulate me, I think I’ll go mad. A tour of duty somewhere else would suit me fine. Anywhere I can make myself useful, I don’t care where it is.”

Starke gave him a hard look, as if trying to peer into his soul. His white eyebrows were knotted in concern, or disapproval, or both.

“I’ll think about it,” he said in the end, rising from his chair and placing his back against the wall. “Perhaps I’ve kept you talking too long. You look like you need to sleep. Don’t think too much about the future. You’re sick still, and things may distort in your mind. We’ll speak again later.”

Collecting his robes about him, Starke left, closing the door behind him with a faint click of the latch. Lothar lay back in the darkness, feeling the pull of weariness strongly. For a while, he resisted it, knowing that his dreams would be bad. His eyes flickered over to the corner of the room where his few belongings had been stowed. Malgar’s staff leaned against the wall, casting a deep black shadow against the cool stone surface. It seemed harmless enough, a mere shaft of dead wood, but something about it was strange. It sat uneasily in the world, as if it belonged somewhere else entirely. He found that its very presence in the room unnerved him. He closed his eyes, and rolled with effort on to his side, facing the cool starlight of the open window.

Sleep was nearly upon him. In the darkness, he heard Marius’ final words once more, echoing in his mind as they did every night. Of all the colours, the most potent, because it is all the colours combined. What power there must be in the Dark Magic, and, as Marius had showed, it could be harnessed for good… perhaps.

Lothar clenched his fists, willing such thoughts to leave his mind, embracing the forgetfulness of sleep where such ideas would trouble him no longer.

“I won’t go down that path,” he heard himself whisper. “I won’t…”

Finally, after more half aware muttering, he sank at last into the blessed relief of slumber, his eyelids falling closed, his fingers gently uncurling, his breath slipping into long, slow regular draughts of the chill night air.

In the darkness of the room, Malgar’s staff rested lightly against the wall, its ancient surface worn as smooth as glass, the weak, silver light from the window glinting on the runes and words of power carved into it long ago. It looked like it was waiting for something, unhurriedly, silently, like some lonely watchman on a forgotten tower.

Outside, the ravens strutted moodily across the empty lawns of the Grey College, looking patiently for the dawn and the ending of the dark, but that was still many hours away. Until then, the cool night wind moaned over the crumbling stonework of the courtyard, eddying into the narrow streets of Altdorf, passing over the other colleges, winding through the cloisters and spires used by the wizards, the masters of magic, before sighing and curling into the higher air, rising and falling, drifting into the cold starlight, and passing away.

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