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 Worlds 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.

PROLOGUE

High in the tortured night sky, the sickle moon burned coldly. The vast spires of rain clouds being driven towards Ulthuan from the east were edged with silver. Beneath the boiling tumult of the heavens, the ink-dark sea rolled and swelled uneasily. A storm was coming, and a mighty one at that. In the ragged gaps between the massed ranks of cloud, the few stars glimmered faintly. It was as if a mantle of darkness had been cast across the whole world.

The soaring Tower of Hoeth stood against the maelstrom in defiant isolation. Around it, the winds raged and moaned, tearing past the ivory sheen of the enchanted parapets. At the very pinnacle, a dim light betrayed the presence of figures within. Even at so late an hour, the topmost chamber of the slender citadel was occupied. Far above the sleeping fields and forests of Ulthuan, a figure gazed out to sea, his hair rising and falling in the wind.

At length, the Phoenix King Finubar, called the Seafarer by his people, stepped away from the window of the narrow chamber and turned towards the candlelight of the chamber. The storm continued to rage outside, and rainwater whipped on to the smooth stone. Finubar walked to a low wooden chair, and sat wearily. He wore deep blue robes, and a simple silver band sat lightly on his forehead. His long dark hair hung loosely to his shoulder.

Embroidered in threads of pure silver, three runes had been woven into the fine silks of his mantle. Just under the collar was Asur, the symbol of Asuryan and the emblem of the people of Ulthuan. Below that was the ancient symbol of the mighty dragons of flame, Caladai. Over the king’s heart, however, was placed a smaller rune, Quyl-Isha, the sigil of enduring hope, mourning and the remembrance of the lost. Given Finubar’s air of melancholy and introspection, this rune seemed the most appropriate. As the chill wind swirled and ruffled his robes, the symbols moved as if they had a life of their own. Slowly, animated by an unseen force, the ornately carved windows shut silently, and the icy blasts from outside were stilled.

The king was not alone. Opposite him sat a slight figure, a mage. He was wreathed in white, and many dozen sigils encrusted his elaborate garb. They seemed to shift strangely in the flickering light of the slender candles around him. Unlike the tall, proud figure of the Phoenix King, the mage sat hunched in his seat and clutched a simple white staff. His breathing was shallow and hesitant, and his face was lined and pale. His eyes were sunk deep beneath his brow. Though his robes were heavy and thick against the cold, it was evident from the way they hung on him that his limbs were slender even for one of his kind.

The mage raised his finger a hair’s breadth, and the latch on the window snapped shut. He collected together some leaves of parchment disturbed by the wind, and placed them neatly on a small table beside his chair. Neither he nor the king spoke, and the silence about them hung heavily. Only the faint moan of the wind and the thin breathing of the mage punctuated the quiet.

Finally, Finubar sighed, and his expression moved from contemplation to one of sharp resolve.

‘My Lord Teclis,’ he said, his rich voice filling the narrow chamber. ‘The night is waning. Despite all we’ve discussed, I don’t yet know your mind.’

Teclis, greatest of all asur mages and Loremaster of the Tower, looked troubled. He clutched his staff ever more tightly before responding.

‘The world is changing,’ he said, his voice scratchy and sparse. ‘Prediction is hard. It is as if all light and heat are draining away, and only darkness and cold remain. Never has wisdom seemed so unclear to me, and never have I felt less worthy to be the adviser of kings.’

Finubar pursed his lips thoughtfully.

‘If you can’t see clearly in such times, then no one can,’ he said. ‘More than anyone else you’ve earned the right to weariness, though I don’t quite believe you’ve succumbed to it yet. Tell me what you think.’

Teclis exhaled softly, and rummaged once more through the pile of parchment beside him. Some leaves were written in the elegant hand of the asur. Others were inscribed on crumbling vellum sheets in the florid, extravagant script of the Empire of Men. These had been encrusted with wax seals and stamps of office. All were missives dealing with the same topic: the war in the east. Tidings had been carried to Hoeth and Lothern from all over the world, and all had the same message. The forces of disorder were gathering again, extending their hated mantras of war once more to trouble the realms of the free peoples.

‘The Emperor Karl Franz has written to you again,’ said Teclis, drawing a gilt-edged sheet from the collection. ‘How many times does he expect us to sail to his aid? They think of themselves as the rightful rulers of the world, but still they haven’t learned to stand on their own two feet.’

Finubar nodded.

‘They’re weak, beset by foes which would freeze them in terror if only they knew their true power. And yet I know you too well to believe you entirely. You and I both know there is hope in men. There has to be, for of all of the kingdoms of men, it is the Empire that holds the hordes back.’

Teclis looked pensive, and gave a rattling sigh.

‘So I once thought, it is true. When I taught them the gift of magic, I believed that they would come to maturity. In my pride, I even thought that they would take up some of the burden of the endless war against the Dark Powers, perhaps to the extent that we could at last turn our attention to our own great enemy. But my hopes have been in vain. They have taken the gift and used it for foolish ends. As many traitors have been spawned as true wizards. Their lands are as besieged by war as ever. When there are no invasions from the mountains around them they conspire to fight amongst themselves. As the world grows darker, we need resolute allies to stand beside us, not children. I despair of them ever growing up.’

Finubar did not smile then.

‘I don’t like to hear such words from you,’ he said, his voice grave. ‘I expect it from the hotheads in Caledor. But we’ve both travelled amongst men. You and I know their strengths as well as their weaknesses. While we in Ulthuan dwindle with every passing year, they prosper and multiply. While we remain rooted in the ways of tradition and ritual, they experiment. If I could transplant some of that daring spirit to Ulthuan, I would. And yet we both know that our kinds are made of different material. We cannot change, and neither can they.’

Teclis shifted uneasily in his seat. He looked more pained than usual.

‘So I suppose you’re minded to answer the Emperor’s call for aid?’ he said.

The king nodded.

‘How can I refuse? If Karl Franz falls, then the Old World will be lost to us forever. It is only by his will that the hordes of Chaos are restrained at all. War has already begun. Praag has been taken, and must now once more be an abode of terror, even as it was in the time of Magnus. The eastern flank of the Empire is aflame. The mountains have risen up in strife. I have no doubt that the dwarfen realms are under siege, though their High King is too pig-headed to ask for help from us. We can’t stand idly by in Ulthuan while the lands of our allies are plundered and despoiled. Though we may like to think it, we’re not safe here: without the bulwark of the Empire, there would be nothing to stop the dark fleets setting sail to our shores. The Ruinous Powers would love nothing more than to topple this tower in which we debate, to destroy the wards our ancestors constructed to shield the world from ruin. We cannot isolate ourselves, nor hide from the storm. It will seek us out, no matter what we do.’

Teclis did not reply immediately, but seemed to withdraw into himself. His eyes glazed slightly, and his staff appeared to shimmer with the faintest of lights. Finubar knew better than to interrupt, and settled back in his seat. After a few moments, the mage shook his head wearily, and let the staff fall gently to the ground.

‘I cannot see anything,’ he said, irritably. ‘Every attempt I make to judge the course of fate is thwarted. I need to spend more time on this, prepare the spells properly. I am full of doubt. Why are our enemies suddenly so united? The greenskins are moving as one, as if orchestrated by some malign hand. There is some dark purpose behind it. And what of our fallen kin? They’ll not be slow to take advantage of any weakness we show. In their folly and madness they think they can deliver the Old World to Chaos and still live. Should we ever falter in our defence of the Isle of the Dead, they will rue their blind hatred.’

Teclis halted, and paused to cough weakly. It looked as if his strength was waning. Finubar waited patiently.

‘If you want my counsel, my lord,’ he continued at length, ‘I should say beware. There is more to these tidings than is known to us. I fear we’re being manipulated. My dreams are filled with unsettling visions of change. There is a force in the world whose name I will not mention, but for whom change is the ultimate end and only purpose. The master of sorcery and of deception, the corruptor of all that is durable and wholesome. Only one such as he would have the power to unite our feuding enemies. If we rush to aid Karl Franz, we must take care that our own borders are secure. Any weakness, any mistake, and our armies will return to burned fields and ruined cities. So, if you’re determined to act, then do so with caution. Don’t dispatch all our forces at once. Leave some in reserve. Should we rush into the maelstrom now, we’ll have an eternity to regret it.’

Finubar held Teclis’s gaze steadily, and then let out a long, slow breath.

‘When I was young, I was full of hope,’ the king said. ‘I travelled the width of the whole world, and dared to believe in a new dawn. Now it seems as if the struggle for mastery will never cease, unless we are overcome ourselves. Your words fill me with foreboding. Nonetheless, I will give orders for the preparation of an advance force to send to Altdorf. Our duty demands no less. It will be strong, enough to deter all but the largest armies of Chaos, but not so large as to leave our borders undefended. I’ll write to Karl Franz myself. He’ll be disappointed we’ve not sent more, but must understand our peril. If your concerns prove ill-founded, then more will be sent.’

Teclis smiled grimly.

‘When have my concerns ever proved unfounded?’ he said wryly.

Finubar returned the wintry smile.

‘Not often,’ he said. ‘But you’ll not hold me back forever, my friend. This is just the beginning. I can see the day when I myself will travel east at the head of our armies. It’s been too long since I led them, and I would have the chance to feel the air of Elthin Arvan on my face once more. But not yet. I’ll wait and observe caution, just as you recommend.’

He rose in a single fluid move. With more difficulty, Teclis followed suit, picking up his staff and leaning heavily on it. Together, the pair walked over to the window. The rain was now hammering against the engraved glass. A flicker of lightning far to the north told of the fury to come.

‘If I may,’ said Teclis, his eyes fixed on the elements outside, ‘I wish to recommend a commander for this. Whatever forces frustrate my magical vision, they are powerful and subtle. The defenders of the Old World will have need of mages, ones of equal power and subtlety. There is an archmage of my school, Artheris of Ellyrion. She’s mighty in battlelore, but also in diplomacy. Unlike many of us, she has no disdain for the ways of men. I trust her. She’d be a worthy commander.’

Finubar nodded.

‘I know of her. I’ll send messengers when the dawn comes. Now that my mind is set, the need for haste is great. I don’t trust this storm. Unless it abates soon, the passage to Altdorf will be long and dangerous. There is much to be done.’

As the two watched, the clouds in the uttermost east parted slightly. The starlight remained faint, but a new glow had spread slowly across the waves. It was no natural moonlight, but a sickly yellow sheen, corrupt and cloying. The second moon of the world had risen to join the first, the fateful orb men called Morrslieb and the asur called the Sariour na Yenlui. Its coming was ever a sign of great evil, and at its rising all but the foulest minions of the Dark Gods felt a weakening of will.

‘So it begins,’ said Finubar, grimly.

Teclis, standing beside the Phoenix King, dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said. ‘So it does.’

Half a world away, the rising of Morrslieb had been detected by other eyes. They too were elven, but of a very different kind. On the frigid shores of Naggaroth, the dark walls of a twisted citadel rose high into the air. Below it, the tortured waves smashed endlessly against jagged cliffs as dark as pitch. From the base of the citadel, grotesque spires of spiked iron rose upwards. Huge chains descended from the parapets, swinging and clanking in the eddying wind. Some supported cages, though their grisly contents were hard to make out in the darkness. From within the hidden bowels of the imposing fortress, a cold green light shone weakly from narrow windows. Just audible over the crashing of the surf, a faint churning could be made out. Some infernal machinery was at work deep within the dark stone walls. The very air was chilled with dread. The scant vegetation around the cursed place looked blighted and scrawny. At the summit of the tallest tower of the citadel, as if in mockery of the soaring heights of the spires of Hoeth, a blood-red light burned. There, too, silhouetted figures could be made out, watching the storm crash against the pitiless cliffs.

Within that topmost chamber, things could scarcely have been more different from the graceful, restrained interior of Teclis’s abode. The walls were hewn from a dark, glistening stone. Braziers of iron threw out vermillion light, bathing the entire place in an unearthly red glow. Jagged incisions had been made across the surface of the stone seemingly at random, which had the effect of throwing the crimson light in all directions. Steel sculptures extruded from the walls like bizarre mockeries of plants, and tortured face-like glyphs had been inscribed all across the multifaceted surfaces.

Every stone or metal obtrusion was distorted, corrupted or perverted, but this was no crude construction of greenskins or some barbarian warlord. The confusion was a work of the highest artifice, designed to unsettle the senses and disorder the mind. The entire space had been cunningly wrought to augment the powerful sorcerous skills of its owner. From somewhere far below, the noise of the machinery was pronounced. It was punctuated by a series of unearthly sounds, some suspiciously like screams, but amidst the constant whine of the wind and crash of the waves it was hard to tell.

In the centre of the terrible chamber, an irregular dais had been carved. A huge throne sat on top of it, seemingly cut from a single block of obsidian. In the half-light it reared upwards darkly, dominating the entire chamber. On it sat the slim figure of a woman, draped from head to toe in a shimmering gown of dark silk. Her skin was as pale as bone, her hair as dark as ink. She wore an elaborate decoration across her neck, which in the gloom might have been jewellery, or even some exquisite form of tattoo. She sat perfectly still, looking as if she were carved from the stuff of the cold throne itself. Only her eyes gave away her true nature. They were bright, sharp and cruel. Even in the play of shadows, they glistened with a savage steel. Her lips were permanently set in a semi-smile of amused contempt.

If she had been a denizen of the Empire, men would have travelled a thousand miles simply to gaze on her beauty and pay tribute in the merest hope of a favourable glance. But she was of the druchii, the dark cousins of the asur, and any human suitor would have been flayed alive long before his protestations of adoration could have been delivered. Even amongst her own people, she had a fearsome reputation for the slow arts of fear and torment. Like all the high-born of her race, without such ruthlessness she could never have maintained her exalted position. There were plenty below her who would pounce at the first sign of weakness or mercy.

Lady Arkaneth gazed dispassionately out of the tall curved window, taking some pleasure in the torment of the sea. Whenever there was distress or anguish in the world, her satisfaction was assured. The sickly glow of the risen Chaos moon only added to her morbid pleasure. From her lofty position, it was easy to imagine that the entire world was drifting into ruin. The thought of the misery and pain which such portents foreboded sent a shiver of pleasure through her body.

‘My lord,’ she said softly, her voice sibilant and commanding, ‘you may now tell me your news.’

Erith, her ambassador to the Court of the Witch King, slid silently from the shadows where his mistress had been keeping him waiting for some time. He bore the twisted rune of House Arkaneth on his left cheek: a tattoo marking him out forever as a member of the clan. Though he was arrayed from neck to foot in dark armour and carried a wicked-looking curved blade, he somehow seemed like a child next to the imposing figure of Lady Arkaneth.

Erith bowed low before speaking.

‘My lady,’ he said, a faint trace of fear lining his words. ‘Dread Lord Malekith has made his ruling. House Uthorin will lead the advance upon Ulthuan. Lord Uthorin will be in command of the spearhead, accompanied by his son Kaloth Coldshadow. We are commanded to provide the rearguard and to support the invasion. As instructed, I argued long in the Council for a position of greater glory for your ladyship. Some of the great houses aligned themselves to us, but Uthorin had bought the support of many. After long debate, the Witch King ruled against us. There was nothing I could do.’

Lady Arkaneth smiled at his discomfort. He was no craven weakling, but his fear was palpable. This was good. As long as his skills were not dimmed by terror, she preferred her servants to exist in a state of suspended uncertainty. Only if he truly disappointed her would he taste punishment. She had long known that the cur Uthorin would lead the attack on the asur. The question now was what to do about it.

‘Very well, Erith,’ she said, keeping her voice controlled and icy. ‘That cannot be helped now. But I’m displeased with your efforts. It wouldn’t do for my principal ambassador to develop a reputation for failure. You will take command of our preparations for the invasion. If what we believe is true, the fool Finubar will answer the summons from the weakling Emperor of the humans, and the time of our revenge will come. But leave no loose thread hanging: I will not be made to look a fool by Uthorin, and you know the penalty for failure.’

Erith nodded, evidently unsure of how to respond. As if by arrangement, a strangled noise of torment made its way up to the chamber from below. Lady Arkaneth paused for a moment to savour it, before turning her cool gaze once more on to her ambassador.

‘There’s another thing of which we must speak,’ she said, almost idly. ‘Ulthuan is not the only theatre in which our revered Master has plans. The battle will be taken to Elthin Arvan too. For many moons now we have had agents secreted in the lands of men, waiting for their orders to act. Their time is coming.’

Lady Arkaneth looked at her ambassador closely as she spoke. Erith was at least aware enough not to give away his surprise at the news. Perhaps he had heard rumours of it from elsewhere. It mattered not. Stories and secrets were forever flying around Naggaroth.

‘We have our own loyal member of House Arkaneth in Altdorf,’ she went on. ‘The sorcerer Malek, a snake of the worst kind, and hence invaluable for such a mission. The humans, so proud in their ignorance, have no idea of what dwells beneath them in the shadows of their stinking city. Even before our enemies can come together as one, we will sow the seeds of doubt and dissension.’

Erith nodded, his eyes lighting up at the prospect.

‘Indeed, my lady,’ he said. ‘They will not be hard to drive apart. And such an outcome would be a victory for our House above all. Surely then the eyes of the Witch King will look on us with more favour.’

Lady Arkaneth looked at him sourly. For an ambassador, his flattery was clumsy. Perhaps she ought to have him replaced.

‘Indeed,’ she replied acidly. ‘Except that there is another agent in Altdorf as well, a Disciple of Khaine named Kalia of the House Uthorin. Now that these matters have come to a head, we can no longer tolerate the presence of a rival clan interfering in our affairs. If old Uthorin has been given the pride of leading the invasion in Ulthuan, then we must take over the mission in the Old World. So I want this Kalia eliminated, and soon. It must not look deliberate, and I have no wish to make our plans known to Malekith. A secret way must be found. Malek is resourceful, and I have trust in his guile. He must be given his orders at once.’

Erith looked doubtful.

‘You wish me to go to Altdorf, my lady?’ he said, hesitantly.

Lady Arkaneth laughed, and clapped her hands together. The noise of grinding metal rose in volume, and one of the walls of the chamber began to slide backwards.

‘Don’t be foolish, Erith,’ she said scornfully. ‘It would take you forever, and you’ve hardly covered yourself in glory recently. If you had appreciation for the arts of sorcery, you wouldn’t ask such questions. I’ll communicate with him myself.’

A crack appeared in the centre of the moving walls, and the two halves slid apart with a flurry of sparks. From behind them, greenish smoke curled across the floor like a forest of snakes. Something was half-hidden in the gloom. There was what looked like a huge iron bowl, a series of chains, and a dark shadow suspended in mid-air. The noise of furiously boiling liquid filled the chamber. There was the smell of something else too, at once familiar but strangely elusive.

‘Very well, my lady,’ said Erith distractedly, peering into the smoke-filled chamber uncertainly. ‘But why tell me all this, if you don’t wish me to carry the message?’

Lady Arkaneth sighed, and rose from her throne. She walked over to the newly opened gap in the walls of the chamber. From beyond the great iron bowl, the noise of female druchii chanting could be made out. The smoke was beginning to clear.

‘Because I want you to witness this, Erith,’ she said lightly. ‘To speak to Malek directly requires a spell of great potency. He is, after all, thousands of leagues distant. Such a thing requires sacrifice. Thankfully, I am never short of volunteers.’

The last of the smoke sank to the ground. Lady Arkaneth looked upwards in anticipation. Suspended over the iron cauldron was the body of Erith’s predecessor, the Lord Goreth. His body bore the marks of long and cruel torture. Spikes pierced his limbs and torso. He hung limp and twisted, as if his bones had been broken and strangely re-set. His bloodied eyes were half-open, and he drew shallow gasps of air with great difficulty.

Lady Arkaneth turned to her ambassador with a savage expression on her face.

‘Pay heed, Erith,’ she said. ‘You know who this is. I am showing you the price of failure. Disappoint me again, and it will be you suspended over this cauldron.’

Erith swallowed, and nodded. His mouth looked too dry to speak.

With a snap of her fingers, aides in dark cloaks and cowls rushed to Lady Arkaneth’s side. She took a long, curved knife in her hands. The liquid in the cauldron bubbled ever more violently, and spitting globules of magic-infused oil flung themselves across the glistening floor. She watched the steel blade of the knife reflect the red light of the room with an absent expression of pleasure, before striding up to the pathetic figure of her previous servant.

‘Poor Goreth,’ she said, stroking his cheek gently. ‘You never learned when to keep your mouth shut. Such a weakness in a diplomat.’

Gently, even tenderly, she pressed the point of the blade against his neck. With a conspiratorial sneer, she looked back over her shoulder at Erith, who stood back uncertainly.

Then, with a stunning speed and deftness, she plunged the knife deep into Goreth’s neck and pulled it along the length of his torso. Whatever horrors had already been inflicted on him now played their part, and with a gurgling, strangled scream his tormented innards collapsed in a glistening heap into the steaming liquid below. The surface of the cauldron erupted, and a column of blood, gore and crackling energy leapt upwards. Lady Arkaneth was splattered with the stuff, and laughed furiously through it, licking her lips lasciviously. Seared by the immolating fire and oil, the twitching body of Goreth was consumed with terrifying speed, and the last trembling morsels of flesh soon dropped into the cauldron, fizzing and popping. Around the figure of the sorceress, the greenish smoke swirled with renewed energy, and a sound like the rushing of wind filled the chamber.

After a few moments the smoke began to coalesce over the tormented surface of the cauldron and take shape as a diminutive figure. Lady Arkaneth felt an enormous sense of satisfaction well up within her. There were few pleasures as acute as the successful deployment of sorcery. Behind her, Erith came slowly forward from the shadows. His face looked drained. Lady Arkaneth barely noticed him. She could feel the raw power of dark magic coursing through her body. The streaks of blood on her face and lips were hot and vital. Her pupils were dilated and her breathing heavy. With some effort, she resumed her normal attitude of studied coolness. It was timely. Before her, the shape of Malek began to show through the swirling clouds of emerald. The apparition bowed.

‘My lady,’ came a faint and ethereal voice from the cauldron. ‘A pleasure to gaze on your magnificent features, as always. You honour me with your presence.’

Lady Arkaneth shot a sideways glance towards Erith, making sure he had absorbed the spectacle in full, before replying.

‘That’s very nice, Malek,’ she said, dryly. ‘Don’t let it go to your head. There have been developments you need to hear, and I’ll not maintain this spell for longer than I need. The invasion of Ulthuan is nigh, and I have a task for you in Altdorf.’

The apparition smiled.

‘So it begins,’ said the figure of Malek, gleefully.

Lady Arkaneth, standing beside Erith, nodded.

‘Yes, my lord,’ she said. ‘So it does.’

CHAPTER ONE

The Emperor Karl Franz paused for a moment before the tall gilt-framed mirror. There were attendants fussing in the background, but he paid them no heed. None would dare approach him unless summoned.

The Emperor was dressed in full ceremonial armour. His heavy steel gorget and pauldrons were lined with the purest gold, and his greaves were intricately engraved with passages from the holy scriptures of Sigmar. Chains hung around his neck, and the vambraces of his forearm guards were wound with the finest wire of gromril. A thick and deeply embroidered cloak hung from his shoulder, trimmed with the rarest ermine. His hair had been smoothed with beeswax and a laurel wreath placed on his head. The warhammer Ghal Maraz rested against the thick armour of his leather-studded cuisses. His gauntlets and sabatons were of the softest leather and covered by steel plates. Exquisite rivets tipped with gold sparkled in the morning light, and the jewels studded in his many medallions and badges of office winked and flashed when he moved. Their splendour was only amplified by the magnificence of the chamber around him, which was arrayed in a riot of glass and heavily polished dark wood.

And yet, for all the finery, Karl Franz felt weighed-down, dragged earthwards by the pull of the metal, leather and fabric draped across him. He looked darkly at his reflection. He felt old, tired and angry.

‘I’d prefer a real suit of armour,’ he said to himself. ‘One I could wear on the field. Gold impresses only fools and the simple. But it must be done, this show. Protocol demands it.’

Drawing a resigned breath, he whirled around to face his adjutant.

‘Enough. We must get started. Announce my presence.’

The adjutant bowed, and scurried off. Other attendants raced to their places. They were happy now. Karl Franz knew they hated it when the Emperor deviated from the agreed ritual or routine. The very idea that there might be a man under all the livery, one who lived and breathed just like them, would have been utterly horrifying to them. They preferred to think of him as the regent of a living god, the embodiment of the Empire and its many lands. And that, Karl Franz mused, was probably for the best. If they knew the doubts he had, the toll of the endless burden of power, the constant need to make decision after decision, then they would serve him less well. At all times, he knew he must present his people with the front of the mighty leader, the protector against all foes. When the day came when he was unable to do so any longer, he prayed that his death in battle would be swift, and his successor would be of the right mettle. If the Empire were to stumble, even for a moment, then the malice of its enemies who remorselessly pressed against the borders would surely find the weak point and exploit it. They were already at the gates, hammering away at long-prepared defences, gibbering hordes of madness and hate.

None knew this more than Karl Franz, with his long experience of guiding the greatest realm of men through history for so many long years. Some called him the greatest statesman of the Old World. Others, and he knew who many of them were, called him traitor, incompetent, or even worse. Though he had the Reiksguard around him at all times and warrior priests offered benedictions on his behalf every hour, he was never safe. The Dark Gods, horrors whose names were only spoken by the fallen and the heretic, would sacrifice a thousand of their chosen warriors just to see his realm toppled and his soul rendered forfeit. Only through faith and endurance could they be resisted. The task was never-ending.

He walked slowly and purposefully down the glittering corridor after his bustling adjutant. His heavy armour was nearly soundless as he went. The human and dwarfish artificers had created a suit of such perfection that every joint, every curve of plate metal, was linked to the next without the slightest flaw. Only his sabatons clanked heavily against the hard floor as he strode, echoing down the corridors of the Imperial Palace. Ahead of him, massive doors loomed. The panels were beaten from weighty slabs of bronze and iron, and inlaid into a frame of solid oak a foot thick. Few knew the origin of the panels, or guessed at the ancient lineage of the doors. The metal in them had come, so it was said, from the shields of the chiefs and warlords Sigmar had overthrown to form the first army of the nascent Empire. As he stood before them, Karl Franz bowed his head slightly. From the other side, he could hear the hubbub die down in advance of his entrance. He grasped Ghal Maraz tightly, and whispered a brief prayer to Sigmar. Then he motioned to the attendants behind him to swing the doors open.

‘It is time,’ he growled.

The massive doors rumbled apart as thick ropes were heaved by a team of straining servants hidden in the shadows of the corridor. Without waiting for them to open fully, Karl Franz strode into the chamber beyond. The air was suddenly filled with the sound of clashing and scraping metal as three dozen advisers, councillors, ministers, electors, patriarchs, priests and other assorted potentates thrust back their seats and rose to attention. Most were wearing armour of a similar ostentation and impracticality as Karl Franz’s own. Some of the electors wore helmets, ruffs and plumes of truly ridiculous dimensions. As the occupants of the chamber stirred into a position of appropriate deference, the cacophony of their movements rose into the high vaulted ceiling where an elaborate wooden roof was studded with shields commemorating the great battles of the Empire. Without looking up, Karl Franz passed underneath them. He knew them all.

All eyes were fixed on him as he walked towards his appointed seat. With rat-like efficiency, attendants pulled a bronze-inlaid throne back from the vast round table of the council chamber and took up his cloak behind him ready to arrange it over his shoulder in the proper fashion. Concealing his distaste for such theatrics, Karl Franz placed Ghal Maraz on the polished wooden surface of the table with an echoing clang, looked around the room once, and sat down. With a flurry of activity, the rest of the chamber did likewise, and the servants retreated from the room, closing the great bronze doors behind them.

With all its usual pomp and fanfare, the session of the Imperial Council had begun.

‘My lords,’ said Karl Franz, his voice low and resonant in the echoing space. ‘Thank you for answering the summons to attend this council. I know you’re all busy with your own preparations for war, and I do not call you to the palace lightly. But there are urgent matters to attend to. I will not detain you with pleasantries. Marshal Helborg, you will give us your assessment of the latest situation.’

A figure at the far end of the table rose to his feet. All the assembled knew who he was: Kurt Helborg, Grand Marshal of the Knights of the Reiksguard and one of the most formidable warriors in the entire Empire. His ceremonial armour could not entirely disguise the heavy bandaging around his shield arm and neck. He had been in action fighting against a huge Chaos army in the east until just a few days previously, and still bore the marks of the conflict. Despite his wounds, he bore his massive carriage proudly and without a hint of visible discomfort.

‘My liege,’ Helborg said, in a voice that sounded like it had been dredged from the gravel of the Reik itself, ‘I am too old and artless to try and paint a cheerful picture of what awaits us. There is little hope in the east. Ostland and Ostermark are overrun. The armies of marauders I was sent to halt have been driven back, but with grievous loss. Our defensive lines along the Talabec still hold firm, but they have not yet been tested by the full force of the enemy. The plague which has ravaged the lands for this last year makes every act of campaign difficult and doubtful. Whenever we move to strike, we are forced to deal with some plague-inspired insurrection elsewhere. The men under my command are exhausted and near revolt. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. I expect it’s the same in armies under the command of others. We know the core of the Chaos host has yet to enter the heartlands of the Empire. When they come, I can’t tell what will occur. You may count on us to fight until our last breath, but whether that will be enough… Well, time and Sigmar will tell.’

A snort of derision came from the heavily hunched figure of Volkmar, the Grand Theogonist. He was the head of the mighty Church of Sigmar, and the scars across his body bore witness to his long service. He leaned forward, his bald head shining as if polished, and pointed an accusing finger at the Grand Marshal.

‘How can a man say such things in the presence of the Emperor and live?’ he hissed. ‘Where there is weakness, it must be rooted out! Your love of your men and tolerance of their softness is well-known. The unwilling must be culled to breed resolve in the rest. I cannot stomach this weak-minded, craven assessment. Take a score of my Templars into your ranks, and then your men would truly stand until their last breath!’

The old man spat the words out. They were born of long bitterness and implacable resolve in the face of the endless tides of Chaos. A few around the table looked at Volkmar with approval. Some looked on with pity. Helborg himself remained calm and stony-faced.

‘Your Templars would thin out my ranks even more,’ the Grand Marshal said in a low voice. ‘Leave your butchers here in Altdorf chasing old women, and we’ll defend the border with proper men of the Empire.’

Volkmar’s eyes flashed, and he made to respond. Before he could speak, Karl Franz smashed his armoured fist heavily on the table.

‘Enough!’ he said irritably. ‘I did not ask the Grand Marshal to provoke a debate on morale. These facts are incontestable. Ostland is lost to us, the plague shows no signs of lessening, our people are losing faith. The tide is against us, and we know worse is to come. The question remaining is simple: what is to be done?’

A third figure leaned forward. His face was entirely covered in a gold mask with an oddly beatific expression. He was Balthasar Gelt, the Supreme Patriarch of the Colleges of Magic. No one knew what dreadful injuries had compelled him to encase himself in gold, but he was never seen without his all-embracing shell of metal.

‘It seems almost too obvious to remark on, but I will do so nonetheless,’ the wizard said. His voice was a thin, pale sound. ‘The plague and the invasion are the work of one mind, one intelligence. This is no ordinary incursion of marauders, but a coordinated attack reaching across the whole of our northern border. Those of us steeped in scholarship of the Ruinous Powers know who is behind it. The only countervailing force against this foe is magic. Steel will not suffice. Grand Marshal Helborg has told us his men are near mutiny. No wonder – the sights seen by our valiant soldiers should not be witnessed by any mortal man. If the work of the colleges were not so insufferably restricted by Imperial decree and mandate, then…’

‘Then your band of sorcerers and tinkers would run amok making things twice as bad as they already are,’ sneered a new voice.

Hans Behrer, one of the generals from Ostland who had fought the long rearguard action across the sodden fields of the eastern Empire, stared at the wizard with undisguised contempt.

‘I see you disdain the loyal service of wizards,’ said Gelt, coolly. ‘How original.’

Gelt’s expression was, as ever, impossible to read, though there was no sign of his fabled temper in his even tone of voice. It was almost as if he had expected Behrer’s intervention. Behrer himself, a thick-set, brooding character with bunched shoulders and dark hair, shot him a withering glance.

‘All men of honour shun the ways of the sorcerer,’ he said, using the pejorative term for a practitioner of Chaos rites. ‘When we were standing knee-deep in the ranks of our own dead in Ostermark, the blood of our kinsmen mingling freely with the endless grime of the field, what did we face? Magic. The sky was aflame with it. The only remedy for such unholy perversion is the sword and cannon. Even the mightiest warlock cannot spread his vile spells with his tongue cut out, and a round of iron shot will cut down the most raving of cultists.’

Gelt, once again, remained uncharacteristically unmoved. He placed his gold hands on top of one another, and inclined his expressionless head slightly to one side.

‘An interesting opinion,’ he said. ‘You clearly have little time for our activities. And yet our skills may surprise you. You may not be aware, for example, that the spoor of Chaos is evident to one such as myself, even in its lowliest servants. The stink of dark magic is not easily erased, and the mark of ruination may be evident to a wizard when it is invisible to all others. You should watch yourself, general. If I were you, I would ask why one of your rank has been invited to this gathering, when all about you are your betters. The answer may not be to your liking.’

At the end of the table, Karl Franz watched with a close interest. The tension around the chamber grew as the two men, wizard and soldier, faced each other. Behrer’s face reddened at the accusation, and he rose to his feet, trembling with rage.

‘By Sigmar!’ he shouted, half-reaching for his sheathed sword. ‘If we were not under the Emperor’s peace, I’d…’

‘You’d do what?’ interrupted the Theogonist suddenly, looking with a keen interest in the agitated general. ‘Attack the Supreme Patriarch of the colleges? You’d be dead before your sword left its scabbard. What kind of a man would even suggest such a thing?’

Behrer, his face now crimson with rage, stood uncertainly for a moment, before letting his hand move away from his blade. Gelt remained calm, but his gaze never left the general. Behrer looked around him for a moment, clearly in two minds, before turning to the Emperor at the head of the table.

‘My liege,’ he said, controlling his anger with difficulty. ‘I have been accused of treachery in the heart of your palace. Will you say nothing?’

Karl Franz felt the first prick of sweat on the palms of his hands. This had come earlier than expected. From the corner of his eye, he could see Gelt watching him intently. He rose to his feet slowly, ignoring the looks of consternation from the others around him.

‘You should have listened to the words of the Patriarch, general,’ said Karl Franz, slowly and deliberately. ‘Did you never wonder why a general such as you had been invited here? Or why no others of your rank are present? If you had any wit about you, you would have remained quiet. As it is, your example will come sooner than I had foreseen.’

Behrer’s eyes widened with terror, and he looked about him with a sudden fear. His forehead broke out into a sweat, and he stepped back from his place at the table awkwardly.

‘What can you mean, my lord?’ he stammered, his expression a mix of anger and indecision. ‘I have been informed on? This is madness! Lies! There is someone in your service who wishes me ill!’

At that, Gelt too rose from his seat. The assembled nobles around him shifted uneasily. Some put their hands on their weapons, though none was foolish enough to draw swords without the Emperor’s permission. The Supreme Patriarch threw his cloak back, and gripped his staff with both gold-clad hands.

‘Indeed there is, Behrer. I wish you ill. I wish to see you dead on the floor of this chamber for the traitor you are.’

At that, he swung his staff in a constrained circular motion, and a bolt of blistering energy flew across the chamber towards the steadily retreating figure of Behrer. It was a small summoning for one of Gelt’s skill, but still had the power to knock a man off his feet and tear a hole in his armour. As the ball of coruscating force surged towards the general, he made a desperate move to avoid it, but was too slow. He was hurled against the stone of the far wall, and slumped down the surface, eyes glazed.

‘Get back!’ barked the Emperor savagely, and the electors around the table rose slowly, fixated on the bizarre sight before them. Without waiting for them to collect their senses, Karl Franz strode towards the prone figure of Behrer. The general made no movement. Perhaps he was dead. The Emperor felt a small sliver of doubt enter his mind. Could he have been mistaken? He felt Gelt arrive by his side, and the two men gazed at the twisted body before them.

‘Perhaps we were wrong,’ said the Patriarch simply.

But then, Behrer’s face jerked back into life. His eyes snapped open. His prone limbs started to move, and he clambered arduously to his feet. He began to shake violently, and his mouth lolled open.

‘If I may, my liege,’ said Gelt grimly, raising his staff once more, ‘I’ll dispose of him now. Our suspicions have been…’

But he was cut off by an unearthly howl. Behrer started flailing around madly and launched himself at the portly Gold wizard. Taken by surprise, Gelt was knocked backwards, and his staff skidded across the floor. Karl Franz grasped Ghal Maraz tightly, and stepped forward. Behind him he could hear the sounds of swords being drawn. Armoured figures rushed forward.

Behrer was being transformed. A ball of pulsating energy had begun to coalesce around him. His limbs flailed ever more wildly, and he flung himself back against the wall, panting madly. Suddenly, a cluster of tentacles burst from his chest, spraying blood across the stone. A gurgling scream broke out, but was soon extinguished as Behrer’s head was enveloped by his own neck. His whole body was folding in on itself, being absorbed by some parts and sprouting new and hideous growths in others. The speed of the transformation was terrifying, and soon all manner of spikes, fronds, tongues and even wings were forming and reforming across the tortured surface of what had once been Hans Behrer. The amorphous mass of flesh, bone and sinew reared upwards, growing in size. Strange colours and viscous substances pulsated beneath the rapidly-changing surface of the skin. In the centre of the gelatinous mass, a vast maw was opening up, ringed with vicious-looking teeth. A purple tongue, studded with spikes, flickered out towards the men assembled around it.

Karl Franz watched the transformation impassively. Ghal Maraz felt light in his hands. The runes seemed to shine with a faint, dull light of their own, as they ever did when battle loomed.

‘Abomination!’ Karl Franz hissed, his words laced with cold fury.

Beside him, Gelt clambered to his feet and retrieved his staff. On either side of the Emperor, other councillors stood ready, swords naked. All were warriors, steeped in the long fight against Chaos.

Karl Franz strode forward, swinging the warhammer loosely around him, enjoying the sensation of the weight and heft of the weapon. The creature which had been Behrer saw him approach through a dozen or more shifting, popping eyes, and screamed at him. The breath of the Chaos spawn was foul, laced with death and the stench of dark sorcery. Without hesitation, Karl Franz pulled Ghal Maraz into a wide arc, and slammed the sacred warhammer into the foul amorphous flesh. The creature screamed again, and a host of writhing tentacles, many barbed with what looked like stings or hooks, flew from the centre of its fleshy body. Some wrapped themselves around the Emperor’s arms, some bounced harmlessly off the exquisite plate armour.

Councillors raced into the battle. Helborg hurled himself at the spawn, his sword flashing. Even his voice was drowned by Volkmar, who bellowed a litany of cleansing with all the righteous anger of his calling. Ignoring the others, Karl Franz whirled around, using the weight of his ornate raiment to reinforce the blows of Ghal Maraz. Time and again the warhammer fell, gouging out chunks of sorcerous flesh, smashing the eyes into darkness, and reducing the flabby, shifting mass of twisted bone and sinew into a shrinking puddle of gore and slime. The Emperor moved forwards, brushing off the remaining attacks from the spawn, relishing the resonant power of the hammer in his hands, feeling the combined artistry and rune-magic of the mighty instrument carve through the shimmering aura of dark magic surrounding and nourishing the spawn before him.

The shape was becoming ever more formless, weeping blood and other liquids copiously. The screams had become more like mewls, and the many opening and closing mouths of the monster sagged and tore at themselves. Sensing the end, Helborg and the others withdrew. The honour of the kill belonged to the Emperor.

Karl Franz took a deep breath, and prepared to swing the final stroke. Ghal Maraz continued to resonate harmoniously in his hands, as if absorbing and echoing the powerful magic swirling around the room. But then a final shudder rocked the bleeding and ruined shape before him. The loose sac of skin and horn quivered, and withdrew in on itself rapidly. There was the sound of squelching and crunching, and a new gaping mouth opened over the quavering form. There were no teeth, barbs or stings bursting from this new orifice, but instead a sinuous neck emerged, crowned with what looked like the distorted head of a bird. It was decked in bright blue feathers, and had eyes of deep, vibrant yellow.

With some difficulty, it opened its crooked beak, and a rasping voice emerged. It was somewhat similar to Behrer’s, but horribly warped and distended. Whatever was left of the general’s vocal cords must have been mangled beyond description.

‘Well done, son of Sigmar,’ came a guttural, scraping rasp. ‘I’m glad the little tricks of my Master are of some amusement. Take pleasure in this while you can, for even the slightest of our riddles only serve to augment His mightier purpose. Believe you have won a victory if you will – you will have an eternity of torment to regret your lack of foresight.’

Taking no notice of the squawking monologue, Karl Franz looped the hammer twice around his head, and then slammed it into the grotesque face with all the force he could muster. With a flash of golden light, the spawn reeled from the blow, staggered once more, limply tried to re-form itself, and then sagged against the stone floor, utterly spent. More blows fell, until the quivering substance was reduced to a pile of bloody pulp, gently oozing multi-coloured liquid over the smooth flagstones. The stench was disgusting.

Breathing heavily from the exertion, Karl Franz stood over the crushed spawn. In amidst the gore and fleshy detritus, a few recognisable features of Behrer still lingered. A finger here, a tooth there. Otherwise, nothing remained. A sudden fury began to fill Karl Franz’s spirit. He had known of Behrer’s treachery, had drawn him to the meeting for this very purpose, but still the sacrilege outraged him. Now that vengeance had been achieved, his controlled sense of purpose was replaced with a burning emotion of betrayal.

He turned to face the others, his expression dark and intense.

‘Witness the fate of all who turn to the Ruinous Powers!’ he cried.

All thought of protocol and pageantry had been forgotten. He was quivering with rage, and his eyes blazed with a dark fire.

‘Know this!’ the Emperor said in a low voice. ‘While I bear the weapon of the Heldenhammer, and while there is still strength in my arms, this is the destiny for those who reject the light of holy Sigmar and turn to false prophets. No pity, no remorse! The purging flame is all that awaits the traitor.’

At that, Gelt stepped forward. Something about the way he moved conveyed his disgust, even if his mask remained impassive. He raised his staff high, and golden light blazed forth. When the stream of energy hit the ruined shell of the Chaos spawn, brilliant flame leapt up. It kindled quickly, and soon the leaking, putrid carcass was ablaze. The stench from its immolation was foul. Undeterred, Gelt maintained a steady onslaught. The remains blackened, crisped, and shrank into ashes.

Karl Franz looked on silently. As the spawn dissolved into nothingness, his breathing returned to normal. His fury was replaced by an icy calm.

The remaining council members looked uncertainly between the Emperor and the crumbling skeleton of the Chaos beast. All were men who had seen strange and terrible things on the battlefield, but such an event in the heart of the Imperial Palace was difficult to digest. Gradually, they recovered themselves, and returned silently to their seats. His work done, Gelt took his place once more. Creeping from the shadows, servants shuffled into the chamber to clear away the wreckage. What remained of its body would be disposed of under the watchful eye of the priests of the Imperial household. With some satisfaction, Karl Franz knew that even as the council reconvened, witch hunters would be crashing their way into Behrer’s house. His family would have to be very convincing in their denunciations and protestations of innocence, or their deaths would be long and difficult.

As the energy and anger began to drain from his body, he felt Ghal Maraz become heavy in his hands once more. The weight of his armour returned to his shoulders. He re-took his seat, and placed the warhammer in front of him. It would not be needed for the remainder of the session.

‘My lords,’ Karl Franz said, looking at each councillor in turn. ‘Behrer’s treachery was known to us, and his presence here this morning was no accident. But I did not stage this charade idly. On each prior occasion this council has met, there has been bickering between us. The Church of Sigmar finds fault with the Reiksguard. The Knightly Orders find fault with my corps of engineers. The electors of the southern provinces do not appreciate the needs of those in the north, and everybody mistrusts the colleges. This cannot go on. While we squabble and debate, the land is aflame. Even as I speak to you now, there are brave men of the Empire dying defending their homes. The least they can demand of us, sitting here in the centre of the realm far from danger, is that we understand the threat and work together to confront it. Do not mistake me, my lords. I regret the death of any of my subjects, for every man and woman of the Empire is like a child to me. But any who frustrate my attempt to drive back the hordes which assail us will meet the fate of Behrer. Even in the midst of Altdorf, there is treachery and dissent. It cannot go on.’

His words were met with silence. Every member sat with their face turned towards him, listening intently. Perhaps Behrer had served a purpose after all.

‘I have told you of my plans for my Order of the Griffon,’ continued the Emperor. ‘Many of you have supplied members from your own ranks to join this institution. But the numbers are still too low. You know my intentions: to bring together every member of the Empire into a single body, an incorruptible force of all skills and talents working as one. If we remain divided, then the designs of the Dark Ones are already half-complete. Sigmar has blessed His children with diverse skills. Only by placing them in concert may we realise His purposes fully. We know that the enemy has formed a similar force, which we only know as the Raven Host. Its purposes are hidden from us, but its threat is not. I urge you to act quickly, my lords, and induct more of your best troops into the Order. All are needed. Our divisions must end. Have I your agreement on this?’

The electors and other nobles, some still somewhat shaken from the dramatic effects of Behrer’s pact with the Dark Gods, nodded in turn. Some even looked like they meant it.

Gelt was the only one to speak.

‘The colleges have already supplied many of the best wizards in the Empire as recruits for the Order of the Griffon. I will speak to my colleagues, and ensure that more is done. If the hosts of Chaos can put aside their differences in order to unite against us, then we must do the same.’

The Emperor inclined his head towards the Gold wizard in thanks. Gelt was a slippery fish. Like all the rest of the council, it was only the dire necessity of the situation which curtailed the usual business of politics and intrigue between them. But for the time being at least, he seemed to have made his point.

‘Very well,’ the Emperor said curtly. ‘That is an end to the matter. I shall expect to receive lists of names from you all in due course. But now we must turn our attention once more to the conduct of the war. I wish to have no more disagreements on those best suited to carry out the defence. We must consider the location of the next attack, and be ready for it. We are no longer so far from the front, here in Altdorf. Our resources are meagre. Where should they be deployed?’

Back on to the familiar territory of war planning, the electors and marshals shook off their uncustomary reticence and began to confer in earnest. Plans were introduced, sheets of parchment were pushed across the smooth wood of the table, and logistics and gunnery requirements discussed. Karl Franz sat back and let the discussion take its course for a few moments. His eyes strayed to the high window on his right. At the edge of his vision, a thick black pall of smoke was rising in the narrow courtyard outside. The charred remains of the spawn were being burned further. For a short time, he found himself drawn to the thin, twisting line of smoke. It had once been a man, one who had fought for him. How many others were waiting to turn, like Behrer, to darkness?

The Emperor shook his head. There was no use in speculating. Turning his attention back to the debate before him, he resumed the wearisome business of listening to plans and counter-plans. In the end, he knew, there was only faith and vigilance. And given the scale of the task the Empire was facing, they would need plenty of both.

CHAPTER TWO

Alexander Heisenherz was in a foul mood. This was in many ways his natural state. He hurried down the winding corridors of the Bright College with his robes flapping around him. His staff clicked as it struck the ornate tiling of the floor, and the iron heel sent stray sparks flicking into the shadowy recesses. He was late, and of all the many things in the world that he hated, being late was one of the worst.

Alexander was deep in the interior of the college, some distance underground in the hidden catacombs. He was moving through parts of the rambling structure that no acolyte or visiting dignitary ever saw. Around him on the walls, powerful sigils had been inscribed in crimson mosaics. The stonework, suitably enough, was a deep vermillion, lined with terracotta decorations celebrating the many aspects of the Wind of Aqshy, the spirit of fire. For the wizards of Alexander’s order, whom the outside world knew as Bright wizards, fire was the element most closely attuned to their skills.

Like all human wizards, the Bright mages were limited to mastery of just one of the eight winds of magic. These strictures had been laid down for hundreds of years, ever since the fabled elven mage Teclis had travelled to Altdorf during the reign of Magnus the Pious to instruct the humans in the ways of magic. The high elves themselves, so it was rumoured, could draw on the combined power of all the eight winds in their own spellcasting. Many human wizards, Alexander included, felt that the restrictions placed on the lore of the colleges were intended to keep humans back, rather than ward them from the supposed risks of the full spectrum of magic in all its danger and glory. But there was little that could be done about such a situation. The few humans who had tried to utilise more than one colour of magic had gone mad, or been driven into the arms of darkness.

With the colleges tied to the methods laid down by Teclis, dabbling in the pure essence of the unconstrained aethyr was the business of renegades and madmen. So the elves had maintained their monopoly on the reins of true power while drawing the realms of men into their plans. Or so it seemed to him, at least.

Alexander shook his head irritably as he walked along. Thinking about such things only worsened his mood. He arrived at his destination, and tried to relax. He was in front of a low, thick-looking door lined with iron. Protective wards had been inscribed in the metal, and the great icon of the college, the circular rune of Aqshy, had been inlaid into the wood in a band of gold.

He smoothed his unruly hair and clothes as best he could. Like most of the mages of his order, he wore robes of deep red. His skin was inscribed with blood-coloured symbols, and even his hair and beard were flaming. His bizarre appearance was enough for most Imperial citizens to give him a wide berth, which suited him fine. Alexander was not over-fussy about his appearance like the ridiculous Gold wizards. Only his staff, the nexus of his power as a wizard, was looked after with all the care he could muster. Though a mage could work magic without a staff, the rune-studded instrument was as important to him as a sword was to a knight. It focussed his power and augmented it, acting as the fixed point about which his strange gifts coalesced. Alexander’s staff was carefully polished and maintained, and to a fellow practitioner of the magical arts, revealed much of the Bright wizard’s capability and temperament.

Alexander rapped the tip of the shaft heavily against the iron of the door. With a yawning creak, it opened by itself, revealing a small chamber lined with candles. In the centre of the cramped space, a low fire burned. The flames were unnaturally bright, and moved in strange patterns over the brazier which sustained them. Eerie shadows were thrown up against the walls of the chamber, which in turn were lined with endless scripts of tiny engraved writing. Alexander made no attempt to read any of the curving letters on the walls. They changed so often anyway, it was futile trying to get any sense out of them. Only the master archivist, whose distant ancestor had created the powerful magic which animated the room, claimed to be able to read the shifting messages on the walls. But he was half-mad himself, and no one trusted a man who kept rats in the folds of his cloak and claimed they were his advisers.

On the far side of the brazier, a cowled figure waited for him. The door closed, wreathing the room in shadows. Only the unnaturally warm glow of the fire and the insubstantial flickering of the candles broke the heavy gloom. Even for a wizard used to such elaborate theatre, Alexander found himself slightly unnerved.

‘Greetings, Patriarch,’ he said uneasily, trying to shake his pervasive bad mood.

The seated figure threw back his cowl, and looked at Alexander with a weary expression.

‘When you first arrived here, Heisenherz, your consistent lateness was refreshing,’ he said acidly. ‘Now it is merely tiresome.’

The speaker was a large, heavy-set man with a shaved head and voluminous beard. One eye was unseeing and glazed, while the other was hawk-like in its intensity. His robes were of the finest heavy cloth lined with fur, and an amulet of luminous gold hung around his neck. He was Thyrus Gorman, Patriarch of the college, and one of the most powerful mages in the Empire. He looked as displeased as Alexander at having to spend more time than was necessary in the vaults of the Bright College.

‘Apologies,’ said Alexander. ‘I was detained with an acolyte.’

‘Not any more,’ said Gorman. ‘Whatever orders you were working under, you can forget them now. Things have changed. The war is altering everything. The Emperor grows intolerant of the number of wizards who remain away from the front.’

At mention of the war, Alexander felt a curse rise within him. He bit his tongue.

‘So I am told,’ Alexander said. ‘But, forgive me, I see little sign of this great war. Every year some horde or other fights its way out of a hole in the mountains and carves up a province or two. They always peter out after a while. If all the colleges were emptied every time a greenskin warlord rode into Stirland on a boar then our researches would grind to a halt.’

Gorman regarded him coldly from under impossibly thick eyebrows.

‘Political acumen has never been your strong point,’ the Patriarch observed, witheringly. ‘Thankfully, you aren’t in charge of deciding such things. You will depart the city immediately and head to the Observatory of the Celestial College outside Altdorf. Their Patriarch has received some strange portents, and wishes the facility to be better guarded. It’s an easy task, and you can be thankful you’re not being sent somewhere more dangerous.’

Alexander felt a wave of relief. Sharing a ramshackle observatory with a bunch of half-crazed amateur prophets was not his idea of a good time, but it beat trudging through the mud and gore with a column of mutinous peasant soldiers. Most Imperial citizens placed wizards somewhere between a traitor and a rat on the scale of social acceptability, so at least he would be amongst his own kind.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘What do our Celestial cousins want with a Bright wizard? Can’t they look after themselves?’

Gorman ignored his tone.

‘The observatory is an institution of great importance. The Celestial College has been using it to scry the heavens in an attempt to foretell what may come to pass in the coming months. The need for their predictions has never been greater, and even you should have noticed that the skies have been strangely unsettled recently. There’s important work being done there, and someone with your unique gift for pyromancy will be of great help.’

The Patriarch leaned forward in the darkness, as if some hidden pair of ears might possibly overhear.

‘And there have been troubling portents,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Visions of flame and of ruin.’

Alexander nodded, with the faintest trace of a weary smile on his face. Where there were portents, it seemed they always involved fire and ruin.

‘Very well,’ he said, making to leave. ‘I’ll depart immediately.’

Gorman shook his head impatiently.

‘Not just yet. There’s one more thing.’

The Patriarch rummaged in a small pouch at his waist and pulled a metal token from it. It was a silver disc with a fine chain running through it. On the surface of the disc was an engraving of a griffon. On the rear was the Imperial coat of arms. Gorman handed it to him.

‘Normally there’d be some sort of ceremony involved with this, but there’s no time, and it would be wasted on the likes of you anyway. Congratulations. You’re now a member of the noble Order of the Griffon.’

Alexander looked at the disc with some distaste.

‘The what?’ he said, doubtfully, turning the metal token over in his hands.

‘I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. The Emperor himself has instituted it. There are members from all across the Empire. Great warriors, mighty knights, witch hunters, even the odd wizard or two. We’re all being encouraged to swell its ranks. Most of my other wizards are deployed with the Imperial armies doing useful work. As you’re one of the last to leave, I’m afraid you’re my best remaining candidate.’

Alexander snorted.

‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘There must be a thousand Orders, conclaves and fraternities in the Empire. One more won’t make any difference.’

Gorman gave him a look of studied disapproval.

‘There are ambitious servants of the Empire who would give up their own families to be counted amongst the Order of the Griffon. Supreme Patriarch Gelt himself is very worked up about it. And despite your lamentable attitude and general slovenliness, you have subtle gifts that can’t be ignored. If you didn’t, I’d have kicked you out of here long ago. Take the emblem, and wear it under your robes. You may scorn the honour now, but you’ll come to recognise the worth of it in time. I won’t tolerate any indiscipline from you in this matter. Just do as I say.’

Alexander pondered resisting, but after taking a look at his Patriarch’s expression, decided against it. Some things just weren’t worth fighting for. He slipped the chain over his neck and let the silver pendant hang next to his chest. Even in the heat of the fire-lit chamber, it felt cool against his skin.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful you thought of me. Does this come with any extra orders?’

‘Nothing, for now,’ said Gorman. ‘Just look after the pendant. It’s your mark of identification. Keep your involvement in this secret from those outside the Order, and in due course I’ll arrange for a proper induction.’

He gave Alexander a resigned look.

‘Try and live up to this, Heisenherz,’ Gorman said. ‘You’re a good wizard. Perhaps you have the potential to be more than that. The only thing holding you back is your attitude. I’ve seen wars bring out the best in men before. My hope is that the same will happen for you. This is an opportunity. Don’t spurn it.’

Alexander nodded curtly. Lectures of this sort had been common throughout his long apprenticeship at the college. Now he was a wizard in his own right and the owner of an Imperial warrant, he had hoped the sermonising would end.

‘Thanks for the advice,’ he said, trying to keep his voice sounding sincere. ‘And I’ll look after the pendant.’

Gorman inclined his head, and gestured that he was free to leave. With some relief, Alexander turned on his heel and left the chamber behind. As before, the iron-bound door opened and closed behind him of its own accord.

A nice touch, thought Alexander, walking in a leisurely fashion back the way he had come. No doubt Gorman had his own clandestine route from the chamber back up into the spires of the upper college. The Patriarchs liked their little secrets and games. As for himself, he was glad enough to get out of the city and away from the cloying atmosphere of the colleges. The Celestial wizards might be fools and dreamers, but at least the air at the observatory would be clean. That was more than could be said of Altdorf.

Annika Bohringer crept through the tangled undergrowth as quietly as possible, keeping her head low. Her soft leather boots made little noise against the damp leaf matter of the forest floor, and her dun-coloured cloak and leggings blended well with the foliage. Behind her, Dieter made his way carefully. He was wearing the heavy brass-inlaid armour of of a Knight of the Blazing Sun, and went more slowly. Only his long training and enormous strength kept him from holding her up too much or giving them away.

She was glad of his presence. The forests of the Empire were always dangerous, but in recent times the very countryside seemed to have risen up against its masters. The land was stricken with plague, and though the worst of the pestilence had subsided, the baleful effects of infection were still everywhere to be seen. Where prosperous villages had once bustled and flourished, now empty husks stood mournfully, burnt out by the cleansing fire of her fellow witch hunters or destroyed by the madness of their former inhabitants. Crops rotted in the fields untended, and the thick matted canopy of the forest had begun to stretch back over lands long claimed by men. The Empire’s hold over the vast homeland of Sigmar, ever tenuous, was beginning to fracture.

Annika clasped her pistol tightly, and ran her thumb along the precious surface of the esoteric weapon. She was a traditionalist in most respects, and in general preferred the crossbow or short-bladed sword to the newfangled gadgets of the engineers. But her flintlock was something special. Three long, exquisitely-bored barrels extended nearly twelve inches from the ivory-inlaid handle. They were arranged in a pyramid formation, with intricate carvings of dragons in flight etched along the length of the steel shafts. It was a machine of rare craftsmanship.

Only three had ever been made. One had been lost when its owner had led an ill-fated attempt to purge the lower Drakwald of beastmen twenty years ago. The other resided in an iron casket in Nuln, guarded by rings of elaborate traps and hidden deep in the vaults of the College of Engineers. Annika’s was the only one left in use, and she cherished it. It had been given to her by the man who had made it, Augustus Ironblood, in payment of a debt of honour. It was rare indeed for a witch hunter to earn the gratitude of an Imperial citizen, and so she had taken it and learned to use it in preference to the crossbow. Long practice had made her a markswoman of the highest order. Now Ironblood was dead, and her skill with his greatest creation was the only way to mark his generosity.

Annika paused, and peered through the overhanging branches. The weight of the pistol in her right hand was comforting. Dieter arrived at her side, his sword drawn. He had an open-faced helmet on, and wore an expression of flat, calm concentration. There was nothing untoward in this. Dieter always wore a look of flat, calm concentration.

‘Look there,’ whispered Annika, pointing ahead with the muzzle of her weapon. ‘More of them.’

Dieter nodded grimly. Perhaps twenty paces ahead of their position, the trees began to thin and the land fell away. Further ahead there was a break in the forest and rough clear ground stood open to the sky. In the past, the place might have been tended and cultivated, but now the earth was overgrown with straggling creepers and brambles. Amidst the tangled briars, shapes were moving. They had the form of humans, but were each somehow distorted. All limped or dragged their limbs in an awkward fashion. Where the dappled sunlight fell on their faces, the skin looked pale and deathly. Some seemed to have odd growths protruding from under their rags, or patches of sores, or strange gaps where flesh should have been. None were untouched by mutation.

They had once been villagers, no doubt. Good men and women of the Empire, tilling the earth and keeping the ever-present tide of the forest penned back. Now they were ruined creatures of feral madness and affliction, the worst of the many consequences of the terrible Chaos-inspired plague. Annika looked at them with something akin to pity. Mutation was always something to be stamped out and purged, but these people had done nothing to deserve their fate. There were not enough pyres in the whole Empire for the bodies that needed to be burned.

‘Where are they going?’ she whispered, watching the shambling figures stagger and drag themselves vaguely northwards. ‘This group have more purpose about them than usual. A plan, even?’

Dieter narrowed his eyes.

‘They are drawn towards the heart of the contagion. Chaos has spawned them. Now they travel to meet the authors of their fate.’

Annika frowned.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘If so, they’ll find no welcome there.’

The witch hunter looked up, over the heads of the distant figures. The morning sky was chill and grey. The blankets of high cloud shifted uneasily in the incessant wind, as if the airs of heaven were troubled and tormented. The ice-cold breeze pried into every nook and gap in her clothing, and she shivered a little.

‘If our journey were not so important, I’d deliver these wretches from their torment,’ she said. ‘But there are too many, and time is short.’

Dieter looked at the shuffling mutants with a disappointed expression. She knew that to him they were an abomination for which the only palliative was the liberal employment of steel and fire. If Dieter had a flaw, she thought, it was a certain unwillingness to see the larger picture.

‘I agree,’ he said in a grudging voice. ‘Grauenburg’s lands are close now. The sickness seems to have hit these lands hard. More reason to suspect he has turned. Your judgement on the matter is surely confirmed.’

Annika smiled to herself. Dieter’s support was appreciated. Once he decided on a course of action, he stuck to it, and his faith in her was touching.

The two of them had been scouting out the hinterlands of Lord Grauenburg’s lands for days. There had been too many reports of plague outbreaks to ignore. If she had had her way, an entire company of Templars would have been dispatched, with her at its head, to root out the heresy she was sure lurked here. If Annika’s career had taught her anything, it was that you could never be too careful. But now the war had come, and even the witch hunters were thinly stretched. It had taken much persuasion for Volkmar to let her investigate Grauenburg’s estates on her own. A single knight was a meagre escort for one of her rank, and Annika was more used to an entire retinue. What was worse, Dieter was a member of the obscure Myrmidia-worshipping Knights of the Blazing Sun, a cult whose activities she had always been faintly suspicious of. Though they were among the mightiest of the Emperor’s servants, and their fame had spread from Nordland to Araby, their allegiance to a strange goddess of the south made them an unusual choice for a witch hunter’s bodyguard. Still, Dieter’s martial prowess and dedication were hardly in doubt, as his blood-stained sword and notched armour attested.

‘There’s definitely something up here,’ Annika said, wrinkling her nose at the unusually acrid smell of the rotting leaf matter around them. ‘The land itself seems strangely… wronged. But we need more proof before we can move against Grauenburg. He’s powerful, and you can’t accuse an Imperial lord without being completely sure.’

She shuffled forwards a little, trying to see if the mutants had passed out of their way and back into the trees.

‘I think they’ve moved on,’ she breathed, looking carefully ahead. ‘We should…’

Before she could finish, an gurgling cry of anger and pain filled the air. It was met with similar cries from every direction. The voices might once have been human, but they were now merely twisted mockeries, more like the calls of beasts. Annika felt a sudden cold stab of foreboding. She raised her pistol with her right hand and drew a hunting knife from its scabbard with her left.

‘They’ve sensed us,’ she hissed.

‘So they have,’ said Dieter softly without the slightest trace of emotion in his voice. ‘And I think hiding here will do us no good.’

He gestured forward, and Annika looked where he pointed. Perhaps a dozen of the limping creatures had turned back into the clearing and were coming directly for them. Whatever unnatural force had seized their wills and corrupted their bodies seemed to have augmented at least some of their senses as well. Unerringly, the broken and twisted mutants made their way straight for the witch hunter’s position. As they neared, some broke into a loping run.

Annika shook her head in frustration.

‘Mother of Sigmar!’ she spat. ‘We don’t have time for this.’

She rose from the thick covering of foliage and branches and took aim. Blackpowder exploded, and the crack of the report echoed through the trees. Two of the nearest figures fell to the ground, writhing a remembered reaction of pain. The rest hesitated for a moment, before resuming their lumbering march towards them. Dieter rose and stood by Annika’s shoulder.

‘Well, that’s done it,’ he said, dryly. ‘We’ll have to kill them all now.’

Dieter broke from cover and charged headlong into the nearest group of mutants. His sword flashed in the cold air, and he was soon surrounded by a whirling maelstrom of gore and severed flesh. He towered over the grasping hands and scrabbling fingers around him.

Annika stepped out of the shadow of a towering oak and cast an expert eye over the figures approaching her. One was slightly taller than the rest, and seemed to have retained much of his physical bulk. Perhaps he had once been a village headman or some other worthy figure. Without hesitation, she straightened her arm and took aim. The blackpowder detonation echoed once more around the forest, and the plague victim stumbled in his path. Oblivious, his fellow peasants pressed onwards towards her, raising their hands in anticipation of ripping at her throat.

As they neared, Annika couldn’t help noticing the strange, twisted features of their faces. Their eyes had the dull look of those long sunk into possession by whatever unholy force had taken over their minds, but some still wore the expressions of anguish they had borne while consumed by the racking pain of illness. They were pitiful and utterly wretched. From the corner of her eye she could see Dieter wading through them, heaving his sword to and fro as they clutched at him. The stench of death and disease filled the air.

Distastefully, she took aim once more, and a third shot rang out. Another body stumbled and crashed into the bracken. But then they were too close. Annika shoved the pistol deftly back into its leather holster, and drew a short sword with her right hand. The hunting knife still in her left, she strode forward to meet the first of the mutants. It looked at her with hatred, and screamed. Lunging forward, it tried to scratch at her face and gouge at her eyes. Coolly, Annika sliced across its throat with her sword, followed by a plunge into its chest from the knife. The body of the mutant twitched and shuddered as the steel passed through it. Annika pushed it roughly aside.

Where it fell, there were more to take its place. Annika began to work harder, twisting and dancing away from the outstretched arms of the inexorably advancing plague creatures. They kept coming even as those before them were cut down, uncaring of anything except the strange compulsion to kill those whose kind they had once been. Annika punched a hulking monster hard in the face with the pommel of her sword, hearing the bone crack as she did so, before whirling around to face two scrawny creatures pawing at her cloak. The hunting knife flickered, and severed hands and fingers fell to the ground. Still they came, and Annika had to plunge her sword full into the torso of one before it would stop trying to haul itself on top of her. She stepped back, feeling sweat begin to shine on her skin despite the cold. There were more coming.

‘Myrmidia!’ came a voice beside her, and she turned quickly. Dieter had spotted something behind her, and his armour-clad body slammed into a grotesque, misshapen grey-skinned wretch which had sneaked under her defences. The sword span around, and a shower of gore flew into the air. Shaken a little, Annika pitched herself into the fighting with renewed fervour. Her boot kicked out at two child-sized mutants which had crept through the low lying bushes to gnaw at her ankles. She swung her sword in a graceful arc in front of her, sending the plague creatures backwards in confusion before kneeling to dispatch the drooling children with the hunting knife. Rising quickly, she thrust her sword rapidly into the leathery flesh of yet another of the creatures. Even impaled on the weapon it still came forward, and it took a violent heave of the blade, nearly ripping the mutant in two, before it came loose once more. The momentary delay cost her, and one of the creatures came close to fastening a hand with six gnarled fingers on her shoulder. Annika turned smoothly, and the severed hand landed heavily in the undergrowth, joining the growing collection of gore-drenched body parts littering the forest.

The onslaught ebbed. Dieter’s butchery seemed to have deterred the rest of the mutants. Annika looked up from the carnage. They had felled many of their number, and the few remaining beasts were limping back into the shadows. Dieter dispatched a final shambling creature before hurrying to her side.

‘Pursue them?’ he asked.

Annika shook her head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘They’ll regroup in the shadows, and more will come.’

She narrowed her eyes, watching the last of the plague creatures shrink from view.

‘This attack was planned,’ she said carefully. ‘They wish to draw us further into the trees.’

Dieter looked doubtful.

‘These creatures are mindless,’ he said. ‘Their wills have been stripped from them. They are slaves to their bloodlust.’

Annika shook her head.

‘I think not,’ she said. ‘They are creatures of Chaos. A greater will may guide them.’

She looked about her.

‘We’re near the edge of the forest. From the map, the land changes to the west. Come.’

She began to stride purposefully away. Dieter still looked unconvinced, but dutifully accompanied her. From behind them, a thin wail rose above the trees.

‘I do not understand,’ said the knight. ‘This place needs purging. Our duty lies behind us.’

Annika nodded.

‘If I had a hundred knights at my command, we would cleanse this entire forest,’ she said grimly. ‘But do you not see? The plague beasts are not at the heart of this. Their presence in the trees would deter all but the hardiest from pressing on. They are a distraction, a ring of mindless guards to protect against discovery of the graver corruption within. We must press on.’

They went quickly through the trees, mindful of the threat from more plague beasts. For the time being at least, the creatures seemed to have been beaten off. In time, the dense forest began to thin. They were nearing the edge. Then, with an unexpected suddenness, they broke into open country. To the north and south, the dark line of trees continued in an unbroken wall of shadow. But to the west the land was empty. Instead of tangled branches and briars, bleak moorland stretched towards the distant horizon. After the close world of the trees, it seemed strangely empty. The place had a grim feel about it. Then again, everywhere else in the region did too.

Annika scanned the vista before them, shading her eyes against the cold diffuse light of the grey sky. There were several large piles of granite protruding from some of the high points of the moors in the distance, and smaller collections of tumbled rocks wherever she looked. Her gaze swept across the distant peaks. Nothing was out of the ordinary. But then her experienced eyes noticed something awkward about a tall outcrop to the north. There were signs, subtle signals perhaps most travellers would have missed. She was not a witch hunter for nothing.

‘Look,’ she said to Dieter, pointing to the granite formation in the north. ‘Those stones have been worked. There’s something there.’

Dieter looked at the rock towers carefully.

‘I see it,’ he said. ‘So the creatures were protecting something.’

‘Looks like it,’ she said. ‘These are Grauenburg’s lands. We may as well start looking here.’

They set off once more, heading in the direction of the distant peak. Behind them, a cold wind sighed through the eaves of the trees, but no plague beast followed them. The unnatural will which gave them purpose and direction also held them in the forest. It was little comfort. Annika sensed the aura of sickness grow. Whatever secret had been hidden in this place, they were coming to the heart of it.

CHAPTER THREE

Alberich was scared. His hands were sticky with sweat, and he could feel his blood pumping around his scrawny body as he hurried. He was a thin, rat-faced man, and his lank dark hair hung shabbily about his unshaven face. He was in his own territory, amongst his own kind, but the terror still drew at him. For Alberich, the entire world may as well have been the city of Altdorf and its endless twisting underworld. If plucked from his habitat and left to fend for himself in the trackless woods of the Old World, he would have been as lost as an infant. The only skills he possessed were the clumsy and brutal arts of the street thief, the amoral utility of the hired thug, and the somewhat dubious honour of knowing a number of shady people with more developed criminal skills. Despite the paucity of alternatives, the precariousness of his current position made him half-wonder whether there was a less fragile way of making a living.

It was nearing dusk, and the teeming throng of Altdorf’s poor quarters was beginning to thin. The myriad smells and noises of the street were starting to ebb, and in the narrow and grimy windows above him some tallow candles were already lit. There were still plenty of people around, but all carried themselves with caution, wrapping themselves in heavy cloaks or holding rags over their mouths.

The alleys of the city were dangerous enough places at the best of times, but the citizens had recently been more scared of the plague and its effects than the usual motley collection of cut-throats and footpads. No family had been untouched by the ravages of the deadly contagion, and the fact that its victims rose from their sickbeds to become murderous creatures of darkness made the whole thing even more horrifying. Alberich noted with some small comfort that most of the faces he passed were as haggard and worried as his own. Times were hard, and as ever it was those at the bottom of the pile who suffered most.

With his habitual stooping gait, he crept through the shadows of a cluttered and mud-strewn thoroughfare and passed into a dank and overlooked square. A statue of Sigismund II stood mournfully over a decrepit fountain in the centre, daubed with crude slogans and splattered with bird droppings. There was very little natural light in the grimy space. Towering wattle-and-daub buildings crowded and clustered high on all sides. Sludge and refuse collected in every corner, and the joyless Altdorfers shuffled uneasily and quickly as they crossed the run-down area.

Suddenly, Alberich was alerted to shouting and angry raised voices. With an instinct born of a life in the gutters, he slipped deftly into a narrow cleft between two massive many-storeyed townhouses. Ignoring the acrid stench of rotten vegetables, he shuffled back into the darkness. A band of men wearing the emblems of the Emperor charged into the square. They seized any unfortunates too slow to dodge into a suitable hiding place and clapped them in leg irons. Squealed protests were summarily cut short with a sharp blow to the head.

‘Join the glorious armies of the Emperor!’ cried a fat soldier wearing an elaborate red and blue patterned jerkin and hose, waving a large copy of a Pressing Warrant in his pudgy hands. ‘A piece of copper and guaranteed fame for all who join up to smite the enemies of Karl Franz!’

The poor souls who had been caught in the rush looked at the officer with undisguised misery, clearly not convinced by the sales pitch, but were soon hurried on by the rapidly-moving column. They were herded into long lines and beaten out of the square. The noise of shouting diminished as the press gang moved off in search of fresh new recruits. Once he was sure they were gone, Alberich squeezed out of the narrow hiding place and brushed his ragged clothes down. Elsewhere, other figures emerged from their chosen refuges like worms from the soil. The life of the city quickly resumed as if nothing had happened, and the streets filled once more with shuffling figures.

Aware he was running short of time, Alberich hurried onwards. His path took him down a winding and treacherous stairway, past the bustling streets of the moneylenders’ quarter and into ever shabbier and more dishevelled areas. For those who knew the paths, Altdorf was a maze in every direction, including downwards. Successive generations had built upon the ruins of their ancestors’ homes, and the underworld was still riddled with tunnels, catacombs, sewers and long-abandoned caverns of stone and crumbling brick. Much of this twilight world was ruined, or flooded, or occupied by rumoured inhabitants even Alberich wouldn’t dare disturb. But some of the hidden kingdom was still navigable, and it was in such dark places that he had become happy to lay low when things became too dangerous in the world above.

He slunk down the last few steps of the winding way, and came across a shallow archway carved from dank, cold stone. Down so low, the light from the evening sky was almost extinguished, and he pulled a lantern from the bag on his back. After a few frustrating attempts, his shaking fingers finally succeeded in lighting the wick, and a sickly flame quavered in the grubby iron container. The light it threw out was weak and dim, but just enough to illuminate his way. Taking a deep breath, he ventured forward, ducking under the low keystone and disappearing into the nocturnal gloom of the under-city.

The stench was unpleasant even for an urchin such as Alberich. A stream of oily-looking water slid alongside him as he went, and strangely luminous moss clung desperately to the slick, dark rocks of the tunnel. The ground ran ever downwards, and soon Alberich was far below Altdorf’s normal street level. Every so often he would pass alcoves in the stone wall which the lantern picked out in lurid, flickering detail. They were as old as anything in the city. Tombs, most likely, buried under the sprawling mass of the fevered construction and activity above. He didn’t pause to pay them any attention. In the half-light, he knew they would only add to his anxiety. On previous journeys he had slipped from his path only once before, lured by the thought that there might be gold hidden amongst the silent sarcophagi. What he had seen then had convinced him never to venture off his well-worn trails again, and the only thing he brought back with him was a more than usually strong aversion to rats.

Despite the gloom and the winding, confusing passageways, Alberich went swiftly. He had made the journey several times before, and knew better than to keep his hosts waiting. The carefully cut stone soon degenerated into crude blocks, worn into gnarled shapes by the actions of water and age. There were strange sigils carved on some of the surfaces, symbols which Alberich didn’t recognise. Like most of his kind he could neither read nor write, but he recognised just enough to know that the script was no current language of the Empire, and that the authors of the strange writing were people long-removed from anything he knew or cared about.

In time, the arched ceiling rose higher over his head. The tunnel widened, and the number of arcane inscriptions increased. Alberich was nearly there, back at the place he called the Temple. He had no idea whether it was a temple or not, but the odd chamber, secreted at the very base of the old city, seemed to have the air of such a place. For whatever reason, it felt like it had something of the sacred about it. Or perhaps it was just fear talking. Even compared to the tombs behind him, the vaulted area chilled his blood.

Alberich reached the appointed place, and shuddered against the damp cold. Pulling his cloak close, he prepared to make the signal. He needn’t have bothered. Unbidden, a dozen shadows detached themselves from the gloom of the walls around him. They formed a circle with him at the centre. Seemingly of their own volition, a series of braziers burst into life, throwing a greenish light across the narrow space. Alberich swallowed nervously, fingering the precious cargo he had carried down from the sunlit streets above. This was it – the moment he finally got his hands on the gold he had been promised. Once that was sorted out, there would be no more journeys to the Temple, no more mysterious orders and threats. To keep his spirits up, he fixed his mind on an image of the tavern he was going to buy with his bounty. That was what this was all for, he reminded himself. That was why he kept doing as he was told by these terrible people. He placed the lantern on the floor beside him, and retrieved the all-important object with shaking hands.

One of the figures moved towards him. The cowl was thrown back, and her alien face was revealed in the green light. However many times Alberich observed the strange features of his contact, he never quite got used to them. Her hair was as black as night and possessed a strange, ghostly sheen. Her skin was pale in the extreme. Her eyes were almond-shaped and lined with an ink-dark substance. She was slender, and her movements were poised and deliberate. When she looked at him, Alberich could see the cool contempt in her face. He knew that she regarded him as lower than an animal. That didn’t matter. Most people did. The important thing was the money.

‘You have it?’ she said in a soft, clipped voice.

Alberich nodded nervously.

‘Yes, my lady,’ he stammered, proffering the roll of vellum. ‘My friend was as good as his word. They’re all here.’

He handed the documents over, and watched as the figure before him scanned their contents. The writing on the papers was more than usually incomprehensible to him. There was no surprise in that. They had been taken from the Imperial Palace by a minor lackey whom Alberich had promised vast riches. The missives were originally from the elven embassy in the city and had been sent to the palace in high security. Fortunately for Alberich, the silver pieces he had received from his new underworld friends had proved remarkably good at unlocking both doors and tongues. The human guards of the information had been far less assiduous than their elven counterparts. Why an elf would need his services to get hold of information from her compatriots was a mystery to him, but he had long given up asking difficult questions.

‘Good,’ she said, leafing through several pages. Her Reikspiel was heavily accented, but perfectly understandable. ‘This is in cipher, but one which has been broken. The arrangements for the archmage’s security are here. We can use this. Your friend has been most helpful. I hope he received his just reward.’

Alberich smiled self-consciously. He had given his contact in the palace only half of what had been promised, but that was hardly her concern. Once he was a rich man, he would no longer need to worry about keeping little men like that happy. He rubbed his hands together ingratiatingly.

‘I’m glad you find it useful,’ he said. ‘I’m always happy to do business with the elvish folk. We hear such wondrous stories about you in the city. Like how you ride your dragons to your homes in the trees, and can magic up food whenever you want it, and never sleep. Perhaps we can work together again some time? I’d like that.’

Even as he spoke, Alberich could hear how foolish his words sounded. If he had anything to do with it, he would never venture to such a hateful dungeon again. Why was he burbling such nonsense?

The figure before him smiled coldly.

‘You think we are elves, such as your kind know?’ she asked, raising a dark eyebrow gracefully. ‘How quaint. You are as ignorant as you are filthy.’

Alberich could have been offended by that, but a sudden tremor of doubt had passed through him.

‘You’re not elves?’ he said, looking around him uncertainly. ‘I don’t understand. What are you?’

The figure smiled once more, and stepped backwards into the shadows, pulling her cowl over her face as she did so.

‘Oh, we are elves indeed,’ she said, her voice mocking and cold. ‘The rightful heirs of the Phoenix Throne and the masters of Ulthuan. As for the difference between us and those about whom you’ve heard so many lovely stories, it’s right behind you.’

Alberich turned, but too slowly. One of the shadowed figures had moved to his shoulder, and plunged a long, wickedly curved knife into his back. A spear of pain surged through Alberich’s body and he fell to the ground, clutching his wound. Stars swam before his eyes, and he felt both sick and faint.

‘We had an agreement…’ he gasped, seeing his dreams evaporate in horror. The figures in the shadows came closer, each holding a blade of varied design. Their faces were hidden, but Alberich thought he could see their eyes under the hoods, cold and glittering with anticipation.

The female elf laughed. It was a curiously beautiful sound.

‘You may finish him now,’ she said, addressing the figures around Alberich. ‘You deserve some sport after being caged for so long in this miserable place. Keep him alive for as long as it amuses you.’

Then she turned and retreated from the chamber. Alberich stared after her, his panic rising.

‘We had an agreement!’ he shouted again, his voice strangled and quavering in the darkness.

But then the knives rose, and the lantern was abruptly snuffed out. The braziers flared up, and the noise of screams filled the empty catacombs.

Alexander prodded his horse onwards idly as he rounded the last of the great rocky outcrops which stood between him and the observatory. After having to haggle with the college ostler for some time in order to obtain a horse from his beloved stables, and then going off course in the interminable marshes and spinneys north-west of Altdorf trying to find the road into the highland crags and moors of the upper Reikland, he had lost a lot of time. Already the sun was lowering in the western sky, and the shadows cast by the serrated peaks and ridges of the land around him were long and chill. A mournful wind blew from the north, rustling the thin tussocks of grass and sedge which lined the decrepit track he was following. A journey that should have been short and easy had become long and interminable. At least it was nearing its end. The observatory was situated along the valley of the Reik, far from the sprawling mass of Altdorf. It had been deliberately positioned high in the inhospitable scree and boulders of the Reik highlands by its Celestial architects, partly to gain better access to the wonders of the heavens, partly to deter visitors. In the half-light of dusk, the high cliffs of the forbidding land reared up around him. The untidy tangle of ash woods which had lined the lower reaches of the valley began to give way to even more straggly lines of gnarled pines and firs. It was gloomy country.

Tired and irritable, Alexander found himself cursing his magical cousins as the horse picked its way along the treacherous rocky path. Of all the wizards he had had dealings with, Celestials were not his favourite, with their endless dabbling in prophecy, telescopes and foolish superstition. Bright magic was so much more satisfying, with its concentration on honest, cleansing flame. As he rode, his thoughts of fire began to run away with him, and as the horse laboured up to the last ridge before the observatory, he imagined he could see flames licking the dark shapes of the rocks before him.

Screwing his eyes against the gloom, he tried to shake the illusion. But it was no mirage: something was on fire ahead. He kicked the horse into a canter, and peered ahead through the dusk light. With a sudden lurch in his stomach, he realised what was happening. The protuberant crag ahead of him was no random outcrop of granite: it was the observatory itself, perched high over a twisted column of jagged rocks as if poised to leap into the valley below. The flames had an odd look to them too: they were tinged with colours speaking of sorcery. With his wizard’s sense, Alexander could guess too much of their origin for comfort. They had all the hallmarks of dark magic. Something was terribly wrong, and the clash and fizz of sparks over the distant observatory summit indicated that whatever disturbance was taking place was still very much in progress.

With a spat curse, Alexander urged his mount into a sudden gallop, and whipped his staff roughly from the bindings on his back. He felt a rush of excitement and anxiety flood through his body in roughly equal measure. Using battle magic was something he loved, and with the flames licking into the sky so close by, he knew the Wind of Aqshy would be strong in such a place. But he was also aware of how isolated this observatory was, how far from any help he was, and that anything daring enough to attack a tower full of Imperial wizards was going to be no push-over.

As he neared the mighty crag, he gradually made out more detail against the backdrop of the looming night shadow. The observatory itself was a mighty orb of burnished copper far above the level of the road. A great telescope extended from it, ringed with iron bands and encrusted with cogs and other mechanical devices. Below the hemisphere of the telescope, the remainder of the observatory building extended down the column of rock in a typically ramshackle Imperial fashion, with arches, architraves, lintels, supporting walls and buttresses jutting from the natural granite in all directions. Tin-pot chimney stacks and complex pulley systems sprouted from the steep pitched roofs and plunging walls of several supporting buildings, many of which were now on fire or swaying lazily in the smoke. It looked as though the flames were concentrated at the very top of the observatory, and sparks were falling with some regularity from the copper dome towards the ground.

Alexander spurred the horse on harshly, and the ground between him and the observatory narrowed. As he neared his destination, he could increasingly make out sounds from within the narrow walls: explosions and blasts of some kind, the bellowing of voices raised in anger and desperation. As he careered around a dark pile of slag from the observatory’s forges, a flash of bright blue light escaping from the topmost chambers briefly lit up the sky. Alexander saw the scene before him clearly. The track he was following petered out before a churning pool of oily water which cascaded over the cliffs to his right and plunged down into the valley. A great millwheel was lodged under the shadow of the rocky column, but was now cracked and still. With a slightly sick feeling, Alexander noticed the bodies lying in the mud before him. Some wore the robes of Celestial wizards. Others were clad in dark raiment of indeterminate origin.

A rickety wooden bridge spanned the pool, after which the path climbed rapidly upwards in a spiral pattern along edges of the steep cliff walls of the lower observatory. Though some planks were missing or cracked, the bridge looked relatively intact. Alexander pulled his horse up and swiftly dismounted. The noise of crashing and roaring flames from above him seemed to be ebbing slightly. Whatever battle was going on above him was drawing to its conclusion. Cursing his earlier delays, Alexander sprinted across the bridge and began the long ascent to the topmost tower. The stone underfoot was perilous and slick with mud and water, but he went as fast as he was able. The Wind of Aqshy was indeed vigorous, and he felt his heart begin to race with anticipation. His staff hummed in his hands as if bursting with pent-up energy. Ignoring the narrow crumbling steps, he sped up the steep way and up into the building itself.

When he reached the outer portal of the observatory proper, he found the doors smashed and hanging off their iron hinges. The icon of the Celestial College hung limply from the keystone of the archway, defiled and blackened with scorch marks. From above, the sounds of battle, less and less frequent, echoed down towards him. With a muttered prayer to Taal, the ancient god of his countrymen in far-off Talabecland, he leapt over the two bodies slumped in the doorway and plunged into the gloom of the interior. Inside, only a few lamps remained lit. In the flickering darkness it was even harder to keep secure footing, but there was no time for caution. He raced up the twisting, tortuous stairwells, grimly following the sounds of explosion and incantation from above.

Alexander barely noticed the lines of brass machinery around him, the marvels of engineering and magic lining the walls of the baroque edifice which powered the arcane devices of the Celestial custodians. Most were twisted or blasted by fire, and some had obscene runes scrawled across them in a dark-red liquid. As he ascended, the prone bodies of defending wizards and those of the intruders multiplied. By the time he had finally ascended into the topmost turret, he had passed over a dozen of each. Carnage had come to the observatory, and the stone was stained deeply with blood. He felt his rage grow at the desecration, and a stray flicker of fire burst unbidden at the crown of his staff. He was nearing the summit.

With a cry of anger, Alexander burst from the stairwell into the dome at the top of the observatory. He only had a moment to take everything in. Flames leapt from the floor up the curving walls, and cast freakish dancing shadows across the space before him. The copper dome itself rose high into the evening air, but its lines were cracked and distorted. The telescope, a massive tube of brass and iron the width of two men, lay crooked on its heavy railings, surrounded by the blasted and scorched remnants of its guiding machinery. Priceless lenses and crystal prisms were strewn, smashed, across the floor amongst the other flotsam of destruction. The stink of dark magic filled the air, along with the sharp tang of ozone.

Bodies were everywhere, perhaps a dozen. Whoever had come to destroy the observatory had done so in force. Only a trio of wizards still stood. A lone Celestial wizard, her robes flapping wildly as the storm of wind and fire swept around her, stood before the splintered lens of the great telescope. Her staff shimmered with magic, but she was bloodied and near collapse. In between her and Alexander were two of the dark-robed figures, each holding a staff of their own. They were heavily cowled, and moved in strange, stilted patterns. Alerted by his war-cry on entering, they turned to face the new threat. Their movements were too slow. Clearly they had thought the battle nearly over.

Without pausing in his onward rush into the room, Alexander whirled his staff expertly around his head, feeling the throb of power amplify and augment along the singing length of charm-wound oak. With a mighty lunge, he hurled the tip of the shaft towards the nearest of the two interlopers. A ball of crimson fire burst from the staff and screamed across the space between them. It ballooned instantly into a vast, pulsating orb of dancing blood-red flame. With a strangled cry, the dark-robed intruder was hurled back against the metal of the dome, and the sound of cracking bone was added to the cacophony of fire around them.

Taking advantage of her assailants’ distraction, the Celestial wizard strode forward. A look of savage relief was on her face.

‘Azyr!’ she cried in a cracked and weary voice.

A streak of lightning, brilliant blue and crackling with energy, soared down through the breached roof and exploded into an incandescent aura around her staff and body. She was surrounded in a halo of flickering, elemental force. Alexander closed in on the lone surviving intruder. The body of the first attacker lay broken and smouldering amidst a pile of cogs and lifting gear. Seeing he was outnumbered, the sorcerer threw back his cowl and shot a look of hatred and defiance at the Imperial wizards. He was human, but strangely altered. His teeth were more like fangs, and his bald head was ringed with strange and unsettling tattoos. An iron spike protruded directly from his forehead, and his eyes burned with a baleful purple glow. A stream of guttural obscenities flowed from his lips, and a web of dark energy began to pool into being. He raised his twisted ebony staff, and the strands of pulsating matter formed into a claw shape over his head.

Alexander flicked a quick look at the Celestial wizard, who caught his expression and nodded with understanding. Together the two wizards lowered their staffs, and two streams of pure magic, one Bright, the other Celestial, streamed towards the sorcerer before them. Alexander felt the thrill of power once more as the Wind of Aqshy rushed through his body and poured from his staff, guided and brought into material being by his skill. Together, the two columns of elemental force smashed into the body of the sorcerer. The nascent claw twitched and shattered, and the sorcerer at the centre of the inferno staggered backwards. More searing blue light flooded from the staff of the Celestial wizard. Alexander responded by sending a stream of fiery bolts in their wake.

With a wailing cry, the sorcerer, overwhelmed by the twin assaults, dropped his staff and attempted to duck out of the path of the swirling magical forces. Scuttling with surprising speed, he shot along the floor like some kind of giant mutated spider, and made straight for the Celestial wizard. Her reactions were sluggish through fatigue. With a savage flick of his staff, Alexander flung a line of fire along the floor of the chamber straight across the path of the sorcerer. It caught on a ragged edge of cloak, and with preternatural speed kindled and spread. In a moment, the intruder was consumed by a clinging fire, as hot as dragon’s breath. He screamed in agony, and clawed at his robes frantically. The Celestial wizard recoiled, her strength failing. The light of her staff went out, and she stumbled wearily backwards. Paying no attention to the cries of his victim, Alexander quickly strode up to the writhing form of the sorcerer. He whispered the words of a final spell, and felt his body respond. Standing over the prone form before him, he let his staff glow white-hot.

‘The vengeance of Taal,’ Alexander breathed, and plunged the tip of the shimmering staff downwards.

With a flash of light and a final wail of hatred, defiance and fear, the sorcerer was impaled by the burning shaft. His body twitched and jerked for a moment, and then went limp. With a word from Alexander, the flames on the sorcerer’s robes extinguished. The traitor’s eyes flickered, and then lost their focus. The purple light faded from his pupils, and his body crumbled like ash in a grate.

Alexander looked down with contempt and distaste. A fallen wizard, the most hateful of the fates awaiting one of his kind. He took a deep breath, and let his staff return to its natural state. Slowly, feeling the effects of his summoning at last begin to weigh on him, he looked around the room.

‘Is he the last?’ he said to the Celestial wizard.

She had fallen heavily against the bole of the telescope, and cradled her left arm in her lap.

‘Yes,’ she said weakly. Her face was pale, and now that the magic was over Alexander knew she would be exhausted.

He raised his staff once more and began to chant in a low voice. As if they were dogs answering the command of a master of the hunt, the rampant flames around them began to damp down and gutter out. After a few moments, the inferno subsided completely and the stench of charred wood and melted metal began to fill the chamber. Curling strands of smoke rose into the air and stained the copper and brass of the ruined machinery further. The place was a mess.

‘It’s not safe here,’ said Alexander to the wizard. ‘Take my arm. This place could collapse at any moment.’

With much effort, she rose to her feet, and Alexander helped her down the narrow steps. Together they crept down the winding stairs and out of the smouldering edifice. They climbed down the rock path and headed towards an outhouse just below the entrance to the observatory. It was no mansion, but it was away from the danger and had a roof. Alexander helped the Celestial wizard inside. With a faint cry of pain, she crumpled into a dank corner and seemed to shrink within her robes. Alexander said nothing. He knew of the pain of withdrawal after an over-use of the magical arts. She might have been fighting for hours for all he knew.

He left the outhouse and made a quick search of the area. There was no sign of his horse, which must have been scared by the unnatural explosions and been driven off. After seeing no indication of fresh enemies, he gathered some cracked and splintered timber from the observatory and took it back to the outhouse. Now that the fires had gone out, the night was fast falling and the air was chill. He piled the fragments in the centre of the meagre room, and lit them with a whispered word. Soon the tumbledown space was at least warm. He then sat down himself opposite the Celestial wizard, and waited. There was no point in pressing her too soon. She stared into the flames, a look of desolation on her face. For a long time, the pair sat in silence.

‘So you’re the one we sent for,’ she said, at last. ‘I should at least have a name for the man who saved my life.’

‘Alexander Heisenherz, of Badau, Talabecland. And you?’

‘Greta Machholt. From here in the Reikland.’

Her voice was little more than a croak. Chiding himself for thoughtlessness, Alexander retrieved a gourd of ale from his belt and handed it to her. She drank thirstily.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alexander said. ‘I was delayed.’

Greta finished drinking and gave a wry smile.

‘If you’d been here, maybe you’d have died too. They came suddenly. Many of my colleagues were killed before we knew what was happening. One of our number, a snake called Neuman, had turned. He let them in while we were operating the Great Machine. We had no chance.’

Alexander looked grimly into the flickering fire.

‘What did they want?’ he asked.

‘We have discovered things,’ she said. ‘The Machine was working. There have been portents in the skies, signs of great wonder. They tell of flame…’

‘…and ruin, yes I know,’ interrupted Alexander. ‘We received your letter at the college. It was as vague as usual. Why would these sorcerers attack you for such knowledge? We all know a war is coming.’

The Celestial wizard shot him a look of irritation laced with scorn. Alexander regretted his sharpness instantly.

‘Do you think we would send news of any importance in a simple, uncoded letter?’ she said witheringly. ‘We know more than we can say openly, and guess more than that. But none of us could be spared to deliver our tidings in person, so we requested help. You were to have been our messenger. But we’ve waited too long. Clearly, news of our discoveries was leaked. Now all stands in ruins.’

Alexander looked over his shoulder, through a narrow glassless window and back towards the gently smoking summit of the observatory.

‘Really?’ he said, trying to sound positive. ‘Surely not. The observatory still stands. It can be repaired. At dawn, I’ll ride back to Altdorf. Your college can send more wizards, together with a proper guard this time. All is not lost.’

Greta let her head fall back wearily against the cold stone of the outhouse. She didn’t look reassured.

‘Of course it can be rebuilt,’ she said, bitterly. ‘But so much information has been lost. My colleagues, my master…’

Her voice cracked again, and she took a hasty swig from the gourd to hide her distress. Alexander looked down at the floor uncertainly. Anything he said now was unlikely to make things better.

After a few moments of awkward silence, the Celestial wizard seemed to recover her poise.

‘Forgive me,’ Greta said, her voice calm once more. ‘It has been a great shock, this attack, but such weakness is unworthy. We’ll repair the place again, just as you say. If you’d not come when you did, there would be nothing but ash and ruin here. You’ve saved the observatory, and my life. It seems unfair to ask more of you than this, but I must.’

Alexander, who had been somewhat reassured by her words, felt his heart sink at the last sentence.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, suspiciously.

Greta rummaged in her robes for a moment, and pulled a brass object from within them. It was wound about with leather, and looked like an elaborate flask of some sort.

‘Not all our researches have perished. We’ve had tidings of great treachery in the north. You know that war is coming. The signs of that are as plain as the morning star. But with our instruments we have been able to probe the heavens for clues and fragments of prophecy. It’s difficult work, and Morrslieb clouds our efforts. But some things are clear to us. We have written our findings down. They are contained in scrolls within this vessel, written in an Imperial battle cipher. You must take them to the proper recipient. Time is short. If we wish to salvage something from this disaster, then you must act now.’

Greta’s face wore an urgent, pleading look. Alexander struggled to take the information in. This was unexpected, and the unexpected was always unwelcome. In a world full of tricks and treachery, taking the word of another at face value was a fool’s habit.

‘Slow down,’ Alexander said, throwing another log on to the fire. ‘Who is this recipient? And what’s written in the scrolls?’

The Celestial wizard sighed impatiently.

‘I will tell you all I know, but there is much that remains unclear,’ she said. ‘To the north of Altdorf lies the estate of the Lord Heinrich. He has been charged with the defence of the swathe of land which covers the approaches to the city. With so many Imperial forces engaged across such a vast area of territory elsewhere, his defence is a crucial link in the ring of steel which surrounds the heart of the Empire. He has been battling against plague and mutiny to raise an army with which to resist the storm we all expect. It’s not been easy, but he is a man of uncommon determination. And yet we fear for him. All our portents tell of treachery. What form it will take, we cannot precisely say. But he must be forewarned. There is an alliance between him and the other magnates of the northern Reikland. It may be that one of them is the traitor, or that the blackheart lies within his own court.

‘In any case, he must tread carefully. The plans for the alliance must be changed, for the enemy knows of them. Our discovery of this plan is surely the reason for our destruction, for the Master of Change is subtle and vengeful. Even here, within a day’s ride of the Imperial Palace, our efforts are open to attack. Lord Heinrich must be warned. If we had not been discovered, we would have sent messengers of our own. But now there is only you and me. I must stay to guard the observatory and send for help. You must take the scroll.’

Alexander felt his spirits slump. A ride through bandit and plague-infested country into the heart of incoming battle was not something to be savoured. He stared moodily into the fire, trying to digest what he was being told and find a flaw in the Celestial wizard’s reasoning.

‘Would it not be better to take this to Altdorf?’ he said, looking distastefully at the slim brass vessel in her hands.

Greta shook her head.

‘Time is short, Bright wizard,’ she said. ‘Altdorf is a nest of snakes, and we sense treachery there too. The message must be taken to Heinrich.’

Alexander suddenly felt the cool presence of the Griffon pendant against his chest. Sourly, he recalled his inauguration in the Bright College. Greta coughed uncomfortably, and shifted against the stone.

‘I can sense your uncertainty,’ she said. ‘Put it aside. There are more forces in the world other than those of the Dark Gods. You were meant to come here. Blessed Sigmar has no doubt ordained it. He preserves His people.’

Alexander shrugged. He had no especial love for Sigmar or for his fanatical temple, but it was wise not to let such views slip out in the current fevered climate.

‘That He does,’ he said in a non-committal tone. ‘And it’s no good arguing with a god.’

Greta nodded sagely, apparently missing the irony. Alexander sighed, and pulled his ramshackle cloak more tightly over his shoulders.

‘Well, I’m not going anywhere tonight,’ he said, feeling the weariness of a long day catch up with him. ‘My horse has disappeared, and these mountains are treacherous at night. We’ll talk again in the morning. Until then, we both need some sleep. I’ll keep watch for a while, and wake you when I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. Try to get some rest.’

Greta opened her mouth, clearly about to protest, but then evidently thought better of it. The fatigue was palpable about her eyes and in her slumped shoulders.

‘Very well, Alexander. We’ll discuss this again in the morning.’

With that, the Celestial wizard nestled into the corner of the rough outhouse, and curled up amidst her tattered and bloodstained robes. Within just a few moments, she had slipped into an exhausted slumber. The brass vessel was cradled close to her bosom, and even in sleep her fingers were wound about it tightly. Alexander looked dispassionately at it in the flickering shadows. It had a malignant air.

He stood up stiffly, and piled more wood on to the fire. The flames rose higher, and something of the chill of the night was eased. He opened the shaky wooden door, and walked around the outhouse for a little while, letting the ache in his joints subside. The stars were out, and the moon rode high in the night sky. In the west, the sickly glow of Morrslieb blighted the horizon, and lent the shadows of the trees an unhealthy lustre. He shuddered slightly, both against the growing cold and the baleful presence of the moon of Chaos. After a cursory look around to check for anything untoward, he stalked back to the relative comfort of the outhouse and closed the door behind him.

As he went, he failed to notice the presence hidden in the inky shadow of the millwheel. Only when the door had been shut once more and silence resumed did the hidden ragged shape begin its tortuous progress once more, wheezing and hissing, dragging its broken body along the ground and down towards the valley. It had come from the observatory. Its clothes were ragged, burned and bloodstained. In the darkness, its eyes still glittered with a determined hatred. Not all the attackers had been destroyed.

With each agonising pull, it moved further away from the observatory, and nearer to Altdorf.

CHAPTER FOUR

The elven hawkship Asuryan’s Might surged through the rising swell. Night had fallen, and the silver sheen of the moon over the waves had once more been spoilt by the lurid glare of the accursed Chaos orb travelling in its wake. The Archmage Artheris stood at the highest point of the prow, feeling the salt air run through her long tresses, taking some enjoyment from the cold air after a long confinement below. But her pleasure was tinged with the constant awareness of the contagion around her. Even so far from the shores of the Old World, the blight of dark magic was apparent to her. It was just as Teclis had warned her. A power had been unleashed which had corrupted the very fabric of the world. Everywhere she looked, the veneer of corruption was present. Whatever force had been let loose in the far north, it was one of formidable power.

She stood close against the graceful curves of the ship’s bow, resting a slender hand on the polished white wood. Her long robes rose and fell in the play of the wind, streaming out behind her and flecked with foam. Unlike many of her kind, she eschewed the liberal embroidery of runes and glyphs on her raiment, and her bone-white cloak was entirely blank. For those not schooled in the ways of magic, she projected a rather unassuming aura. Though tall, she was slightly built and seemingly frail. Only one tuned to the unseen currents of the winds of magic would have sensed the enormous latent power in her fingers. To a fellow magician, Artheris’s might would have been as evident as the morning sun blazing through clouds of mist. Only when she consciously chose to hide it was her nature hidden. Out in the open sea and surrounded by warriors of Ulthuan, she could let her guard down. It was some comfort against the sapping influence of the Chaos moon to remind herself of her long training, her subtle skills, and her true nature.

‘My lady archmage,’ came a low voice behind her.

Artheris turned and saw Morgil standing patiently below her on the deck. She had heard nothing of his coming. That was no surprise, given his peculiar skills. In the deep shadows of the deck behind him, Khera lay alone, her deep and mournful eyes trained unerringly upon her.

Artheris smiled, and stepped down to greet her White Lion bodyguard. In the lee of the hull once more, her cloak settled gracefully about her, and she pushed her long hair back from her face.

‘Morgil,’ she said lightly. ‘What brings you here?’

The White Lion looked slightly embarrassed.

‘The captain,’ he said. ‘A storm is coming, and he fears for your safety. He asks if you’ll consider coming below.’

Artheris laughed lightly, and turned back to scan the eastern horizon. There were clouds built-up against the dark water and the faint aroma of rain in the salty air.

‘I’m sure he’s right,’ she said in an amused voice. ‘If he lost his archmage over the side, his command would go down with her. Thank him for his concern, will you?’

Morgil bowed, but did not hurry to leave.

‘The man worries too much,’ he said flatly. ‘Caution has dogged us throughout this voyage. I’d welcome more speed and less care.’

At his feet, Khera growled in approval. The massive lioness was uncomfortable at sea, and during the day was in the habit of pacing up and down the narrow decks in frustration. The bond she shared with Morgil was uncannily close. Artheris suppressed the urge to reach down and caress the beautiful ivory fur which framed her majestic head. Archmage or not, such effrontery was liable to lose her a hand. She went over to a low bench alongside the curving railing of the ship’s edge and sat down.

‘Remember my warning to you, White Lion,’ she said, regarding him with both fondness and admonishment. ‘Your desire for the battle commends you, but your weakness is haste. The emotions are a useful tool, but they can also lead to ruin.’

Morgil bowed.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve long since learned to live with the consequences of my mistakes. But this slow progress frustrates me. We can’t do anything while at sea. Every day that passes increases the strength of our enemies.’

Artheris looked out over the moonlit waves. The other ships of the flotilla laboured to keep up with the flagship. Across the vast expanse of the ocean they looked small and isolated. Once again she found herself questioning the decision to send an advance force ahead of the main host. She knew her master Teclis feared an attack on Ulthuan, but the humans would be disappointed when she arrived with less than the mighty legions they might have hoped for. Surely Finubar would relent and come himself soon. She hoped it would be so.

Artheris put such thoughts to one side and turned her attention back to Morgil. Like Khera, he looked unhappy at being caged. The warriors of Chrace were not natural seafarers. Their skills were more usefully employed on land, where their peerless tracking skills could be put to deadly purpose.

‘The power of Chaos in this place is strong,’ she said. ‘While the Sariour na Yenlui is risen, all of our efforts are diminished. The captain knows what he’s doing, and makes what speed he can. I can feel the elements ranged against us just as he does, and even my power is dimmed.’

Morgil frowned, and looked up at the sickening sheen of the moon on the water.

‘What power of earth can turn even the heavens against their nature?’ he said.

Artheris inclined her head sadly.

‘One which waxes and wanes,’ she said. ‘We live in a time when the power of the Dark Gods is strong. Should we pass this test, there will be a time when their powers will fade again. That is what we must fight for. The hope of a change.’

Morgil went over to Khera, and ran his fingers through her long coat. The lioness growled with pleasure, a long, low, rumbling noise that seemed to seep into the wood of the deck like oil.

‘I hope you’re right,’ Morgil said. ‘In my lifetime, the power of Chaos has never seemed weak. ‘

Artheris looked at him indulgently.

‘You’re young, White Lion,’ she said. ‘When you’ve lived as long as I, the pattern of the world will be more apparent to you. Learn to trust in Asuryan and his hidden path, and you will be comforted.’

Despite the certainty in her voice, Artheris found that she didn’t really believe her own words. Morgil would never lose his restless energy. That was not his way, and he would be weaker for any change. Nor did she really believe her words about the power of Chaos. As a mage of rare power and insight, she knew better than most others the true paradox at the heart of the world: that all magic flowed from the corruption they fought against, and that unless some force beyond the knowledge of the asur were to intervene, the victory of the daemonic hordes could only ever be postponed, never avoided. Age had given her some capacity to live on in the face of such terrible insight, but the bitterness in her heart had never quite abated.

‘I’ll try, my lady,’ said Morgil dutifully, but she could hear that his heart was not in it. He would only be happy once the battle had been taken to the enemy and his axe was employed in the purpose for which it had been forged.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Artheris. ‘My heart tells me there will be unexpected trials before we can set sail for the homeland again. Even with the future so clouded and uncertain, the hand of our dark kin is clear in all that faces us. Don’t be surprised if we meet them in the Old World. Their reach has grown even while ours diminishes, and they are more bold than we have ever been.’

At the mention of the druchii, a fresh shadow passed across Morgil’s face. He made no reply, but Artheris could sense the torment within him. His hatred of those who had ravaged his ancestral home went beyond all bounds. All asur had suffered during the endless druchii raids on Ulthuan, but there was a darkness in Morgil’s past she had never delved into fully. She knew it had been the cause of his previous downfall. With the clear certainty of her kind, Artheris could foresee the same happening again. As painful as it was, he must be made aware.

‘Listen to me, White Lion,’ she said, a faint timbre of warning in her voice. ‘I will need you. Treachery will be all around us, and my powers will be under attack from the moment my feet touch the tainted earth ahead. Whatever happens, you must remain the master of yourself. If your emotions pull you from your duty, even I cannot guarantee to save you a second time.’

Morgil looked directly back at her, a proud flame of defiance flickering in his eyes.

‘I am your servant, my lady,’ he said.

Artheris sensed his conviction, the desire to prove himself to her, but his demeanour gave her no comfort. She sighed, and looked back over the churning waves. The clouds were growing nearer, the sea more violent.

‘Tell the captain I will go below in a few moments. He needn’t fear for losing his precious cargo.’

Morgil bowed again, and stalked back to the rear of the vessel to pass on the message. As ever, Khera rose and went by his side, leaving the archmage alone once more. She looked down at her hands, pale and insubstantial-looking in the darkness. Would they be enough, those hands? When the time came, would they remember the right things to do? Only time would tell. She averted her gaze from them, troubled by her doubts. The pitch of the great ship became more pronounced. They were heading into stormy waters, and there was no way back.

Alexander rode his horse hard, feeling foolish. Greta had been persuasive. Perhaps too persuasive. He generally thought of himself as immune from magical forms of argument, but maybe his guard had been low. In any case, it was his own fault. If he had been sensible, he would have been back in Altdorf by now, nodding sympathetically to the Celestial Patriarch about the loss of the observatory. As it was, he was just getting deeper into the mire.

It hadn’t helped that the wretched horse had returned by the morning. Given the number of bandits and plague mutants roaming in the dark forests of the Empire, the beast had absolutely no right to have survived. But somehow it had, and its miraculous safe recovery had effectively settled the argument in the Celestial wizard’s favour. Alexander took a little pleasure from kicking it harder than normal. He only had the dimmest of ideas where Lord Heinrich’s lands were, but if they were as large as he had been told, then if he kept going long enough he was bound to stumble across them. With any luck, he would be able to hand over the scrolls and get back to civilisation as quickly as possible.

He had made good progress northwards once he had negotiated the tricky descent from the highlands. The craggy peaks and winding, stony trails had gradually given way to the bleak expanses of the northerly fen country with its vast areas of reedy marshland. Alexander had skirted the worst of the ceaseless mud, and was now back on firmer ground. All around him the trees were beginning to cluster thickly, and he was soon back in the dark forested paths which so typified the central regions of the sprawling Empire.

As Alexander rode, his mind began to wander. If the Celestial Observatory could be attacked, then there were very few safe places left in the Empire. The poor souls living in the utter north were used to constant raids, of course, but it was rare for a significant force to penetrate so far south. If a band of sorcerers could travel so far without detection and storm an outpost of an Imperial College with such impunity, then things were really bad. Maybe Gorman was right, and the coming war was something to be worried about.

He didn’t notice the rope slung across the path until far too late. When the cord finally impinged on his senses, he pulled frantically at the reins, but the horse merely stumbled and veered to the left. Alexander hit it hard and was thrown heavily from the saddle. In an instant, he was surrounded by figures from the trees. He could see one go over to the horse and pull it to one side, while others crowded around him. Who were they? Brigands? At least they were human. There were none of the symptoms of the plague, which was a relief.

One of the men, perhaps the leader, leaned over him. He had a crude knife drawn, and bore the stench of one who had lived in the forest for some time. His round, unshaven face smiled.

‘What do we have here?’ he leered, looking greedily at the ring on Alexander’s finger and the glitter of the chain around his neck. ‘A spellcaster? Foolish, to ride alone.’

Alexander’s wits were beginning to return, and his vision cleared. His staff had been strapped to his back, and he could feel it pressing against him uncomfortably. That was good. It always made it easier having a staff around.

‘Not as foolish as trying to rob a wizard, peasant,’ spat Alexander irritably, and grabbed the tip of the wooden shaft where it protruded from over his shoulder. A simple casting buffeted the surprised bandit backwards a few feet, and then Alexander was on his feet, eyes blazing, whirling the staff in practiced hands around him. The brigands, not used to such resistance, looked momentarily undecided. Their leader, evidently embarrassed by the ease with which Alexander had knocked him backwards, drew a long sword from a rusty scabbard and looked at him with a hateful expression.

‘He’s only one!’ he yelled. ‘C’mon lads – there’ll be trinkets in here for Schulmann once his throat is cut!’

The motley band brandished an eclectic array of weapons, but some seemed much more up for a fight than others. The leader rushed at him, as did a couple of his braver-looking men. One had a vicious-looking cleaver, the other an axe which looked more suited to chopping logs than men. Almost wearily, Alexander let the Wind of Aqshy flow down his fingers to the staff, and braced himself for impact. He was far from his best, and the dank forests were a poor place for a Bright wizard to cast, but the ragged bunch before him were of little consequence.

With a flick of his staff, three bolts of curling flame shot towards the nearest brigands. The leader was hit squarely in the chest and thrown to the ground. The cleaver-wielder was hit as well. He stumbled to the ground clutching his face in agony. The axe-man got through, but was a clumsy adversary. He swung his weapon in a hay-making lunge, which Alexander casually ducked under. The wizard thrust his staff expertly at the large man’s leading knee, and the iron-tip of the shaft rebounded satisfyingly against the bone. With a twist of his wrist, Alexander conjured up a flurry of sparks, and blew them lovingly into the man’s face. The brigand staggered backward, clawing at his eyes, slapping and squealing where the pinpricks of heat tormented him.

Alexander looked up. The remainder of the band were hanging back, uncertain whether or not to come to their companions’ aid. There were a dozen of them, and if they all came at once Alexander might be pressed. It was time to end the charade. He recited a brief spell, and focussed the residual currents of magic into a single point. With a roar and a rush, a column of fire rose from his staff and kindled quickly across his whole body. Revelling in the surge of power and heat, he fuelled the spell with a couple of whispered words. The flames rose higher, streaming from his fingertips, eyes and mouth. Alexander took a step forward, and the men before him retreated warily.

‘Fools!’ he cried. His voice had changed, and resonated with echoing layers of magic. ‘You’ve snared a foe beyond your power! Flee now!’

His fiery display and booming voice settled the matter. The men at the rear, faces white, scampered back into the undergrowth. Bereft of those behind him, the leader could only snarl a toothless expletive, and join the rout into the trees.

Alexander laughed with genuine enjoyment, and sent a few minor bolts of crimson flame flying over their retreating heads. After a few moments, he let the flames around him subside, and felt the ebb of the wild magic in his veins. Rubbing his sore back where he had landed on his staff, he walked back over to his horse. Smiling to himself at the ease of his escape, he remounted. The brigands had gone, seemingly absorbed into the forest once more like water running to parched earth. Apart from the rope still slung between the trees and a few scorched patches of earth, there was little to suggest the fracas had taken place at all.

Alexander let his shoulders relax and strapped his staff back into place. The horse stamped and shivered a little, but looked as calm and untroubled by the whole business as ever. Clearly it was getting used to being ridden into trouble. Alexander cast a cursory look over the various bags and packs tied to the saddle, hoping that they hadn’t been disturbed too much. Only one seemed to have been taken. His food and gourds of ale were still there, which was a relief. But then the awful truth hit him. The missing bag was the one which had contained the scrolls. With an icy feeling in his stomach, he quickly looked around him. The endless trees looked back silently. There was no telling where they had gone.

Furious with himself, he kicked his horse into a gallop. Only a day into his journey, and already he had ruined it. He uttered a string of foul-mouthed expletives, and goaded the horse roughly in the vague direction of the fleeing bandits. This was a disaster, and the only way to remedy it was to find the wretched peasants again, get back the scrolls, and burn that leering horse-thief alive where he stood.

Kalia Uthorin made her way sure-footedly through the winding tunnels of the under-city. Unlike some of her more pampered companions, she had no qualms about her long stay in the stinking bowels of the city of the humans. Her assignment was an opportunity to prove her skills to those with the right kind of influence. Her long training as a Disciple of Khaine had only recently concluded in Naggaroth, but already her kill tally was satisfactorily high. Though her studied air of nonchalance hid it, her ambition was as fierce as any of her house. The mission in the Elthin Arvan, which its ignorant human inhabitants were in the habit of calling the Old World, was merely a stepping stone. One day she would take her place beside the lords of her House, and then the killing would start in earnest.

As Kalia travelled, her dark cloak clung to her limbs tightly. Her lithe body took up as little space as possible. She was a compact and efficient athlete, the perfect stock for the ranks of the Disciples. Under her nightshade-blue outer garments were cunningly-wrought plates of dark armour, as light as they were strong. She carried no weapon openly, but beneath her robes on either thigh was strapped a long, cruelly-twisted knife, ready to be whipped out and deployed in the blink of a terrified eye. She was a predator of the highest order, moving surely and confidently in her temporary realm of shadows.

As she went, Kalia prepared herself for the meeting. Her contact, Malek Arkaneth, was known to her from long before her current assignment. She thought little of him. He was vain, egotistical and sadistic. Such qualities were hardly unique amongst her kin, but in the usual run of things they were at least allied with some sense of martial pride or a modicum of political artifice. Malek had no obvious redeeming features. He was a parasite, a miserable stain on the honour of the druchii. Working with him was one of the many trials she chose to endure with stoic restraint.

Of course, there was the matter of self-preservation as well. Despite his many failings, he was a sorcerer of significant power, and Kalia suspected he used his arts to receive information from Naggaroth far quicker than she was able to. That made him dangerous, and there was no point in making an enemy too quickly. There were always plots afoot. The key was to remain faster and more ruthless than those on your trail. On that score Kalia had no qualms at all. Her skills were only matched by her confidence in them.

She passed quickly along a crumbling, low-ceilinged sewer, leaping lightly from one half-submerged block of stone to another. The Disciple needed no torch to light her way, for her heavily-dilated pupils were bred to darkness. Ahead, the stone roof rose slightly and the walls parted to reveal a broad chamber. What this place had been in the distant past was hard to make out. Perhaps the house of some long-dead nobleman. Its opulence had faded centuries ago and its proud walls had become smeared in the grime and filth of Altdorf’s lower levels. Malek had clearly done what he could to restore a hint of civilisation to the wretched human construction, but his efforts had a half-hearted look about them. He clearly had no plans to remain skulking in the underworld longer than he needed to.

As Kalia passed into the open space, her eyes adjusted quickly. Smoky lamps threw a dirty orange light over the flagstones of the chamber floor and stained the roof further with a noxious black patina. She was entering Malek’s domain, and went with the appropriate caution. Knowing her movements were being watched, she passed under the high vaulted roof with a suitably respectful slowness and stood patiently. From ahead of her, where the chamber dissolved into a maze of dingy rooms and half-blocked corridors, the noise of a human woman squealing could be faintly made out. Kalia smiled. Perhaps her arrival was not as closely observed as she had feared. She relaxed a little, and took the rolls of parchment from a pocket in her cloak. Malek would no doubt want proof that her plans had a solid basis.

After a few moments, the muffled cries of distress died away. Malek emerged from behind a heavy hanging tapestry. He had a long graze along one cheek and a slightly bruised forehead, but looked entirely unembarrassed.

‘Feisty,’ he said to himself, rubbing his forehead absently. He paid Kalia no attention at all. ‘A shame, in a way. The human creatures expire so quickly, but they do occasionally have spirit.’

Kalia restrained herself from giving the sorcerer a look of cold disdain. Torturing humans was entirely understandable – they deserved it – but allowing oneself to be wounded by one of them was a shameful lapse.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said in a neutral tone.

Malek gave her an obsequious smile. He was taller than her, and the fall of his robes indicated that he had not looked after himself as well as he should have. While his physique was much trimmer than the average human, to her sure eye it looked as though he had put on weight. He would have to lose it again before he went back to Naggarond, or what little prestige he held outside House Arkaneth would disappear entirely.

Malek went over to a low carved antique table, incongruously placed amidst the bare stone, and took up a crystal decanter containing ruby-red liquid. He drew an appreciative sip, and offered her a goblet. She declined with a shake of her head, and he smiled condescendingly.

‘You really should learn to enjoy yourself more while you’re here, my dear,’ Malek said, looking at her with undisguised and rather creepy attraction. ‘The humans may be brutes, but they have some interesting habits. I’m becoming quite fond of this wine, despite the crudeness of its manufacture.’

Kalia ignored his patronising tone, and amused herself by imagining lacing his glass with agony-wort. One day the fantasy might even come true.

Malek sat down opposite her in another expensive and elaborate piece of human furniture. His lair was becoming a magpie’s nest of artefacts looted from the streets above. Kalia sat opposite him, keeping one hand close to her hidden knives at all times. From birth, the possibility of treachery from her own kind had been drummed into her psyche. Malek took another sip of the vile-looking wine, and gave her a friendly look.

‘So, what’s so important that you wished to see me?’ he said languidly.

‘We know that the fool Finubar has responded to the humans’ request for aid,’ said Kalia in a business-like tone. ‘Our spies indicate an advance force will be in Altdorf very soon. Our orders are to do as much as possible to frustrate the asur when they get here. We must sow discord between them and their human hosts. The latter should not prove difficult. We have already been circulating rumours about the sorcery and untrustworthiness of elves. Such tales are eagerly devoured by the rabble here, who have no knowledge of that which they prattle about.’

Malek nodded absently, looking as if his mind was on other things.

‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Anything more concrete?’

Kalia passed him the rolls of parchment.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘One of my agents came across these. They’re arrangements for the hosting of the asur commander, an archmage named Artheris. They’re not complete, but they indicate some of the routes she will take between the embassy and the Imperial Palace, as well as the times of scheduled meetings with the Emperor. With these in our possession, we can plan a strike directly at the heart of their preparations. You can imagine the glory we would accrue by killing the leader of the asur forces before the army has even left the capital. My warriors have already begun scouting out suitable locations for an ambush. It’s not easy operating in the open, but my people know their business and are discreet.’

Malek digested her words carefully, looking through the leaves of parchment with a renewed interest. Kalia could see the conflict of emotion within him. Part of him saw the great opportunity to deal a devastating blow to the hated enemy. The other half no doubt worried about the prestige Kalia would garner from the operation, and how he might muscle in on it.

‘Interesting,’ he said thoughtfully, keeping the tone of his voice light. ‘It’s a tempting proposition. But she’ll be well guarded, and an archmage is a powerful adversary.’

Once more, Kalia had to resist shooting him a contemptuous glance.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It won’t be easy. But if we plan correctly, we’ll have the element of surprise. In addition, she’ll be weary from the voyage. The Chaos moon is riding high in the heavens, which will damp her powers. On the battlefield, we’d struggle to even get near such a figurehead, but on the crowded streets of this festering place, we may never get a better chance.’

Malek nodded to himself, clearly turning the idea over in his scheming mind.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You may be right. But the thing must be planned with the utmost precision. The asur don’t let their leaders blunder into obvious traps. And you’ll need me alongside you. I don’t question your particular skills, but you’ll need a true sorcerer if you hope to snare this archmage. Fortunately, the Chaos moon has a rather different effect on my own abilities.’

Kalia inclined her head modestly, keeping her irritation at his arrogance suppressed. Malek was right. If the operation were to have any chance of success, then he would need to be involved. Much as it pained her to admit it, there was no hope of her killing the archmage without his help. The matter would have to be handled carefully, however. If it ended in failure, then Malek would have to be manoeuvred into taking the blame. If they succeeded, then Kalia would have to figure out a way to ensure that House Uthorin gained the credit. And there was also the small matter of ensuring at least she emerged from the mission alive.

‘Your assistance will be most welcome,’ Kalia said. ‘I’ve taken copies of the parchments, so you may keep these. How many warriors can you release for this?’

‘There are so few of us,’ said Malek. ‘I could release two dozen of my most capable warriors, no more. The rest are needed for other assignments. In any case, success in this will come from stealth rather than numbers.’

Kalia pursed her lips.

‘I have more under my command,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to tread carefully. Time is short, and there’ll be no room for error.’

Kalia rose in order to take her leave, and bowed to the sorcerer, who remained seated.

‘Very well,’ said Malek, crossing his legs and sitting back in the chair. ‘Meet me here again when you have something to propose. Once all is placed in order, I’ll assume command of our forces. I am, after all, the senior commander here.’

Kalia smiled.

‘Of course,’ she said, hiding the hatred welling within her. ‘I’ll come back when I can.’

With that, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly back into the low light of the tunnels. Her last glimpse of Malek was of the sorcerer wearing a smug look of satisfaction. On the long journey back to her own chambers, Kalia amused herself by conjuring more and more painful ways to wipe the grin off his fattening face. One thing she knew for certain. If nothing else was achieved before she left for Naggaroth again, Malek would be dead at her hand.

CHAPTER FIVE

Emil Schulmann sat back in his makeshift seat, and pondered the news. After weeks dragging his men through the interminable forests of the Reikwald, he was tired. The troops were too. Outside Emil’s ragged tent, his rebel army rested fitfully in the camp. It was a rare moment of respite for them. The swollen ranks of the disaffected, now several hundred strong, had grown too big to hide easily. A decisive confrontation was surely not far away. In the meantime, marshalling such a large contingent of idealists, mercenaries, low-lives, fanatics and thrill-seekers was an enervating business.

Emil sighed, trying to get his thoughts in order. He was a heavy, thick-set man with a round face and earthy features. Behind his rustic appearance, however, lay an acute mind, one which had brought the plans for rebellion to fruition and now executed them with considerable skill. Such acumen was needed, for the bastard Heinrich, the one who had driven him to this, commanded extensive forces and they were being uncannily well led. Only time would tell whether they were truly beatable. Any piece of information was valuable, but he couldn’t quite decide whether this new development was welcome or not.

The captain of the patrol, a former blacksmith named Hans Kemmering whom Emil neither liked nor trusted, completed his report. Kemmering walked with some difficulty, and looked from his wheezing breath as if he had cracked a rib. Two of his men had appalling burns on their faces, which certainly lent some credence to his story. Emil turned the parchment over in his calloused fingers and pondered the news.

‘And this wizard,’ he said. ‘You’re sure he’s dead?’

Kemmering grinned with satisfaction.

‘Aye, captain,’ he said, a little too quickly. ‘He had some tricks, but we soon saw through ’em. He couldn’t get those spells out once we’d given him a few blows over the head. They’re mysterious folk, to be sure, but no match for honest sons of the earth.’

Some of Kemmering’s men looked at the ground at that point, which told Emil all he needed to know.

‘Odd,’ Emil said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘Odd that you left him where you killed him, and only took this one bag from him. I’d have thought you’d have searched the body more thoroughly. And we could do with an extra horse.’

Kemmering scowled despite himself. Emil knew that being made to look a fool was his greatest fear.

‘The horse ran off, and this was the only thing of value he carried,’ the man mumbled unconvincingly. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

Emil sighed. No point in pressing him. No matter what had transpired in the woods, the scrolls looked like they were worth something, and it would be foolish to show Kemmering up further in front of his men. Emil doubted they had really killed the wizard, but the patrol had somehow managed to steal the bag with the parchment and elude capture afterwards, which was no mean feat. The men would no doubt be after something for their efforts, but there was nothing much he could give them. Only promises of a better life, which after several weeks in the forest were beginning to wear thin.

‘I am, Herr Kemmering,’ said Emil wearily. ‘Very pleased. Give me some time to study these, and I’ll let you know how valuable they are. I’m sure we’ll be able to sort something out, although you know how difficult things are right now.’

Looking disappointed, the blacksmith nodded and reluctantly left for his own shelter. As he went, Emil heard him muttering discontentedly to one of his band. Emil turned to the old man sitting beside him. They both sat in the rough tent of dirty canvas stretched between two rotting tree trunks. Hardly the ideal place to try and orchestrate his campaign, but there was precious little by way of an alternative.

‘What do you think, Friedrich?’ Emil said to his companion, passing him the scrolls.

The man looked at them for a few moments, carefully turning the sheets in his hands.

‘I can’t read this script,’ Friedrich said at last. ‘It’s nonsense. If there’s a message here, it’s been encoded.’

Emil sighed, and looked at his chief adviser with frustration. Friedrich had been Heinrich’s chancellor before joining the rebellion. The old man had been instrumental in making the uprising possible, and knew the ways of the Imperial household like no other. If he couldn’t decipher the message in the scrolls then no one else in his entourage was likely to be able to.

‘Then it’s useless,’ said Emil, bitterly.

Friedrich shrugged.

‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Anything placed in a cipher has been done so for a reason. The information would no doubt be of use to us if only we could break the code. We receive more converts to the rebellion every day, and if only one of them knows Imperial battle codes, then we’re in luck. We should keep these in a safe place. Our cause is just, and Sigmar is watching over us.’

Emil smiled at the old man’s faith, which he struggled to share.

‘Very well. We’ll bide our time.’

He made to say something else, but then there was a sudden commotion from outside the tent. Immediately Emil jumped to his feet, grabbing his sword, and pushed through the tent entrance. The camp outside looked bedraggled and disorganised. Towards the perimeter of trees, there were makeshift barricades. There were a few more tents dotted around, but most of his troops slept in the open. The entire place looked ramshackle. In their tiredness, the men had become sloppy. But there was something else. The army, hundreds strong, was in a state of flux. Soldiers were running towards the camp edge in ragged groups.

It didn’t take long to see the cause of the confusion. They were under attack again. The clearing was being assailed from all sides by the sickening plague creatures. All around him, Emil’s men were frantically reaching for their weapons and rushing to repel the intruders. Without a moment’s pause, Emil charged across the clearing towards the forest edge. He flung himself straight into the fighting. Men nearby began to cluster around him.

As Emil immersed himself into combat, a frustrated anger rose within him. What had happened to the sentries? Why could they be taken by surprise in such a way? It wasn’t good enough. When this was over, he would need to get far tougher with the men. Emil’s sword was soon stained with the dark blood of the disgusting mutants. He barged his way through a cluster of them, pushing them back into the trees. On either side of him, rebel soldiers hacked and slashed against the pale, putrid flesh of the plague beasts.

The twisted and deformed creatures, bereft of any proper guiding will, blundered stupidly into the path of swords and axes. Their single purpose seemed to be to drag the living down to their level and feast on the warm flesh which they had once shared. Only their numbers and their sheer implacable single-mindedness made them a real threat, but every so often a gurgled scream from the sprawling compound told Emil that one of his men had succumbed to the remorseless tide. He stabbed and thrust with renewed vigour, using his massive strength to tear the twisted and deformed limbs from the creatures in his path. They never took a step back or retreated, and only in death did their attack halt. Emil knew from bitter experience that the camp defenders could not cease until all of them had been dispatched.

Gradually, painfully, the tide began to turn. They pushed the foul beasts back. The attack faltered. More soldiers rushed into the battle. The plague creatures were driven towards the trees once more. Emil finished off the gibbering wretch before him with a savage swipe. He took a step back, letting those around him finish off the grim business, and took a quick look around the camp. The clearing was secure again. Emil watched his men fight with a grim sense of satisfaction. He could take no pleasure in it, though. The attack should never have happened without more warning, and having to slay his erstwhile countrymen sickened his heart.

Eventually, the noises of combat ceased. The invading creatures lay in piles of seeping flesh, their blood staining the dark earth black. Only a few remained on their feet, and his men were rapidly finishing them off. But a toll had been taken. Perhaps a dozen of his troops lay still on the ground, and many more had withdrawn from the perimeter with savage wounds. The frequency of the attacks was growing. The forest was no longer safe for them.

Emil barked orders to the men around him to mop up the stragglers, and withdrew from the camp edge. His mood had become black. Friedrich came up to him, a look of concern on his face.

‘We can’t stay here much longer, captain,’ he said, looking at the carnage around him with disgust.

‘Aye,’ said Emil, replacing his sword in its scabbard and wiping his brow wearily. ‘They grow bolder. We must withdraw to a more secure location. My only hope is that they’re harrying Heinrich’s men as much as they are ours.’

Friedrich didn’t seem heartened by the thought.

‘Even given all that’s happened,’ he said resignedly, ‘the thought of our own people being killed by these things…’

Emil stared into the shadows of the trees with loathing, but didn’t reply at once. There was little room for sentiment in war.

‘When the final patrols return, we’ll raise the camp,’ he said. ‘Prepare the men for muster, and we’ll go southwards. There’s a settlement on the crossroads by the Emperor’s Arms Inn. I have friends there, and Heinrich will have few. It’s not ideal, and we’ll be right out in the open. But the forest is too dangerous now.’

Friedrich looked at him carefully.

‘And then what, Emil?’ he said. ‘We’ve burned villages, harried convoys. But we’re no closer to toppling Heinrich than we ever were. What’s your plan? If we keep being pushed southwards, the men won’t like it.’

Emil grabbed the old man by the arm, his eyes burning with anger.

‘Don’t lecture me!’ he hissed. ‘What do you want me to do? We need some breathing space. The men are out on their feet. If we can’t defend our camp against those beasts, what chance do we have against Heinrich’s troops?’

Friedrich looked at him with horror. Emil felt ashamed, and let his grip go.

‘Forgive me,’ Emil said, his voice heavy with fatigue. ‘Maybe I need some rest myself. Look, we know there’s an army right behind us. We can’t engage them in this state. We’ll rest up at the Emperor’s Arms, gain more recruits, prepare ourselves. We’ll fight, but at a time of our choosing. When we’ve dealt with them, then I’ll think about getting to Heinrich himself. One step at a time.’

Friedrich smoothed his chancellor’s robes down brusquely.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But watch yourself. These men joined us to overthrow Heinrich. They’ll need to see progress, or they’ll drift away as quickly as they came. We have neither time nor money to spare.’

Emil nodded.

‘I know. Our time will come. In the meantime, we have work to do. And if you want to be useful, you can find a way to decipher those scrolls.’

Dieter crept forward watchfully. There was still no sign of any movement on top of the strange pile of rocks, but Annika remained insistent. He had learned in the short time they had been together to trust her judgement on such matters. The witch hunter seemed to have an uncanny knack for sniffing out the suspicious and the corrupted. All part of the job, he supposed.

He took a quick look over his shoulder, and saw her clambering up behind him. Though short and stocky, she was as tough and enduring as he. For a Templar of Sigmar, she could be too flippant for his tastes at times, but on the other hand he knew many people found him overly pious and driven. All a matter of taste. If more people shared his devotion to duty, the Empire would no doubt be better off than it was in its current benighted age. One day the masses languishing in their taverns and brothels would realise it. He only hoped the reformation of morals would not come too late.

Dieter looked up towards the peak of the rocky outcrop. They had travelled very slowly across the relatively open ground to reach it, hugging any vegetation they could find. If the tumbled stack of granite was inhabited, he had seen no sign on the journey over. The inhabitants were either imaginary, or very shy. Annika and he had now scaled the lower reaches of the outcrop. The strangely-shaped protuberant rocks continued upwards for about forty feet into the bleak sky, and already the cold wind was whistling harshly past them.

‘There,’ he heard Annika say in a low voice.

She was standing by his shoulder, holding on to the lichen-strewn surface of the boulders precariously. With her free hand, she pointed to an apparently featureless cliff of craggy granite over to the right. Dieter peered at the cracked face without noticing anything remarkable.

‘I see nothing,’ he whispered, still only half convinced there was anything in the whole place but stone. Annika gestured a little lower down from where he was looking.

‘The shadow. It’s cunningly made. I almost missed it myself. An entrance.’

As soon as she said it, Dieter saw she was speaking the truth. To the casual eye, the deep cleft below a heavy overhang of stone looked just like a natural indentation in the tumbling rocks. But if one looked a little harder, the signs were there. The stone had indeed been worked. Someone had carved it.

Dieter took a fresh look around him, but there was still no sign of sentries or – Myrmidia be thanked – plague beasts.

‘Very well. I will go first. Stay close to me.’

Keeping his sword held low, he inched carefully across the treacherous and uneven rocks. Whoever had made the gate was certainly not keen on visitors. As he neared the cleft, he could see a rough wooden door hidden beneath the natural stone lintel. It was closed and heavily barred. Working slowly and methodically, he climbed up towards it. A few moments later Annika was by his side once more, and the two of them stood on a narrow ledge before the door.

‘Extraordinary,’ said Dieter. ‘I’m impressed you saw it.’

‘I’m paid to be observant,’ Annika said. ‘That, and killing people. What do you suggest we do now?’

Dieter thought for a moment, then placed his head carefully against the surface of the door. There was no sound from the other side.

‘I believe it is unguarded,’ he said. ‘I will force it. If there are guards on the other side, I trust I can rely on you to remove them?’

Annika smiled. Dieter often felt she was amused by him, but rarely saw a reason for her to be.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, drawing her sword. ‘They won’t know anything about it.’

Dieter nodded, and took a step backwards. Gathering his huge frame, he hurled himself at the narrow portal. The door swung open with no resistance, and he found himself flung far into the corridor beyond. He could hear Annika run in behind him. He clambered laboriously back on to his feet, sword in hand. The torch-lit tunnel beyond was empty and silent.

Annika gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

‘Very suave,’ she said.

Dieter felt the blood rushing to his ears, and tried to retain an air of residual dignity.

‘Why would it be unlocked?’ he said, keeping his voice low.

Annika looked at the lock, which had long rusted into uselessness and had been cracked in two by Dieter’s charge.

‘It wasn’t. You don’t know your own strength.’

The pair went forward cautiously, letting their eyes get used to the smoky gloom. Torches had been set into the walls at regular intervals. It looked as if the tunnel went sharply downwards into the heart of the rock formation.

As they walked, Dieter began to hear the first noises. A low, throbbing sound could just be made out. It came from below.

‘If Grauenburg knows of this place,’ he said, ‘he must surely be involved with some form of treachery. No one hides away in such fashion unless they have something to conceal.’

‘I fear you’re right,’ Annika said, listening carefully to the growing ambient noise as they descended. ‘Whatever’s hidden in here, I think we’re about to come across it.’

Ahead, the light was growing. It had an unhealthy crimson sheen. Somewhere below them, a fire was burning. But the glow was not the cheery aura of the hearth. Some corrupted quality animated the flickering light. Both Dieter and Annika had enough experience to recognise the mark of Chaos when they saw it. The Imperial knight clenched his sword a little more tightly, and whispered a benediction to his patron goddess.

‘Let’s take a look,’ he said, motioning forwards.

At the end of the tunnel, the roof of the rocky chamber soared upwards dramatically. Through what must have been a massive labour, a great space had been hollowed out of the living rock. Dieter and Annika emerged from the narrow corridor on to a rough-hewn ledge halfway up the huge walls. It was roughly circular in shape, and ran around the full circumference of the chamber. On the opposite side of the domed hall other entrances could be seen. Narrow stairways, also cut from the raw stone, led downwards. The noise from below was now in focus, amplified by the echoing curve of the high roof. The stone surface glowed a dull red in every direction, lit by the flames coming from below. Over the roar of the fire, voices could be heard chanting in mournful unison.

Dieter dropped to the ground, and crept forward on his belly. Beside him, Annika did likewise. He reached the edge of the walkway, and peered carefully over the rim, taking care to keep his face as close as possible to the concealing lip. The floor of the chamber was perhaps twenty feet below their position. Unlike the rest of the strange construction, it was highly polished and seemed to have been made of a black, marble-like stone. Dieter could only guess at the cost of such wild extravagance out in the middle of the wilds. An eight-pointed star, crowned with barbs and florid swirls, had been engraved into the surface. At the very centre of the star, a wide bowl of stone stood. Within it a vast fire raged, filling the entire space with heat and a strange, shifting light. The flames looked unnatural, and writhed like snakes rather than flickering. No smoke rose from the bowl, and there was no sign of fuel either.

Surrounding the strange fire, perhaps two dozen figures in purple robes genuflected and abased themselves. They seemed entirely consumed by the spectacle before them and entirely oblivious to the world outside their charmed circle. Every so often, a tendril of flame would reach from the blaze in the centre and caress one of the figures. The tender stroke seemed to cause them no pain, nor did it leave burn marks on their rich robes. As Dieter watched, they repeated the same movements over and over again.

‘They’re summoning something,’ whispered Annika. ‘Or perhaps doing some preparation for a summoning. I’ve seen this kind of thing before.’

Dieter’s eyes went flat. The blasphemy disgusted him.

‘Then we must purge this place at once,’ he hissed, flexing the fingers of his sword hand in anticipation.

‘Wait,’ whispered Annika, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Something’s happening.’

From a doorway at floor level on the far side of the chamber, fresh figures emerged. There were two men clad from head to toe in purple robes, their faces hidden by pointed hoods. They carried elaborate staffs crowned with jewels. Between them strode a tall man, robed as they were but with his hood confidently thrown back. He had long dark hair and pale skin. Even from a distance Dieter could see the signs of corruption in his face – the lurid eyes, the subtle marks of alteration. Whoever the figure was, he was deeply immersed in the worship of the Ruinous Powers. A sorcerer no doubt, a scholar of the dark arts. The knight clenched the grip of his sword tightly, impatient to use the blade.

The sorcerer glanced around the kneeling throng with a look of satisfaction. As he neared the bowl, flames rushed to greet him, wreathing themselves around his arms and torso as if greeting a friend. He appeared to relish the embrace of the fire, and let the writhing tongues lap across his body. The two companions stood on either side of him, and planted their staffs firmly against the marble floor with an echoing clang. Only then did the worshipping figures around the fire seem to notice their arrival. Slowly, some of them looking very unsteady on their feet, they rose and acknowledged the newcomers’ presence.

‘Brothers and sisters!’ the man called out in a deep, resonant voice which echoed around the chamber. ‘The culmination of your long labour is at hand. Your efforts here have hastened His coming. Once He arrives, none shall dare stand before us again. The reign of the boy-god is drawing to its end.’

At that, Dieter’s knuckles whitened. A reckless voice within him urged him to jump straight down from the ledge and into the fray. He quelled it with some difficulty. To his left, he could see Annika’s face set in a mask of concentration, obviously trying to glean as much information as possible from the speech below.

‘Now the time is nigh, my master is summoning the cabals together for the final stage of our great work,’ continued the sorcerer. ‘Your work here is nearly ended. Soon all will gather at the appointed place. When the Moon of Promise waxes once more, you are ordered to leave this hallowed place and make your way towards the nexus. All other faithful will do likewise. When we are gathered together, no power in the world will be sufficient to prevent His coming.’

The man’s eyes flashed with anticipation.

‘And when He does, the realm of men will be drenched in blood,’ he said with relish. ‘Thus shall they reap what their persecution of us has sown.’

Some of the robed figures seemed to moan or mumble something in reply to that, but their response was oddly muted. It was as if they were drugged, or in some kind of trance.

‘Keep at your task!’ the sorcerer warned, his voice lowering menacingly. ‘The cost of failure is known to you all. But the rewards of success are boundless. We’ll meet again soon, alongside all the other faithful. May your work hasten His coming!’

At that, the speaker turned on his heel, and his purple robes swirling dizzyingly about him. His companions took up their staffs once more, and the trio went back from the chamber. As they left, the flames reached out for them imploringly. Dieter felt the blood rise in him once more.

‘Now we must cleanse this place!’ he spat, looking with naked hatred at the slow-moving figures below as they numbly returned to their genuflecting.

Annika shook her head.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘That sorcerer. He’s the real target here. The rest are barely awake. If we move quickly we can reach him. I want to know what’s going on here.’

The witch hunter leapt lightly to her feet and began to run around the ledge to the far side of the chamber, drawing her pistol quickly as she did so. Dieter cursed under his breath and followed her slightly more cumbersomely. He hated it when she darted off – it wasn’t easy to suddenly change direction whilst wearing plate armour.

They reached the stairway leading down to the main chamber and quickly descended. The chanting figures around the fire still seemed completely unaware of them and remained firmly fixed on their monotonous task. The pair ran back along the tunnel from which the sorcerer had emerged, and quickly passed once more into torch-lit gloom. The sound of voices raised in laughter came from ahead of them, and Dieter felt the expectation of approaching battle run through him. This was what he lived for.

They rounded a sharp corner and found themselves in a small antechamber, once more carved from the heart of the rock. The three figures they had seen earlier were lounging on low benches, and had removed their robes. Each had a flagon of what looked like ale in their hands, and they were clad in ordinary Imperial garb. The speaker in the chamber had been laughing as they entered, but his face fell quickly in horror as they burst in.

‘Myrmidia!’ bellowed Dieter, and launched himself at the nearest of the staff-wielders.

His sword plunged straight into the shocked man’s torso, who only had time to half-raise himself from his seat. The thrust lifted him clear off the bench, and with a snarl Dieter hurled his body across the room. The staff-wielder crunched against the wall and slid on to the floor. Annika dispatched his companion with a crack of her pistol. The cloud of blackpowder masked the bloom of crimson from the man’s forehead where her bullet penetrated, and he was flung backwards in his turn, his limbs flailing wildly.

The sorcerer jumped from his seat and backed up against the far wall of the room. He frantically waved his hands in a jerking motion before him, and a purple cloud began to materialise in front of him. His eyes were wide with surprise and fear, and Dieter couldn’t help noticing that one was green and one was lilac.

‘Sigmar damn you!’ hissed Annika, pulling a sacred icon from her jerkin.

The silver relic blazed with a pure light. The sorcerer’s purple cloud rippled and evaporated in tatters. He recoiled from the searing icon. Dieter strode over to him and raised his sword. The sorcerer attempted to cast a fresh spell.

‘Too late,’ said Dieter grimly, and smashed the pommel of his sword with all the force he could muster into the sorcerer’s face. With the sound of snapping bone, the man crumpled into a heap, and his half-summoned spell ebbed out of being.

‘Don’t kill him!’ cried Annika urgently.

‘I had no such intention,’ Dieter said, his pride wounded. ‘What do you take me for?’

Annika knelt over the prone form, looking urgently for signs of life. The sorcerer still breathed, though his face was a mess. Dieter leaned across and pulled his body into a seated position. The man came round groggily, and his eyes widened once more. With what little strength he possessed he struggled against the grip of the knight, though his feeble efforts were entirely futile.

Annika smiled coldly.

‘So your life ends,’ she said. ‘But you have a choice about how painful the experience will be.’

She pressed the icon into the man’s forehead. The sorcerer’s flesh burned and popped, and he screamed. He thrashed wildly about, frantically trying to shake off Dieter’s grip. The knight held him easily. Annika withdrew the icon. A comet-shaped weal had been branded into the flesh of the speaker’s forehead. Blood welled in the wound.

‘Tell me the name of your master,’ ordered Annika.

The man looked up at her. His strange eyes were out of focus, but he managed a snarl of contempt.

‘I’d die first!’ he spat.

Dieter casually punched him heavily in the chest, and the man crumpled in pain. Dieter pulled him back up, and the icon was applied again. The sound and stench of flesh cauterising filled the antechamber. The sorcerer wailed pathetically, but Dieter still clamped him tightly in place.

The icon was withdrawn.

‘This symbol is agony to you,’ said Annika. ‘Much more than the burning. For such as you, the very presence of holiness is pain. You deserve nothing less.’

She pressed the icon back against the man’s flesh, and the searing continued. The sorcerer now screamed with abandon, trying desperately to free his hands. There was no escape from the torment. His mouth began to flex, and spittle lined his lips. Between cries of pain, it sounded like he was trying to say something. Annika pulled the icon back once more. The sorcerer sagged back.

‘Rachsdorf!’ he gasped, and went limp in Dieter’s grasp.

Dieter looked at Annika.

‘So we have a name,’ he said.

Annika nodded, and took a dagger up.

‘It’s a start,’ she said.

But then the sorcerer’s face stared outwards in horror. It was as if an invisible hand had suddenly clasped itself around his throat. His legs started kicking wildly, and his veins throbbed thickly on either side of his neck. Annika recoiled with surprise. Then her expression changed to one of loathing.

‘Dark magic,’ she said to Dieter. ‘Step back.’

Dieter stood up and cast a worried eye about the chamber. The two other bodies lay still where they had been felled. The noise of chanting still came mournfully from the hall of fire. The sorcerer’s face was now purple from lack of air. His breath came in gurgled gasps.

‘H-he will not let me go!’ came the final, strangled cry, and then he went limp again. Dieter looked down at the bloodied, twitching corpse distastefully.

‘What do you think that was?’ he asked Annika.

‘A spell of binding,’ she said, flatly. ‘Activated by certain words to prevent him talking. Such things are possible. Unfortunate. He’s dead, and we’ve learned very little.’

Dieter shrugged.

‘It is better than nothing at all,’ he said. ‘But our work here is not yet done.’

Annika nodded, and began to reload her pistol.

‘Agreed. This place must be cleansed. But then we need to find out more about this Rachsdorf. The name is unknown to me.’

The two of them left the room, and headed back to the hall of fire. Soon the noise of chanting was replaced by the clash of steel and the crack of blackpowder. The purging had begun.

CHAPTER SIX

Captain Johannes Fassbinder dismounted and surveyed the scene with a grim expression on his weather-beaten face. The bodies lay all across the wide forest clearing. Even in the weak sunlight, the smell was sickening. The plague creature cadavers gave off a uniquely disgusting aroma. But the stench was not the worst of it. If the corpses were not swiftly burned, their rotting flesh was liable to spread fresh contagion and misery. Even after their second death, the victims of the unnatural pestilence contributed fresh layers of pain.

The tall, rangy Imperial captain turned away from the scene before him. It was depressingly familiar. Behind him, his men began to filter into the clearing. They still marched in relatively well-ordered formation, which gave Fassbinder some satisfaction. Keeping several companies of state troopers in peak fighting condition while on a long campaign in the Reikwald was not easy. Despite their discipline, he knew they needed to see proper action soon.

His lieutenant, Sigismund Kirchner, waited patiently for orders.

‘Tell the men to prepare a pyre,’ said Fassbinder. ‘We’ll burn them all before we leave.’

Kirchner looked uncertain.

‘Sir, Schulmann’s troops are in the area. If we delay here…’

Fassbinder gave him a weary look. He couldn’t blame the man. Dragging the stinking, deformed bodies of those who had once been fellow Reiklanders into piles in order to incinerate them was a loathsome job. But it had to be done, or else the contagion would only keep spreading.

‘Just do it, Kirchner,’ Fassbinder snapped. ‘Schulmann will keep for another day. Unlike him, we have responsibility to those who have not yet succumbed.’

The lieutenant grudgingly saluted, and stalked over to the rest of the troops. The shifty looks of irritation cast in his direction told Fassbinder his orders had been passed on, and the men reluctantly started to fan out across the clearing, tying rags over their faces and around their hands. The captain turned back to the clearing and began to walk slowly amongst the carnage.

After a few moments, Kirchner rejoined him.

‘So what do you think, sir?’ the lieutenant said, looking across the scene with an expression of disgust.

Fassbinder knelt down. There was a patch of flattened grass ahead with patches of dark brown strewn across it. Blood, lots of it.

‘The only bodies are those of the plague creatures,’ he said. ‘There are signs of other casualties, but the corpses have been taken away. Whoever fought them here must have won, and then had time to clear the fallen from the area. This was no camp of wandering brigands.’

Kirchner nodded.

‘Schulmann, then,’ he said.

Fassbinder rose again, and watched his men perform their grisly labour with some sympathy.

‘Aye, he’s been here,’ he said. ‘Finally, we’ve caught up with him. Lord Heinrich will be pleased to hear some good news. When we’re done here, send a horseman back to the castle with the news that we’re on to him, and with a request for fresh troops. Most of these men have been lugging themselves through the mud for weeks. If we’re going to break the rebellion, we’ll need more soldiers.’

Kirchner looked doubtful.

‘I agree, sir, but Lord Heinrich won’t like it. There are those who think we should give up looking for Schulmann altogether and concentrate on the invasion from the north. Everyone knows it’s coming.’

Fassbinder looked at Kirchner darkly.

‘And have our fields burned from behind our backs? Schulmann is a traitor. If his uprising isn’t put down here, what chance is there of maintaining order when we need it most? If it hadn’t been for this damned plague, he’d never have roused the countryside to his wretched cause. No. He will taste justice, whether Lord Heinrich’s or that of Sigmar. I’ll not head homewards until he’s found and this cursed uprising crushed.’

He spat the last words out with rather more venom than he had intended. Kirchner looked at him with an expression of concern. Fassbinder knew what he was thinking. All his men thought the same thing. He was obsessed, couldn’t let go, would hunt Schulmann down until the End Times rather than reinforce Lord Heinrich’s forces in the north where the need was greatest. No doubt some thought it was cowardice. It was nothing of the sort, of course. Just a rare enough quality in the Empire. Something like devotion to duty. Or maybe a desire to see the traitor punished. They amounted to the same thing, in the end.

So he ignored Kirchner’s look, and continued to study the clues around him.

‘There must have been several hundred men camping here,’ he said, looking at the remains of tents and shelters constructed from branches and logs. ‘We know he has many more who will rally to his banner. But if they can’t prevent attacks from the plague creatures, they must be looking for somewhere more secure to base themselves. That means leaving the forest entirely.’

He turned his gaze from the ruined camp back to Kirchner.

‘But where?’ he said, half to himself.

Kirchner shrugged.

‘The main north road is close by,’ he offered, with no great conviction. ‘Perhaps there’s somewhere there he hopes to defend. There are several villages which would offer a rebel sanctuary. Though I hate to say it, Lord Heinrich is not popular in these parts.’

Fassbinder frowned.

‘If he comes into the open, then he’s a fool. Or maybe just desperate. In any case, once he emerges, we have him. Sigmar willing, we’ll also have the men to bring this to a close. Anything would be better than dealing with these monsters.’

As he spoke, the spark of flints and tiny spirals of smoke told him the fires were being lit. The burning had started, and they would leave within the hour.

Then the hunt would start again.

Leopold Klosser dragged himself painfully up to his filthy garret at the top of the building. The stench of fish and effluent seeped from the Altdorf street outside. Things were little better inside the semi-derelict house itself. Every movement still caused him pain, racking pain. His blackened fingers trembled as he fumbled for the great brass key from his belt.

The lock rattled, and he was in. He limped over to the foetid pile of bedding in the far corner of the tiny room, and lowered himself gingerly on to it. His whole body protested. The burns were all over him, and the bitter cold of the journey had not eased his suffering at all. Shakily, he reached for a vial of potion from his tattered and ragged robes, and took a deep swig. Not much left. He would have to try and find some more, though it might take time to find a supplier. Not many legitimate alchemists would know how to synthesize the particular ingredients, and some that did would balk at getting hold of the required quantities of virgin’s blood.

As the elixir did its work, Klosser relaxed slightly, feeling the sharp pain ebb. As ever, it was replaced by an acute mental anguish. He had failed. His co-conspirators were dead, and the observatory had not been destroyed. He had nearly died himself, consumed by the fire of that damned Bright wizard, but somehow a thread of resistance had remained. Death was something he greatly feared. He had served the Master of Change for long enough to know that the destiny of his soul was not likely to be pleasant. The Dark Gods were capricious with those who disappointed them, and were only generous to those who managed to advance their schemes.

Klosser coughed weakly. He felt terrible even after the healing powers of the potion had started to work. He was also in danger. With the rest of the cabal having been killed, he was on his own and in a hostile city crawling with witch hunters. As far as he had been able to tell, his departure from the observatory had not been marked, but you could never be sure. He needed to do something. Above all, he had to find a way to get back into Rachsdorf’s good books. Letting that sadistic monster down was virtually a death sentence of its own.

After a few moments to catch his rattling breath, Klosser ran a hand under the stained mattress. His dark and cracked fingers painfully found their target, and he dragged out a sealed bag. He emptied it on to the floor. A small glass bottle, a copper bowl, a tripod. Wheezing in pain, he rose from the bedding and arranged the equipment in the long-cold grate next to the pallet. The bowl was placed on the tripod. He brushed some grey coals underneath it, and whispered a few choice words. For a moment, nothing happened. But then the coals glowed into life, red and angry.

Klosser poured some of the contents of the bottle into the bowl. More words were whispered. An unnatural flame grew. The oil began to bubble. He tried to relax, to let the potent currents of magic do their work. After a few moments, the oil started to give off a pungent smoke. It coiled upwards, clinging to the stone of the hearth.

Klosser looked into it deeply, muttering words of power incessantly. The smoke began to twist into half-recognisable shapes. Divination by this method was always haphazard, and he really needed more time and preparation. But though Klosser was hardly the mightiest sorcerer in the world, gazing into the suggestive paths of fate had always come naturally to him. In a previous life he had been a Celestial wizard, one of the kind he had helped destroy at the observatory. Now he had allied himself with a far more powerful source of knowledge, albeit a dangerous one.

The oil bubbled more strongly. The colour of the smoke changed. It became a lurid green, then a bright blue. Klosser smiled. He had not fallen out of favour entirely. There were messages in the burning oil, if one knew how to read them. He concentrated hard, trying to pull apart the shifting shapes. Only one clarified long enough for something like recognition. It was a face, a cruel, thin face. Klosser started, and the visage disappeared.

‘That was no human face,’ he said to himself.

The oil bubbled away, and the smoke sunk into blackness. Klosser blew softly at the heated bowl, and the last wisps drifted upwards. The coals beneath the tripod sank back into lifelessness.

Klosser got up and went to the pallet. He lay back on the blankets, feeling his scarred body protest. His mind was racing, fuelled by the restorative powers of the potion and by the nervous energy produced by his predicament.

‘An elf?’ he muttered. ‘Why show me that?’

Then his awareness began to dim. He was exhausted, and could feel his ruined body begin to sink into sleep. No doubt the potion was doing its work. He felt the drag of a drugged sleep, and closed his charred lids.

‘Or maybe not an elf…’ he said, his words slurring. Something had occurred to him, something interesting.

But then the potion took over fully, and oblivion welcomed him back into its dark embrace.

Malek woke from a fitful sleep. His dreams had been disturbed, no doubt partly due to the wine he was drinking. He slowly raised himself from his low bed, and reached for a fresh glass. He poured a small amount and drained the goblet in a single draught. It helped him to wake, and he remembered why he had woken up. It was time for the ceremony, and his body had remembered better than his mind. Knowing the consequences of lateness, he quickly threw on his robes and went from his private chambers into the lamp-lit corridor outside.

As he went, he rehearsed what he was going to say. Kalia Uthorin’s news was the obvious topic. He found the idea intriguing. There were possibilities, to be sure, but also risks. At least the timing had been fortuitous. He went quickly through the labyrinthine passages and into the jumble of anterooms which formed the heart of his makeshift home. As he passed through the dank and gloomy spaces, his few guards saluted him warily from their stations. They were bored, cooped up in the damp and the dark, but would not dare show anything but the most complete deference. They saw what he did to the few human unfortunates who were dragged down from the streets above, and had no illusions about what he was capable of.

He quickly passed into the inner sanctum, a tiny room half-hidden under the collapsed arches of some crudely-hewn human gateway. Lamps guttered fitfully in the gloom of the subterranean place, as if appalled by the horrors they had witnessed. Malek pulled aside heavy crimson curtains, and exposed a bubbling brass cauldron. The object seemed to throw off waves of a chill dread. It was an ancient and powerful artefact, though far less potent than its counterpart in Lady Arkaneth’s citadel in Naggarond. In the distant depths of time, both had been objects in the court of a great noble of Nagarythe in Ulthuan. It pleased Malek to think how the mighty magical wards had been broken and the cauldron perverted from its true purpose. Now it fed on blood and pain, whereas once its powers of messaging had been driven by less destructive sources.

He walked up to the boiling surface, and took a deep breath over it. The red froth had been prepared well, and amidst the bubbling liquid suggestive gobbets of a fleshy substance bobbed and turned. The smell of blood aroused him, and his eyes glittered with a feral malice. He pulled the curtain closed behind him, and began to chant in a low voice. He took up his staff, an intricate shaft of dark iron inlaid with silver characters of ruin and destruction, and waved it in a complicated series of shapes over the lip of the cauldron. The gore within responded to the quickening magic, and slops lapped over the edge, running in glutinous trails down on to the stained floor. After a few moments, the liquids stabilised, and began to move in a steady clockwise motion. Above the incessantly moving blood, an ethereal shape began to emerge.

Malek placed his staff down. The shape started to pull itself together. The flickering form of a woman rose above the boiling essences.

‘My Lady Arkaneth,’ said Malek, bowing low. ‘Your presence honours me.’

‘I hope you’ve something substantial to report, Malek,’ came the dry and distorted voice of his mistress. ‘This sending is difficult and tiring.’

She didn’t sound in a good mood, which was always something of a worry. Malek swallowed carefully, hoping his anxiety was not apparent across the sending.

‘I do, my lady,’ he said. ‘I have intercepted secret communication between the asur and the humans. We know the name of the commander of the reinforcements, an archmage named Artheris, and also have an insight into her movements. I’m preparing to strike when she arrives. If we succeed, the asur army will be headless and demoralised even before they leave the city and travel to the front.’

Lady Arkaneth raised a ghostly eyebrow.

‘If you succeed, Malek?’ she said, acidly.

Malek cursed himself inwardly. A stupid mistake.

‘Have no fear,’ he said more confidently. ‘We’ll kill her. I’ve enlisted the support of the disciple from House Uthorin.’

Lady Arkaneth looked even more sourly at him at the mention of Kalia.

‘Don’t get distracted with this plan,’ she warned, fixing him with an evidently ferocious glare even through the steam and movement of the sending. ‘Should you kill the commander of the asur forces then that is all very well. But your main task is to remove the stain of the Uthorins from the Old World. Once you – and you alone – are controlling our presence in the city of the humans, then we can develop things further.’

Malek clenched his hands tightly against his sides. This was not going well. He had thought the plot against the archmage would have pleased her.

‘I understand, my lady,’ he said, working to keep the edge of irritation and fear out of his voice and thinking quickly. ‘My plan is to use the assassination attempt as a means to achieve both ends. In the confusion of the attack, Kalia will be consumed with the task in hand, and hence vulnerable. I will dispatch her once the archmage is dead, and make it look as if one of the asur has done the deed. No word of our treachery will come back to Naggarond, and your honour will be intact.’

Lady Arkaneth looked unconvinced, but eventually nodded sharply.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But be careful. Your main target is the Uthorin witch, and I want no rumour of our plans to seep out of the Old World. If you need to, kill all your own warriors to keep this secret. I can send more. Kalia must die, and you must assume sole command of our operations in Altdorf. Everything else, even the killing of this archmage, is secondary.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ said Malek. He felt a sliver of relief. At least she hadn’t rejected the plan out of hand. ‘I’ll begin the preparations at once.’

‘Not so hasty,’ said Lady Arkaneth, raising a warning hand. ‘There’s something else. The wheels of fate are finally moving. Multiple threads are involved here. The forces of Chaos in the north are finally on the march, and the war will move into its decisive phase soon. There is one piece of information in particular you should know. The asur are not the only ones sending an advance force into the fray. There is a Chaos warlord travelling southwards ahead of Tchar’zanek’s main host. His name is Jhar’zadris, and he is working towards some purpose even Malekith has not fully discovered. As you can imagine, this has created unquiet in Naggaroth, and the premium for discovering more about his intentions is high.’

Malek allowed himself a frown.

‘A Chosen in the Reikland? This is new. The humans here still believe the Chaos forces are bogged down in the north-east. Can the reports be mistaken?’

Arkaneth rolled her eyes impatiently.

‘Of course they can. Nothing is certain, and the deceits of the Master of Change make things worse. But there is the ring of truth about this, Malek. Take it seriously. Seek this Chosen out. He may be of great advantage to us. When we finally move against Ulthuan, we will need to coordinate with the Chaos forces in the Old World. Should you forge a link with this warlord, our stock with Malekith will rise even higher. No doubt he would welcome news on the designs of Tchar’zanek, about which we still know very little.’

Malek looked into the shimmering image and hoped he was keeping his distaste for this new development adequately hidden.

‘I am at your command,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if more can be discovered. If the reports are correct, then the invasion of the Reikland must be close at hand. The time of testing truly draws near.’

‘Indeed it does, Malek,’ said Lady Arkaneth. The tone of her voice indicated she was growing bored, and something of her earlier sharpness returned. ‘You’re dismissed now. I will communicate with you again shortly. When we next speak, be sure to have thought through your plans properly. And remember your two principal objectives, to kill the Uthorin bitch, and seek out the Chosen. That is all. You know the price of failure.’

Malek bowed, fully aware of the consequences of getting things wrong.

‘I’ll not let you down,’ he said, watching the figure of his mistress flicker and die out like a guttering candle flame.

Feeling events were running uncomfortably ahead of him, the sorcerer pushed the curtain back and headed to his own quarters. The business of attacking the archmage, killing Kalia, keeping both tasks secret, and taking command of the several different druchii cells operating in the Old World was going to be testing. And that was before the unwelcome introduction of the Chosen. Things were becoming complicated, and he needed to think. He brushed past a stony-faced guard on the way his chambers and sat down heavily once more on his incongruously luxurious bed.

Reaching for another crystal decanter, he poured a generous glass of the human wine. It really was marvellous stuff, and as he drained it in a single draught he reflected that it was the only unquestionably good thing to have come out of the whole endeavour so far. That was something which would have to change.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Alexander’s mood had not improved. The bandits had melted into the forest with a skill he would not have thought possible from their slovenly appearance. Or perhaps he was just not very good at tracking. In any case, he had lost them, and the scrolls were gone.

The option of returning to Altdorf had seemed briefly attractive, but after some thought Alexander had rejected it. The Celestial wizards would no doubt be furious to learn he had botched his mission so soon after he agreed to take it, and he could do without the looks of contempt and disappointment. In any case, he was dutiful enough not to be entirely indifferent to Lord Heinrich’s fate. The scrolls might be lost, but he could still pass on the warning of treachery. It would be less convincing without the Celestial wizards’ written testimony, but he still carried some cache as an Imperial wizard. He found himself suddenly glad of the otherwise useless Griffon medallion. It would likely get him an audience with Heinrich if nothing else.

After wasting considerable time trying to find the bandits, Alexander had turned back northwards and now rode his long-suffering steed hard trying to make up for lost time. The problem was that he was no longer entirely sure of his position. The main road north, the one he had opted to take before his unfortunate encounter, was strangely reluctant to be found again. He guessed he must have ridden some way east of it, but getting back to where he had started had taken much longer than he had hoped. Perhaps he had ridden west of it, in which case his efforts to find it again had only made things worse. Despairing of ever getting completely back on track in such a drab and depressing part of the world, he eventually chose to follow his instincts, hoping to come across a sizeable village or town where he could get his bearings again.

Sadly, that hope proved as elusive as the road. The countryside was bleak and barren. In every direction, featureless moors stretched towards the drab and heavy sky. In the far distance he could make out odd-looking peaks of rock. The entire place had a bad air about it, as if some strange and elusive curse lay on the land. He rode past several deserted villages, standing mournfully like circles of stone on the horizon, but none of which were still inhabited. The area must always have been thinly populated, he guessed, looking at the poor soil and endless straggling scrub and dry grass. But he knew what the true reason for the emptiness was now. He no longer had any doubt that the plague was both real and of a more virulent order than he had ever encountered. The creatures he had encountered were proof alone. They sickened him to his stomach, and he had been lucky to escape with his life after their last attack. Since then he had been forced to use his staff more than he would have liked. They were fond of coming at night, and he had not slept properly for some time. The effort of fighting them off had become heavy, and Alexander found himself increasingly weary and drained as the long ride northwards continued.

Consumed with thoughts of his misfortune, he pushed the horse as quickly as its condition would allow. With some relief, he left the bleakest parts of the moorland and entered more familiar territory. Soon he was riding along a low valley with thick, dark pine forests climbing up the slopes on either side. The sun was high in the sky, but the ever-present sheen of cloud made its light weak and grey. Alexander tried to remember the last time it had been clear and sunny. Surely the Ruinous Powers couldn’t control the weather too?

It was as he speculated on the arcane possibilities of this that the first rider burst from the cover of the trees. Alexander snapped back into concentration.

‘Taal’s teeth!’ he hissed. ‘Not again!’

The rider was joined by two more companions. They had burst from the forest in formation and were riding straight for him. They were no common brigands. All wore close-fitting suits of dark armour and carried wicked-looking curved swords. Alexander took a quick look backwards. There were a couple more blocking his route from the south. They were close. It was another ambush.

‘This is getting stupid,’ said Alexander, pulling his horse up and letting the Wind of Aqshy well up within him. To be ambushed once was unlucky. Twice looked like carelessness.

As the lead rider from the south approached him, Alexander stood up in the stirrups and pointed the iron tip of his staff directly at the dark-armoured figure. Muttering words of power, he felt the point kindle and burst into flame. The rider came on heedless. Alexander sent twin bolts of power straight at him. They exploded in a shower of sparks, catapulting the horseman backwards out of the saddle. He crunched into the ground, smoking and flailing.

Alexander kicked his steed on. The other rider was almost on him. Alexander whirled the staff in front of him, using the flame tip to create a halo of fire about him. The rider fell back, but by now the three from the north had closed in. Escape was going to be difficult. He pulled his steed up, and was soon surrounded by the mysterious riders. The horsemen wore heavy-looking iron visors and were well armoured. Alexander didn’t recognise any device on their shield or livery. Who were these people?

‘By the Eight Colours!’ he snapped. ‘I’m really not in the mood for this. Declare yourself, or let me pass!’

The lead horseman remained eerily silent. Something about the spiked and twisted design of the iron helm told Alexander it had not been forged by the local village blacksmith. Instead of speaking, the rider extended a gauntleted hand and made a crushing movement with his fist.

A casting! Alexander felt the sudden chill around his heart. He began to weave a responding ward, but it was too late. With a shudder, he felt his entire body seize. Bereft of control, he felt his grip slip from the reins. He just managed to keep hold of his staff as he fell heavily, rolling painfully along the uneven ground. His faithless horse galloped madly along the river, ignored by his pursuers.

Alexander stood groggily, furious with himself. He was getting sloppy in his old age. The horsemen were all around him. With a roar, he summoned a fresh corona of flame to himself, and was soon enveloped in a protective ward of crimson. He stepped forward as threateningly as possible, doing his best to shake off the residual effects of the casting. The horsemen looked down, as silent as ever. Their leader rode calmly to the front, and inclined his dark iron visor downwards.

‘You’ve made a mistake,’ Alexander hissed, shaking with both rage and exertion. He was already tired, and the effort of maintaining the corona began to weigh on him. ‘Leave now, or I’ll burn your mask from you.’

The armoured figure looked on impassively. It was an empty threat, and the silent horseman seemed perfectly aware of it. A thin, rattling sound which may have been a hollow laugh emerged from the helmet. The rider outstretched his gauntlet once more, and Alexander felt the chill in his body return.

‘Oh no,’ the wizard said grimly, fighting the casting with fresh power. ‘You’re not doing that again.’

Alexander drew strength from his anger and fear, and began the process of summoning a flame-tipped sword from the aethyr. If they wanted him, they would have to fight.

Even as he did so, the subordinate horsemen came forward, each with their visor fixed firmly on him. As one, they extended their own fists. The power of the malign crushing spell grew.

With a gasp of effort, Alexander plucked the sword from the air as it materialised. Time was short, and he couldn’t sustain both the magical weapon and his protective corona at once. Taking a deep breath, he let the fiery ward extinguish around him and charged forward. It was like leaving a warm house and heading straight into an icy wind. He felt the cold fingers close once more around his heart, and cried out loud from the pain.

His vision beginning to shake, Alexander clumsily lunged at the nearest horseman. The sword was met by a skilful parry. The wizard’s fingers began to go numb from the cold, and he frantically fed the flames licking the blade more power. He was losing the race. With a desperate last effort, he thrust once more for the closest rider.

His blow never fell. With a sickening whirl, he felt the world beneath lurch and rush up to meet him. The sword dissipated into harmless smoke, and the cumulative power of the riders pushed him to the sodden earth. Dimly, he could sense the five of them circling around him. His senses were leaving him, and he only vaguely saw the dark visor of the leader loom blurrily above his prone form. Weakly, Alexander grasped his staff, and began to summon a fresh spell.

The words never emerged. The iron tip of a heavy boot cracked into his forehead, and he knew no more.

Jhar’zadris crested the rise on his imposing charger, and took a moment to savour the view. Before him, the land fell away steeply, and the whole panorama of the Reikland stretched away in a rumpled canvas. So this was the heart of the Empire of men, the mightiest realm of the Old World. The Chosen allowed himself to indulge in a moment of scorn. It looked much the same as all the other lands they had marched through. Bleak, dank, riddled with plague and pocked with mould-encrusted, mud-clogged villages full of disease and misery.

He let his eyes roam across the wide landscape. His vision was no longer what it was. Whereas once human eyes had served him, now his sight was gloriously coloured and full of shifting delights. The world as he had known it before was a half-forgotten place of drudgery and boredom. It was an effort to make the mental adjustment in order to gain an appreciation of how cold and pale things must seem to his mortal followers. Here and there a few thin lines of smoke rose into the air, which he guessed was grey and chill. There was precious little other sign of activity. The whole place looked drab and forlorn even through the prismatic majesty of his enhanced senses. The spirit of the land was crushed, beaten into submission by plague and mutiny. A flicker of regret passed through his mighty frame. It was no sport to engage with a foe so weakened and decrepit. Still, the ways of his Master were subtle and mysterious. Perhaps the humans had hidden resources. He hoped so. A fight was always more diverting than a slaughter, even if the result were the same in the end.

Behind him, he could hear the clanking of the huge armoured column coming to a halt. His personal retinue of warriors was used to his frequent pauses and digressions. One of their number had once questioned his erratic route while the column was still in Norsca. The unfortunate warrior had taken two weeks to die, and the rest had not forgotten it. They obeyed without question. Most knew something of the gifts he had received from the Master of Change, and held him in the proper degree of awe. If they knew the full extent of the marvellous alterations which had taken place in his body and soul over the last hundred years or so, they would have been even more subservient. He could sense the thoughts of all of them, their petty jealousies, their bloodlust, their rivalries. Most wanted to supplant him. None were remotely near trying. They knew their own powers paled into nothingness beside his own.

Jhar’zadris looked down at his armour. He still liked to think of it as something external to himself, even though it had been fused to his original flesh for more than fifty years. The surface of the ancient metal was now fluid and shifting. Across the heavy brass plates writhed the shapes of forgotten foes and lost places. Something of them had passed into his own consciousness, which found its outlet in the endless morphing devices. It amused him at times to watch the slow mutation unfold. He would occasionally recognise a scene, a symbol, or even a face. Perhaps someone he had loved, or killed, or who had instructed him in the dark arts in his long distant, mostly-forgotten childhood. At the present time, the armour was mostly a pale sky-blue, reflecting his benign mood. He enjoyed the colour scheme. To his gifted sight, there were other subtle resonances to be appreciated. Whiffs of magic, curling around his heavy greaves like cats slinking around his ankles. They spoke of bloodletting to come, which he liked. And there was something else. Something was approaching.

What passed for lips on his heavily mutated and armour-fused face curled in a smile. There were humans walking up to meet him, limping and dragging themselves up the slope before him, holding their hands out in supplication.

Jhar’zadris held his hand up, and clenched his fist in two rapid movements. His entourage of warriors spread themselves out on either side of him, creating a wide crescent. The rest of his army, a trailing line of zealots and cultists, arranged themselves casually some distance away. They would not be called on for this engagement, but he knew they liked to watch.

‘Merciful knight!’ came the querulous voice of the lead human, a painfully thin man covered in sores. ‘Aid us in our plight! Sigmar has deserted us! Let us join you, in the name of mercy. We are dying. We will fight for you.’

Jhar’zadris looked over the pitiful band dispassionately. They were filthy, stinking and ragged. All were badly ill with the plague, but it had not yet worked its full transformation on them. Most bore some mark of mutation, but their eyes were still focussed and their voices intact. They were doomed, all of them. If he waited for the change to take place, they would no doubt serve him in some capacity. But they would be neither useful nor welcome. He despised them. Their addled bodies, grasping fingers and stinking breath were repulsive on a number of levels mortals were not even capable of recognising. He felt his good mood begin to disintegrate.

Jhar’zadris raised his hand once more and gave a flurry of quick signals. The warriors strode forward into the straggling mob and began to swing their heavy swords and cleavers. The Chosen joined them in the slaughter. Blood flew high into chill air, and soon Jhar’zadris’s armour was running with it. He enjoyed the sensation of the hot liquid against his fused flesh. From some way off he could hear the jeers of the cultists as they watched the butchery. On this occasion he found he could not share in their childish glee. This was a distraction which served little purpose. He only took a little satisfaction from the crunch and snap of bone under his iron warhammer. It was like reaping corn, a memory he still retained from so long ago. As he went, the gore began to cake his breastplate, and the shifting glyphs on the arcane surface gradually glowed red in appreciation.

He was just growing bored with the slaughter when he noticed a strange aura over one of the few remaining peasants. This one still had some flesh on his bones and seemed less mutated than the rest. The human was on the cusp of being run through by one of the warriors, but Jhar’zadris found his interest piqued.

‘No,’ he commanded in a low voice.

The Chaos warrior stepped back from his prey unquestioningly. The other troops retreated from the man, leaving a wide circle around him. Jhar’zadris hefted his huge warhammer lightly and walked confidently up to the swaying, barely-conscious peasant. Surprisingly, the plague-ridden figure managed to look him in the eye.

‘We would have served you,’ said the peasant, his face lined with disbelief.

With a twinge of amusement, Jhar’zadris saw that the man carried a warhammer of his own. A crude device, and no threat against his massive armour.

‘You are a priest of the boy-god?’ Jhar’zadris hissed, trying as best he could to make his words intelligible to the man’s ears. After a century or two communing with horrors, daemons and familiars, it was hard to recall the awkward rhythm of Reikspiel. The last time he had spoken it much was campaigns a generation ago.

The man paused and thought for a moment, looking down at his weapon with a furrowed brow. A line of drool crept from his lips, and his eyes began to glaze. The plague was entering its final stages.

‘I say you are,’ said Jhar’zadris, satisfied that his intuition was correct. The man’s aura gave him away. With an easy swing of his vast arms, Jhar’zadris brought the heavy warhammer down on the reeling man’s head. The priest folded to the ground, his skull crushed and neck broken. His own warhammer rolled uselessly into the mud.

Jhar’zadris looked down with disdain. Why these humans persisted in the worship of one of their own kind when there were real gods in the world, gods with powers beyond the dreams of mortal minds, never ceased to disturb him. Did they really not know that all magic, all strength, all hope and all power ultimately flowed from the nexus of Chaos? What did they hope to achieve by putting off the inevitable?

The Chosen shook his head, and allowed himself a brief glance at the progress of the slaughter. The peasants had all been killed, and the warriors rested soundlessly on their heavy swords, waiting for a signal from him to move on.

Jhar’zadris looked down at the awkward, broken body at his feet. The man had been gifted in life with a faint sheen of faith and power. There were ways of making use of that.

He turned to his entourage and signalled for them to stand down. Then the Chosen lowered himself slowly over the prone corpse, which was still hot and slick with blood. Placing his warhammer to one side, he roughly pulled the man’s body over so the abdomen was showing. Without a moment’s pause, he plunged his armoured fist into the naked stomach and tore the skin open. The entrails burst free, glistening and purple. To his augmented senses, they looked like jewels. He worked quickly, arranging the organs in the proper position, and uttering the words of power carefully under his breath. The art of haruspicy, the foretelling of fate from the entrails of the defeated, was neither easy nor certain.

Jhar’zadris muttered to himself as the gore-streaked lumps of flesh swam before his vision. There were few enough signs. A clot here spoke of plague, a rogue growth there of war. That was hardly news. He was about to throw the whole stinking pile to one side and resume the march when something caught his eye. A strange shape hidden in the ropey strands of intestine. It was a symbol, and one he was surely meant to find. He stared at it for some time in fascination. There was no mistaking it. The auguries had given him a message. Silently, he thanked his patron god for his beneficence. Surely, the Master of Change was the true lord of the world. Even in such inauspicious circumstances he found a way to give a message to his faithful servant.

Jhar’zadris stood up and licked the tips of his fingers absently. The meaning was vague. An unexpected visitor, an intruder in the night. But not a human. That was intriguing. The riddle would be a pleasant mental distraction for him to lighten the tedium of the march. He felt his earlier sunny disposition return. With satisfaction, he saw the agonised face of the Sigmarite villager imprint itself on his armour.

With a light heart, he picked up his warhammer and waved it forwards.

‘On, my children!’ he urged, and the column picked itself up once more.

With a grinding inexorability, his forces began to march, leaving behind them the carnage of the hillside. They descended quickly, and made their way down into the great wooded basin of Reikland, the heart of the Empire.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The sun blazed out across the wide, sluggish river. Morgil looked at the open sky with relief. It had been either stormy or overcast for as long as they had been at sea. Now that they were piloting the ships up the last stretches of the Reik and making their way to the massive docks of the human city, the weather had at last turned.

He looked over his shoulder towards Artheris, who sat serenely in the centre of the deck. In a rare concession to diplomatic protocol, she was arrayed in the finest robes, laced with gold and silver embroidery and studded with arcane patterning and runework. No doubt the humans would expect a mage of her power to look the part. He found himself wondering if the lifting of the weather was something to do with her. Unlikely, although you never knew with someone of her power.

A low growl from Khera, slumped at his feet, returned his attention to their destination. The lioness was looking forward to having solid ground under her pads once more, and he couldn’t blame her for that. On either side of the flotilla of asur vessels, the wide river was gradually filling with other ships. Mighty galleons of the Empire jostled with scruffy trading brigs, heavy barges travelling low in the water, sleek pleasure yachts, and smatterings of more exotic craft. The humans had a variety in their appearance which went far beyond the minor differences between high elves. No doubt this was due to their propensity for unguarded rutting. They spread themselves across the world like a plague.

Morgil admonished himself for his thoughts. While in Elthin Arvan he knew he must work hard to curb his disdain for the ways of men. It was the humans’ very strength in numbers which made them a valuable ally. Though their brutishness and waywardness was legendary, the alliance was necessary, and Artheris would not thank him for making her job more difficult than it already was.

Slowly, taking care to avoid the cluttered river traffic, the asur fleet made its way to the heart of the docks. As they went, Morgil found the astonished looks of the human sailors mildly amusing. In contrast to their clinker-built, bilge-laden craft, the hawkships of Ulthuan must have been like visitations from some race of gods. He enjoyed watching the smooth skill of the pilots as they guided the mighty ships to their allotted berths. The easy manoeuvrability of the pale vessels was in stark contrast to the wallowing and rocking of the human equivalents as they struggled to make their way into the navigation channels.

Despite himself, Morgil found a sneaking admiration develop inside him as they neared the heart of the mighty city. Long ago, he had read accounts of the travels of the young Finubar to the lands of men, and had only half believed them. Such suspicions were not really worthy of him with regard to the Phoenix King, and he was surprised and pleased to see that the writings had been accurate.

Though less impressive than the ancient towers and harbours of Lothern, the humans had created a fantastic edifice at the confluence of the Reik and Talabec. Mighty embankments of stone had been sunk into the old river edges and now rose high into the air, crowned with statues of past emperors and mighty warriors. Huge, bustling docks punctured the massive walls at regular intervals, and ships of all descriptions sat rocking gently in the swell. All decks were hives of activity, with men pouring over them to load or unload the cargo. Unwieldy cranes and pulleys hauled bags and crates from within the cavernous holds. Goods were then instantly transported into the heart of the city on the backs of mules or in lumbering wains.

Everywhere he looked, his senses were assailed. The smell was overpowering. Fish was the main odour, closely followed by the stench of sewerage. Tall chimneys belched a thick brown smoke into the morning air, staining the sky and adding a pungent smell of their own to the cacophony of scents wafting over the grey water. There was construction work going on everywhere. Many of the creaking towers and wood-frame buildings looked ready to collapse at any moment. Clearly they did so on a fairly regular basis, for there were many gaps in the crowded skyline. Most were hurriedly being filled by new constructions of dark brick, rough-cut stone, or stained wattle and daub. It was like a bizarre forest of twisted and grasping houses. When one fell, the clearing was soon filled with new growth, racing up towards the scarce sunlight and aiming to loom as high over its neighbours as possible.

The ships continued their stately progress, and the very centre of the city soon loomed ahead of them. The growing number of tall towers and ornate spires were now impressive by any standards, and vast thickets of them rose high into the cold air. A bewildering array of pennants and standards flapped and fluttered in the breeze. Morgil recognised the huge standard of the Empire on many of the buildings, but most other devices were completely new to him. He guessed many were the symbols of noble houses, just as existed on Ulthuan. Some even looked half elvish.

As the ship neared its vast allocated dock, Morgil looked with interest at the bustle on the near shore. Within the narrow gaps between the huge warehouses and storerooms, winding stairs of cut stone threaded their way upwards from the river edge. He caught glimpses of heavily shaded courtyards and rubbish-strewn streets. Wherever his gaze alighted, throngs of people were pushing past one another, calling out slogans or obscenities, hawking wares or drinking from pewter tankards, fighting, laughing, or flirting. It was a picture of vitality and excess, quite unlike the echoing streets of Lothern or Tor Achare.

But there was ugliness too. Morgil’s farseeing eyes caught plenty of signs of sickness and frailty in the many humans who milled about in the confined spaces. The plague of which he had heard so much had left its mark. It looked like whole areas had been cordoned off to ward against infection. The stain of age lay heavy on even the most imposing buildings, and there was none of the careful craftsmanship which marked the lowliest creations of his own kind. The whole place, despite its massive scale and imposing aura, seemed strangely frail and impermanent. They worked quickly, these humans, and created great things. But with their short lives, their propensity for self-destruction and corruption, would their achievements stand the cruel test of history?

Morgil found himself undecided on that question even as the flagship gently moved into its berth. On the quayside, several hundred humans waited for their arrival. Soldiers were everywhere, holding back the curious crowds with heavy halberds and pikes. He recognised a few asur waiting patiently amongst the throng. No doubt they were members of the embassy. There was also a phalanx of Imperial knights in gleaming armour. Most had the ridiculous facial hair so beloved of human warriors, but even Morgil had to admit they looked impressively deadly in their finery. Beside them stood humans in rich robes of crimson and purple. These were mostly fat, and had none of the aura of the warrior or the mage about them. Morgil found this confusing. Were they leaders of the people? If so, why were they not fighters or spellcasters? Another strange human custom, perhaps.

The ship touched the side lightly, and immediately elven shiphands leapt on to the stone quay and made the prow secure. A few moments later and the Asuryan’s Might was safely tied up. Morgil observed the quayside carefully. The humans had constructed an elaborate bridge, which was winched across the narrow gap with much effort and pulling of ropes. It looked like dozens of dignitaries had emerged to greet them. Most were dressed in ostentatious silks and looked ridiculous. Many gazed at the asur with barely-concealed wonder. But there were some tall warriors amongst them too, men of battle with stern faces and notched armour.

Artheris looked at Morgil with a cool smile on her elegant features.

‘Our first taste of Altdorf,’ she said.

The artfully carved bridge was made secure. At a hidden signal, the knights drew their swords in a glittering wave and raised them in salute. Artheris stepped carefully on to the bridge, and went smoothly to meet the lead fat man. Morgil watched her progress carefully, following close behind. The humans hid their awe poorly. It was as if the asur had descended from the heavens themselves to commune with the lowly inhabitants of the underworld.

The fat man came forward and bowed low to Artheris.

‘In the name of the Blessed Emperor Karl Franz, Master of the Empire of Men and the Regent of Holy Sigmar, I greet you. I am Gerhard, the Imperial Chancellor. I have been tasked to escort you to the embassy of your people, where you may refresh yourself before the council tomorrow morning at the palace. I trust and pray you had a pleasant crossing?’

A tall elf standing amongst the humans and wearing ambassador’s robes rolled his eyes wearily. He was probably bored of such speeches. Artheris herself inclined her head politely.

‘Please convey the greetings of the Phoenix King to the Emperor Karl Franz. I look forward to meeting him. Our peoples have much to learn from one another, and we have many matters to discuss.’

As she spoke, a line of Swordmasters silently left the ship and formed an honour guard around the archmage. Their cold grey eyes searched the crowd incessantly, looking for any sign of danger. Morgil, standing at her shoulder, did the same. The Imperial knights looked at them with some suspicion. There was a slight air of tension between the two sets of warriors, but nothing more than that. Morgil was pleased to find that when he looked into the eyes of the captain of the human soldiers, the human met his gaze solidly. There was curiosity in his expression, and a hint of resentment that his role as protector was being undermined, but no fear. He had the heart of a warrior, and that was reassuring.

Suddenly, there was a commotion amongst the human crowd. There were cries of alarm, and the knights placed their hands on their weapons nervously, pushing back against the struggling throng behind them.

‘A monster!’ shouted a thin voice over the tumult. The alarm began to turn to anger and fear.

Morgil turned quickly, fearing the worst, and saw Khera standing on the quayside looking impassively at the panicking crowd. She looked utterly unconcerned by the torrent of abuse and rage directed at her. Morgil was caught in a moment of rare indecision. Who knew what these ignorant humans would do if he made a move towards her? His first inclination was to angrily berate them for their stupidity, but he successfully restrained himself.

Then, the tension broke. Artheris gave a light laugh, and went over to stand by the lion.

‘Chancellor,’ she said, her voice clear and level. ‘This is no creature of darkness, but the creature of my bodyguard. It is the custom of his people to travel with such a companion from time to time. Believe me, there is no deadlier foe of our enemies than a white lioness of Chrace. I believe the females of her kind are even more deadly than the male. As am I, of course.’

Her words drifted across the crowd like a soothing balm, and seemed to be strangely audible over the noise even though her voice was soft and comforting. Morgil admired her skill. There was a subtle magic in her speech, and the raised voices ebbed to suspicious mutters.

The Chancellor gave a nervous laugh.

‘Of course!’ he said, his voice pinched and uncertain. ‘I myself have seen similar specimens in the Imperial Menagerie. Though it is unusual to see one walking freely beside men in this way. Forgive our people for their accusations. They are not used to seeing such majestic folk amongst them.’

The archmage bowed gracefully.

‘So it is always with new acquaintances. Now, we must not detain you here any longer. Perhaps you would be good enough to accompany me to the embassy? As we travel, you can tell me the history of this place.’

The chancellor beamed with pleasure, and instructed the knights to clear the path ahead of them. Slowly and deliberately, the delegation began to make its way from the quayside and up into the bustling streets of the capital. Behind them, more asur soldiers disembarked, drawing fresh gasps of amazement from the growing crowd. The remaining ships had also docked, and the numbers of elves arrayed in shining armour on the dockside grew.

Morgil smiled to himself. The humans would be talking of this day for years to come. Then he turned and followed the archmage as she walked ahead with the chancellor. The streets were narrowing, and there were plenty of opportunities for an ambush. With a hand on his axe, he kept close. He would have precious little rest over the next few days, and this was only the beginning.

Emil Schulmann smiled to himself.

‘He’s good, this one,’ he said to Friedrich, and handed him the spyglass.

The old man took the contraption with some suspicion. Emil knew he hated using it. To his old eyes, it must seem like a machine of strange and forbidding magic. There could be no other explanation for the way it brought distant objects into such clear focus, and the devices inscribed on its iron surface were strange and outlandish. Emil knew slightly better. It was dwarfish, and had been looted from one of Heinrich’s more remote armouries. But he enjoyed letting his men think there was something magical about it. It enhanced his prestige.

Reluctantly, Friedrich placed the tube to his good eye and took a moment to scan the view ahead.

‘Aha,’ he said at last. ‘I see them. They’re hiding along the road to the south. How did they know our route? A traitor?’

Friedrich handed the spyglass back to Emil, and looked worried. Emil shook his head.

‘No, I think not,’ Emil said, taking a second look himself. ‘I’d know if some of the men were less than committed. They’re perfectly aware of what Heinrich would do to them if they tried to go back, informer or no. My guess is that the man on our trail is just very good at his job.’

Emil put the spyglass down again and sheathed it carefully in its protective covering before putting it away. He felt a strange sensation within him. He ought to have been profoundly annoyed that Heinrich’s forces had tracked him down, but for some reason he wasn’t. Instead he was consumed by a new feeling, something like exhilaration. The prospect of a real contest, a trial of minds, gave him a peculiar rush.

Friedrich looked at him blankly.

‘So what do we do?’ he asked.

Emil thought for a moment.

‘If I were him,’ he mused, pulling his earlobe absently, ‘I wouldn’t have committed my full force to the ambush. It gives us options. We must be careful, for I don’t think this captain is stupid. But he can’t know how many of us there are here. If we sent a troop of fast riders into the trap, we might spring it. With his best men distracted, the rest of our forces can punch their way south and make it to the safety of the crossroads.’

Friedrich looked unconvinced.

‘It’s dangerous. We can’t afford a pitched battle, not in our state. We must reach the crossroads and rebuild from there.’

Emil grinned at him wolfishly.

‘Where’s your spirit of adventure, man? We’re dead men anyway. Let’s see how sharp this lackey of Heinrich’s is before we face the gallows, eh?’

Emil knew that Friedrich disliked his black sense of humour, but the old man merely nodded and got to his feet.

‘So be it,’ he said, wearily. ‘Let’s do it right, though.’

The two men hurried down from the high hilltop back to the heavily wooded hollow in which the bulk of his men waited patiently. After so many attacks by plague creatures, he was glad to see them still looking to him with trust in their eyes. Perhaps, given all they had been through working for the tyrannous Lord Heinrich, it would take more than he thought for them to foreswear involvement with the uprising.

‘Men!’ called out Emil in a strong voice. ‘We’re going to push on to the crossroads and take refuge there. There are more troops waiting for us at the Emperor’s Arms, and with their help we should be able to hold out there for a while and recover our strength. But we have to get there first. There’s a trap waiting for us ahead. I want twenty of you to come with me. Only volunteer if you’re a good rider and can handle your horse in the forest paths. I plan to lead Heinrich’s men a merry dance while the rest of you move towards the crossroads under the cover of the trees. If we get it right, we’ll arrive intact and ready to take the fight to Heinrich another day. Get it wrong, and we’ll be fighting on his terms, and I don’t want to do that. Now, who’s for it?’

A thicket of hands shot up, and some of the more hot-headed rebels mounted hurriedly and began to push forward.

Laughing with pleasure, Emil quickly selected twenty of the most promising, and divided them from the rest. He mounted himself.

‘Friedrich,’ he called down, ‘wait here for half an hour. We’ll attempt to draw the bulk of his forces away. Then head south as quickly as you can. There’ll be fighting enough for you, but by then we’ll have lured his best troops in a wild goose chase after us. Whoever this captain is, he’ll be dreaming of shadows in the trees for days!’

Emil gave his horse a kick, and the stallion reared theatrically before breaking into a gallop and charging away from the mass of men behind. He was followed immediately by the remaining twenty riders, and together the select band of men tore through the narrow hunting trails of the endless forests of the lower Reikland. Almost immediately his makeshift army of peasants and mercenaries was lost behind them, and the riders rode alone through the trees. Emil felt his exhilaration return as the land swiftly passed under the thumping hooves. With his hair flowing freely, he was reminded of why he had thrown off the yoke of serfdom.

He had never been particularly radical in his youth, and still didn’t think of himself as a traitor. He had no desire to see the Empire collapse in flames, nor to bring warfare to the lands of men where it was not needed. But the iron fist of Heinrich had fallen on his people too heavily and too often. The plague had been the last straw. When the starving populace had needed help and food, all they had got was a harsher levy and the attentions of the sadistic witch hunters. Only now, unfettered and living free under the ancestral forest, had true freedom returned. He was beholden to no one but himself, and surrounded by his brothers in arms. It was how a man should live, and, if it came to it, how a man should die.

The riders thundered through the brush and undergrowth. Emil knew each of his companions by name. They were good Reikland boys, and he trusted in their skills.

‘Heinrich’s dogs are ahead!’ he shouted to them as they rode. ‘We’ll ride into the trap, and wheel about before they can close it about us. Don’t get too carried away. Turn about at my mark. We’ll drag the bulk of them with us, and the rest will be able to fight their way to the crossroads with greater speed!’

The riders took all this in their stride, and there were curt nods all round. Every face was a tight mask of concentration. They raced onwards. Soon the trees opened up and the wide pitted surface of the great north road hove into view.

‘Nearly there,’ said Emil, muttering to himself.

They galloped down the road. On either side, the land rose sharply until they were entering a shadowed coomb with grey limestone crags towering into the cold sky. Emil looked at the site with approval. If he had been leading the Imperial forces, he might have planned the same thing.

Putting such thoughts to one side, Emil trained his eyes on the foliage on either side of the road. It couldn’t be much further. It was all about timing. Too soon, and the advantage would be gone. Too late, and they would all die pointlessly in a hail of arrows.

Then, he saw it. A lesser man might have missed the sign, but he was looking out for it and was used to the dappled light of the forest and its deceptive ways. The flash of a helmet, half-buried in the endless green, gave the location away.

‘About!’ Emil cried, harshly pulling his horse hard and hauling it back in the opposite direction.

All around him, the scene dissolved into chaos. Arrows whined across the space in front of him, and he was aware from the corner of his vision of men clambering laboriously from their hiding places. A horn rang out, and was answered further down the road. The trap had been triggered. Now, would they have enough speed to evade its teeth?

Emil kicked his horse savagely, and crouched low in the saddle. Even with foreknowledge of the ambush, it was a close-run thing. He felt an arrow slide wickedly close to his shoulder. With a pang of regret, he picked out the cries of one of his men who had come around too slowly. But most of the group were with him, and they rode hard back up the road.

After several yards, he risked a look back over his shoulder. Horsemen were on their trail, and behind them Emil could see men running along the track, leaping over the obstacles in their way in a vain attempt to keep up. This was good. With any luck, the rest of the soldiers would be fanning out through the trees to try and cut off any escape route. The more that followed them, the fewer there would be to hamper Friedrich.

‘Ride on, men!’ urged Emil, his heart thumping. ‘Keep them interested!’

The band of riders kept close together, and rode at a tight gallop back the way they had come, heading north-east towards the thickest part of the forest. There was a maze of faint hunting paths there, and Emil was confident he could lose any pursuit in the shadowed heart of the wood.

But then, something changed. He looked over his shoulder once more, and his heart missed a beat. The pursuit had been called off. He raised a warning hand, and the riders slowed.

‘They’ve withdrawn,’ he said, his expression one of disbelief.

One of the riders, a young man called Hans with messy auburn hair, pulled alongside.

‘Should we ride back?’ he asked, his face nearly as red as his hair.

Emil shook his head, and made to answer, but then a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts flew into them from the opposite side of the wall of trees about them. It was a warning volley: most thudded into tree trunks harmlessly. Emil felt his exuberance turn to horror. This had all been anticipated. But how?

‘Traitors!’ came a commanding voice from the shelter of the trees. ‘Dismount and give yourselves up, or we’ll slay you where you stand!’

Dozens of men stepped into the sunlight, many with freshly-loaded crossbows. It was hopeless. Emil looked around desperately. More of Heinrich’s men were coming. Seeing the odds, his own troops had raised their hands. His heart black, Emil prepared to do the same.

But then something in him snapped. With a howl of rage, Emil kicked his horse back into a startled gallop. He tore towards the line of soldiers in his way. A man in the front line stepped out wielding a heavy mace. The horse veered and rode him down. Bolts hissed past his head. He ducked down, trying to keep control of his wildly racing steed. By some miracle, the arrows directed at him missed. He rode onwards, almost blind with rage. Any man who stood in his path was barged aside.

Emil gritted his teeth, and kicked on. The cries of alarm and anger faded. He looked over his shoulder. He had broken free, but the thought gave him little comfort. Several of his men lay on the forest floor. The others were in enemy hands. And he knew with a terrible certainty that if his plan had been foreseen, then Friedrich’s movements were likely to have been allowed for as well. He had failed, and the rebellion had been dealt a mortal blow.

The pursuit behind him gave out. After more hard riding, Emil paused for a moment on a high ridge. He looked back warily, hoping to see at least one of his companions riding up to meet him.

None came. He could just make out a column of horses being led away along the distant road. Heinrich’s men had mostly disappeared from view. Emil was about to ride off again, but then something caught his eye. In the distance, a horseman emerged from the trees. He was tall, and dressed in the armour and garb of an Imperial captain. For a moment, their eyes met across the open space. Emil regarded the figure with a steady gaze, ready to ride off again in an instant, but something held him back. The horseman looked undecided too. Perhaps he was thinking whether to come up after him. Or maybe see to the pursuit of Friedrich’s men instead. Eventually, the Imperial captain turned his horse back into the trees and the muffled noise of barked orders rose up into the air.

Emil turned his horse around, his anger still intense. He could not let it end like this. Even though the chances were slim, he must try and fight his way back to Friedrich. If the old man could be warned, his forces probably still had the men to fight their way to the crossroads.

With a flick of his wrists, he pushed his steed back into a canter, and headed along the ridge, looking for a possible route around the men he knew now infested the trees between himself and his remaining troops. The future of the uprising hung by a thread. He had been outmanoeuvred and out-thought, but the game wasn’t over yet.

His face set into a grim mask of bitter hatred, Emil rode back into the cover of the forest. As the gods were his witness, he was not going to see his dreams unravel without a fight.

CHAPTER NINE

Struggling and kicking ineffectually, Alexander crashed upwards out of his nightmare. His eyes flickered open, and he gasped at the cold, dry air. He looked around blearily, and found himself surrounded by a dull red haze. There were dark shapes moving around him. He was lying face-up on a great slab of stone. As his vision cleared and senses returned, he saw that he was chained to it by his wrists and ankles. The events on the moor rushed back to him.

Alexander shook his head and tried to concentrate. He had been drugged, or perhaps was still under the influence of the spell that had robbed him of his wits. It was hard to recall exacted what had happened. He narrowed his eyes. Gradually, his sight clarified. He was in a dark chamber lit by guttering torches. Despite their burning, it was cold and clammy. He felt like he was underground, buried in some tomb of an ancient warrior-king.

Alexander lifted his head again, and the shapes came into better focus. He recognised the iron visors of the horsemen, and the memory of the encounter at the river came rushing back. With a chill in his stomach, he picked out the aura of dark magic flowing from them. Why had he not seen it before, out in the open before the casting had felled him? He must have been exhausted. That was the only excuse he could come up with, at any rate.

‘Welcome back, Bright wizard,’ came a voice he didn’t recognise.

Alexander frowned, looking around him for the source of the words. A tall figure came forward towards him holding an iron staff. He was draped in dark robes of silk, and wore a heavy chain around his neck. Somewhat to Alexander’s surprise, he was a human, and with little sign of mutation or excess in his features. He had a thin beard and long, luxurious black hair. Only when he looked into the man’s eyes did Alexander see the mania of Chaos reflected back at him. The figure bore the look of a sorcerer, though one relatively new to the dark arts. The warping effects on long service to the Chaos gods had evidently not yet taken their full toll.

‘I trust you enjoyed your dreams,’ the sorcerer said, smiling coldly. ‘Some never return from them. You seem to have a certain strength of will at least. My creatures told me you were hard to subdue, so don’t feel too upset about what happened. Everyone can have a bad day.’

Alexander felt the last effects of his drugged state begin to slip away. He let his eyes run around the room, probing for any sign of weakness. None were obvious.

‘Where’s my staff?’ he said, and immediately regretted it. His mouth felt like the final resting place of a number of small, dry animals. As soon as the croaked words left his lips, he was also then aware of the hammering headache in his temples. It was like the worst hangover he had ever had.

‘In safekeeping,’ said the sorcerer. ‘We can’t have you using it again just yet. Not until we know a little more about you.’

Alexander let his head fall back against the cool stone, willing the thumping pain to subside a little so he could concentrate.

‘No one knows you’re here, Bright wizard, and no one ever shall,’ the sorcerer continued. ‘But, come now. We can’t keep using such formal titles. My name is Jurgen von Rachsdorf, and I run things around here. As for you, your life depends on how helpful you are to us. First, your name.’

Despite the headache, Alexander’s mind began to work. Despite the outward bluster, this Rachsdorf didn’t look entirely in control of his emotions. Something in his aura gave away a certain fragility. There might be value in pushing him a little.

‘Helmut de Mortivar,’ said Alexander dryly. ‘And I’ve never heard of you. Von Rachsdorf sounds like a noble family, but there are only two lords in these parts, Heinrich and Grauenburg. I’m guessing you bought your title, if there’s anything to it at all.’

Rachsdorf’s cool visage fell away entirely at that.

‘What do you know of such things, peasant?’ the sorcerer roared, and his voice rose in pitch alarmingly. He controlled himself, and took a deep breath. ‘You appreciate nothing of such matters. The only thing that should concern you is that you are in my power, and at my mercy. The former is extensive, the latter is not.’

Alexander nodded weakly. So the man was volatile. That was something.

‘Very well,’ Alexander said more deferentially. ‘Perhaps you would be as good as to explain what’s going on?’

Rachsdorf recovered his poise, relaxed, and leaned casually against the wall nearest Alexander’s head.

‘You could do much the same yourself,’ the sorcerer said. ‘There’s a place near here, a hidden place tucked away in one of the strange rock formations that make this country so interesting. It has recently run into some trouble. To put it more bluntly, someone found his way in and killed all the priests while they were performing their rites. As if this were not bad enough, a servant of mine, one of my most trusted aides, was also killed in a most brutal manner. I don’t suppose you know anything about this, do you?’

Alexander felt his spirits sink. Clearly Rachsdorf was up to some petty Chaos scheme which had been destroyed by the witch hunters. Being mistaken for one of those butchers was just insulting.

‘Of course not,’ Alexander said, letting his contempt for the idea show through. ‘I have no business with you or anyone else in this blighted wilderness. You have the wrong man.’

Rachsdorf looked down at him sourly.

‘You’re in no position to dictate terms, Herr Mortivar,’ he said. ‘And I don’t believe you. You will tell me what you’re doing here, or your death will be a perfection of agony.’

Alexander clenched his fists in frustration. It was bad enough being interrogated when you had something to hide. It was even worse being mistaken for someone else.

‘Look,’ he said, keeping his anger in check with difficulty. ‘I really had nothing to do with the killing of your priests. But even if I did, why would I tell a traitor like you anything?’

Rachsdorf’s eyes flashed with a brief spasm of anger once more, but he brought it under control. He seemed on the verge of mania fairly constantly. This could either be a help or a hindrance. Without his staff, Alexander was weak, but there still might be things he could do.

‘You are as obstinate as you are stupid,’ Rachsdorf said acidly. ‘Perhaps you truly were not aware of what happened to the cabal in the highlands. It matters not. Their work was mostly done, and their places have already been taken by others. Our movement grows in strength daily. With every passing hour, His coming is hastened. You cannot prevent it, Imperial wizard.’

Rachsdorf leaned forward, a greedy look in his eyes.

‘The storm is coming,’ he said, an edge of glee creeping into his unbalanced voice. ‘My Master’s forces muster themselves, and far greater hosts are marching south. When they come, their faithful servants will be rewarded, and their enemies punished. Our power grows, and great magic has been woven. The time is nearly at hand, and the fruits of all our labour are ripe for plucking. You have stumbled into our midst at the most opportune moment. Perhaps you shall be the first to witness His coming.’

Alexander felt his disgust with Rachsdorf rise. The man was a fool, meddling in things he didn’t understand.

‘I’ve heard talk like this before,’ the Bright wizard said coldly. ‘So you’ve made some pact with the Ruinous Powers. What makes you think they’ll keep their side of the bargain? If you’re lucky, only your life will be forfeit.’

As Alexander spoke, the blood seemed to drain from Rachsdorf’s face.

‘You’re in no position to be talking like that, Herr Mortivar,’ he said. A gleam of cruelty had lit up in his eyes. ‘Perhaps you truly know nothing of the events at the cabal. No matter. You will still serve the cause you so disdain, but not in a way you will find pleasant.’

Rachsdorf turned to the silent armour-clad figures standing in the shadows.

‘Take him to the altar,’ he said, curtly. ‘The sacrifice of one so steeped in magic will no doubt hasten His coming. And it will wipe the sanctimony from him.’

The silent guards, still looking just as they had done when riding, came forward. They roughly unshackled Alexander. Their hands, encased in iron gauntlets, were ice-cold. There was no exposed human flesh on them at all, and Alexander doubted whether there was any under the armour either. They could be golems, or familiars, or just poor souls condemned to be absorbed into the armour they may once have worn in the normal way.

Once his hands were free, Alexander attempted to make a break and throw himself at Rachsdorf. The chill automata on either side of him were both too quick and too strong. The tight shackles around his ankles had impeded the flow of blood to his legs, and when hauled to his feet he felt weak and shaky. His head still ached, and his mouth was as dry as the desert.

‘What will this accomplish?’ Alexander said contemptuously to Rachsdorf. ‘I’ll warn you for the last time. You are marked as a traitor, and you will share the fate of all your kind. Repent now, and your death will be swift and merciful.’

Rachsdorf looked at him incredulously.

‘You only have a few moments of life left to you, wizard,’ he snapped. ‘Do not sully them with empty boasts.’

He turned to one of the warriors.

‘Take him to the altar and bind him. I’ll be with you shortly. We’ll start the ceremony immediately. I want this unbeliever dead within the hour and his soul writhing in the lap of the Master of Change in torment.’

The blank iron face nodded, and Alexander found himself being dragged roughly out of the chamber and along a high vaulted corridor. Struggling against his captors was futile. Their grip was as strong and unyielding as stone.

They descended further into the underground complex. As they went, Alexander could see it had once been a temple. He could see that many of the sacred icons and motifs on the walls had been crudely defaced and replaced with the eight-pointed star. Here and there a different symbol had been daubed on the ancient walls. It was a circle with what looked like flames licking upwards on either side. The Mark of Tzeentch. Alexander felt a fresh sickness welling up within him. The whole place had been turned into a den of dark magic. Even without using his augmented senses he could almost see it sliding down the walls and pooling in the shadows.

They continued to descend. Rather than getting colder and darker, the air began to heat up. The light was a lurid purple. Ahead, he could see the ornate entrance to a great central chamber. Something was moving within, but plumes of sacrificial smoke clouded his vision. The noise of chanting echoed around the narrow walls of the corridor.

But there was something else, something terrible, something consumed with malice, something that was almost alive.

With a sudden shiver of fear, Alexander realised who ‘He’ was. Frantically, he struggled against the vice-like grip of his custodians, writhing against their implacable hold on him. Despite his training, he began to be overwhelmed with panic. Everything around him, the sickness, the wrongness, augmented his terror.

The automata studiously ignored his cries of anguish, and he was propelled forwards into the vast chamber. The noise of the chanting rose to a fever pitch, and the roar of the other presence rose in volume.

Alexander looked in horror at what stood before him. This was the end. ‘He’ was waiting.

Johannes Fassbinder surveyed the scene before him with some satisfaction. The fighting had been hard, and there could be no genuine pleasure in killing one’s own kind. But the traitors were wounded, perhaps mortally so. Many had been hunted down in the trees, and the attempt to trigger the ambush on the road had been successfully thwarted. Fassbinder allowed himself a brief moment of self-congratulation. It had been a brave attempt, but foolhardy. Schulmann was a daring and resourceful adversary, though he needed to learn patience. Fassbinder found himself wondering what the man himself was like. He imagined that the one lone escapee from the earlier encounter was probably Schulmann. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to avoid arrows. That was as useful an attribute for a commander as anything else.

His thoughts were interrupted by Kirchner’s arrival. He was bloodied and tired-looking.

‘Report?’ said Fassbinder.

The lieutenant smiled through the grime and caked blood.

‘Good, sir,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘A group of them managed to fight their way through to the Emperor’s Arms, but we killed many. I would guess that more are scattered towards the east in the deep forest. I’ve sent men after them. The bulk of my command have now regrouped, and await your orders.’

Fassbinder nodded, and considered his options. The encounter had gone well. Schulmann, if indeed he had survived, was separated from his command for the time being. The rebels would be demoralised, and even if they managed to rendezvous with reinforcements at the Emperor’s Arms, he still had enough men to finish the job.

‘We cannot let them rest,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘We will give our troops a moment to recover themselves, but then we must march onwards towards the crossroads. If we allow it, they’ll recover their strength. A swift, decisive stroke is required. This rebellion must be quelled by removing its head. Once the leaders have been killed or taken, the rest will fall apart.’

Kirchner nodded, and made to leave.

‘Aye, sir,’ he said, with approval. ‘I’ll tell the men.’

Kirchner was about to turn back, when the noise of hooves thudding against the grey earth caught their attention. A rider in Heinrich’s colours, sable and silver, entered the clearing and was stopped by the sentries. After a moment’s consultation, he was waved through, and Fassbinder waited for him to arrive. His heart suddenly misgave him. A message from Heinrich at this stage was unlikely to bring welcome news. The rider dismounted and came towards him. He bowed low.

‘Captain Fassbinder,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I finally found you. It’s been hard to pick up your trail.’

‘We haven’t exactly been advertising our presence here,’ said the captain, dryly. ‘And who are you?’

‘Magnus Aschenwald,’ said the man, brushing himself down and handing him a roll of parchment with their lord’s personal seal on it. ‘Messenger from Lord Heinrich. I’m afraid you’re not going to like my tidings.’

Fassbinder broke the seal and quickly read the contents of the message.

‘Not now…’ he breathed to himself, feeling his earlier satisfaction drift away like ashes in the wind.

‘What is it?’ asked Kirchner urgently, a look of concern etched on his face.

Fassbinder took a deep breath, and fixed the messenger with a look of loathing.

‘Lord Heinrich says that his scouts have reported movement from the north,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘A column of Chaos warriors is marching. More men are needed to defend Castle Heinrich, and he is taking his tithe from us. Half of our men are being recalled.’

Kirchner rounded on the messenger.

‘Have you gone mad?’ the lieutenant cried, his voice reflecting his frustration. ‘We’ve been harrying this rebellion for weeks. We’ve almost snuffed it out. With respect, Heinrich is…’

Fassbinder held up a warning hand, cutting Kirchner off before he could say anything he might live to regret. He turned towards the messenger and looked at him darkly.

‘My lieutenant speaks intemperately,’ Fassbinder said, maintaining his calm, flat tone. ‘But he’s right. If we could have a few more days, this whole business will be over. I could bring all of my men back to the castle. We must have more time.’

The messenger looked uncomfortable.

‘I beg forgiveness, captain,’ he said in an apologetic tone. ‘I was told to convey that this matter has been settled.’

Aschenwald lowered his voice a little.

‘If I may speak candidly,’ he said. ‘The lord’s in a bad mood, even for him. The war isn’t going well. The reinforcements from Lord Grauenburg haven’t arrived yet. Everything is being scaled back in order to hold the line. He will not relent on this.’

Fassbinder felt his heart sink. He had little choice but to comply. He turned away from the messenger, feeling the bitterness well up within him.

‘He asks the impossible!’ he hissed to himself, thumping a fist into the palm of his hand in frustration. ‘We almost had him. The rebellion is broken. Just one more push…’

He took a deep breath, and looked up into the cloudy sky. Kirchner and the messenger both waited patiently for him to make his pronouncement. Fassbinder searched through the available options, not liking any of them. There was always the possibility of ignoring the order, but then he would be little better than Schulmann himself. The Empire was only great because of the rule of law and iron discipline of its defenders. So he had always taught his subordinates, and so he had always believed. For all his faults, Heinrich was no idiot. If a Chaos army really had got close enough to threaten the castle, then it was his duty to release more men to its defence. There was no choice. He took his time, but the answer was never in doubt.

‘Very well,’ Fassbinder said at last, feeling somewhat empty. ‘The men need a moment’s rest. When they’re recovered, the reinforcements will ride back with you. Those of us left will just have to bring Schulmann in on our own.’

Kirchner began to protest, but Fassbinder gave him a look which quickly silenced him. Aschenwald bowed again, and withdrew.

‘We’ve been stabbed in the back,’ muttered Kirchner, looking bitterly at Fassbinder.

The captain kept his expression even, though on the inside he was twice as frustrated as his deputy. This was to have been his triumph.

‘Sigmar provides,’ was all he said. ‘We’ll just have to think more creatively. Now go and get some rest. I need to think about our next step from here. Whatever happens, Schulmann can’t be allowed to escape. We’ve got this close, and I’m not going back to Castle Heinrich without him either dead or in irons.’

CHAPTER TEN

Morgil stood in the main courtyard of the embassy, silently waiting for the archmage. Artheris’s honour guard of Swordmasters were arrayed ready for departure, the morning sun glinting coldly from their silver armour. Khera nuzzled against Morgil’s side, and he absently ran his fingers through the long hair at the base of her neck. He looked up at the outer walls of the embassy. They rose high into the clear sky, tall and graceful. The surroundings were peaceful and serene. Water cascaded from marble fountains. The buildings behind them were harmonious in their proportions and constructed from flawless white stone. But for all its beauty, the embassy was a mere reminder of the homeland, a reconstruction of the smallest part of the glory of Ulthuan. It was a jewel amidst filth.

Morgil turned from his thoughts. The ambassador, Armorel, had emerged from behind the white doors of the inner sanctum.

‘The archmage is coming now,’ Armorel said to Morgil. ‘We’ve been through the plans once more. Let us hope this meeting with the Emperor goes more smoothly.’

Morgil raised an eyebrow.

‘Things are not going well?’

Armorel shrugged.

‘The Emperor had hoped for twice the numbers from Ulthuan. He’ll send another letter, this time by griffon rider. Who knows? It may even be enough to tempt the Phoenix King to come himself. In the meantime, the matter of where to deploy the forces already here is taking longer than expected. Asuryan willing, everything will be settled this morning.’

As he finished speaking, Artheris herself emerged into the courtyard. The Swordmasters raised their blades in acknowledgement, and both Armorel and Morgil bowed. In the full blaze of the morning sun Artheris looked exquisitely attired. Her long hair had been tied back, accentuating her pale, flawless skin. She walked easily and fluidly, showing few of the subtle signs of fatigue which Morgil had witnessed on the voyage across the sea. Amidst the wide lawns and gentle fountains of the court, her natural cool poise was placed in its perfect setting.

‘The guard is prepared, my lady archmage,’ said Morgil. ‘We may leave when you’re ready.’

‘We’ll go at once. The Emperor must not be kept waiting.’

At a signal from the ambassador, the gates in the outer wall opened smoothly. The noise of the street, its bustle and chaos, rushed quickly into the hallowed place. Morgil couldn’t prevent the slightest frown of distaste from marking his features, but quickly put it to one side. The Swordmasters marched briskly out ahead of them and formed a protective cordon. Morgil, Khera and the archmage followed, and the entourage began the short journey from the embassy to the Imperial Palace.

As they filed into the wide street, the humans swiftly got out of the way. Familiar looks of suspicion and amazement marked their faces. Morgil ignored them. He was satisfied to see the Swordmasters doing their job efficiently. There were no better close combat troops in the entire army. Except White Lions, of course, though he was biased on that score.

The retinue passed from the wide open spaces of the elven quarter into the more closely-packed streets leading to the sprawling palace complex. There they were met by a company of human soldiers. The Imperial captain, a dour-faced man named Erinstadt, bowed low to Artheris. He exchanged a few words with the captain of the Swordmasters, and the humans fanned out on either side of the retinue. The Swordmasters formed a tight inner circle of steel around the archmage and Morgil, and the delegation set off once more.

The streets began to fill with people. Morgil focussed his mind on the situation around them. It was in such places that the danger came. There had been no sign of any trouble so far, but it was in his nature to be distrustful. In particular, he didn’t like the overhanging eaves of the great houses lining the streets. At the very least, the risk of being hit by the foul slops thrown from the highest storeys was unacceptably high. The filthiness of the human inhabitants of such places was beyond description.

‘You hate this place, don’t you?’ said Artheris as they walked along a busy thoroughfare. As they went, a few drunkards in the endless crowds called out obscenely, but their crude voices were rapidly lost behind them. The Swordmasters were intimidating enough to allow them swift passage through even the densest throng.

‘I do not,’ said Morgil. ‘I admire their energy. If we had such numbers on the streets of Lothern then we’d have no fears of decay. But I admit they dismay me. They’re too careless, too corruptible. While we’re here I’ll not rest easy. The chance of attack is too high.’

Artheris made to reply, but a sudden commotion up ahead distracted her. The Swordmasters had noticed it too. In an instant, their mighty blades were raised. Khera gave a rumbling growl.

‘Something’s amiss,’ said Morgil. ‘We’ve made preparations for a swift departure, should trouble arise.’’

‘I know the arrangements,’ said Artheris, keeping her eyes fixed on the growing noise ahead. Her voice was calm, but there was a pronounced note of steel in it. Her eyes narrowed, and she seemed to withdraw into herself slightly.

‘Druchii!’ she hissed, and Morgil felt his blood run cold.

Suddenly, figures were bursting from the milling crowd. They looked at first like humans, but their movements gave them away. Dark elves were in the crowd. Morgil pushed his way to the edge of the Swordmaster cordon. It was hard to see how many of them there were. The humans in the street around them scattered instantly, clutching their belongings as they went and screaming with fear. The Imperial troops were slow to react, and several were cut down by the dark elves before they could draw their weapons. The Swordmasters responded instantly. Their massive blades whirled, and dark blood flew high into the air. The cries of druchii were mingled with those of the humans.

A dark elf warrior charged towards Morgil. The White Lion disdainfully whirled his axe into the path of the attacker’s curved sword. The blade snapped upwards with a clash of sparks. The attacker changed tack, aiming a low kick at Morgil’s ankle whilst stabbing sideways with a second knife into his torso. His movements were quick and assured, but Morgil was a foe beyond his skills. The White Lion grabbed the dark elf’s breastplate and pulled him roughly towards him. He smashed his free fist into the attacker’s face. The warrior crumpled with pain, and staggered backwards. Morgil swung the axe, disembowelling him. A sheen of wine-dark blood splattered across the cobbles of the busy street. With a gurgling sigh, the warrior collapsed on to the ground and his remaining knife rolled free from his pale hands.

Morgil risked a quick look upwards. Khera had leapt at the throat of an assassin. Her jaws were already drenched in blood. Most of the humans in the street had fled, but there were mercenaries fighting alongside the dark elves. Morgil’s eyes narrowed. They would pay for their stupidity. The Swordmasters were fighting any assassins trying to break the cordon with typical calm, but there were surprising numbers of assailants. More raced out from the shadows. Together with their human allies, they outnumbered the archmage’s retinue. The delegation needed to withdraw.

Morgil was interrupted by a fresh attack. He let fly a punching blow with the axe before crouching under a wild swipe with a wickedly curved short sword. Then Khera burst from behind him and leapt up at the chest of the warrior. With a thunderous roar of aggression, the lioness barrelled into the slender form of the dark elf and the two tumbled backwards to the ground. Morgil turned to smash a second warrior’s armour with a mighty blow from his axe, then hacked at his neck. The druchii slumped to the stone, decapitated. Khera made her own kill, shaking the mutilated body of the dark elf with abandon.

Around Morgil the Swordmasters pressed forward, locked in deadly combat with the druchii assailants. They were murderously efficient, but badly outnumbered. The White Lion stepped backwards and leaned his head towards Artheris.

‘We must withdraw!’ he cried over the confused noise of battle. ‘You’re not safe here.’

Artheris nodded quickly. She looked calm and focussed.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Do what you must.’

Morgil cried out over the noise of the fighting to the Swordmasters. The plans had been carefully laid. All knew there was a side street a short way ahead which led directly back to the embassy. The Emperor could fret as much as he liked about punctuality when all this had died down. The priority was to get the archmage out of harm’s way.

Once the signal had been given, the Swordmasters acted quickly. The dark elves were pushed back by a well executed counter-charge. Half of the guards remained in the cordon to hold them off. The rest hurried the archmage to one side, remaining around her in an unbroken circle. Morgil followed them, pushing roughly against any humans, allied or otherwise, who blundered into his way. The entourage broke free and hastened down the side street and back towards the embassy. Khera loped alongside them, her face stained with blood.

Morgil stole a quick look back. From what he could make out, the remaining Swordmasters seemed to be pinning the dark elves back with success. None had broken through to pursue them. A few of Erinstadt’s human troops had remained with his contingent, looking shaken. The street was empty. They were free, and away from danger.

They rounded a corner. A barrier of rubble, logs and refuse had been placed across their way. It was more than eight feet high. It must have been erected during the night. They had been drawn into a dead end.

‘Fall back!’ Morgil cried, but it was too late. From the buildings on either side of them, a flurry of crossbow bolts flew into the confined space. Imperial troops collapsed to the ground, clutching at bolts in agony. The Swordmasters’ blades flashed, and darts were cut from the air. One Swordmaster leapt in front of Artheris at the last second, taking two bolts meant for her. His actions may have saved her life, but they couldn’t prevent every shaft from finding its target. With a cry of pain, the archmage staggered and fell to one knee, her side pierced with a dark-feathered bolt.

Swordmasters pulled her quickly back from the barrier, and the surviving members of the entourage hastened back the way they had come. With cold certainty, Morgil knew their movements were being controlled. As they tried to retreat, a fresh line of dark elf warriors appeared across the narrow street, barring the route back to the main thoroughfare. They were arrayed openly for battle. Seeing the asur in disorder, they raced forward to meet them, blades flashing in the dull light of the street.

Morgil made a quick assessment of the situation. Their only hope was to engage the warriors. If they tried to scale the barrier the crossbows would finish them off. With a cry of anger and hatred, Morgil threw himself into the oncoming dark elf assassins, sweeping all before him with his axe. At his side, Khera bounded forward, her massive claws raking at the faces of the warriors before her. If they had any advantage at all, it was the presence of the white lioness. There were few who could stand against such a beast. She tore through their ranks, scything and crushing, using her enormous power to bludgeon through their assault.

The surviving Swordmasters had reformed their defensive line. Wherever the dark elves tried to break through towards the prone Artheris, a glittering, whirling barrier of blades prevented them. The druchii assassins came forward time and again, their dancing poisonblades countering the thrusts of the mighty asur swords blow for blow. The combat was bitter and unforgiving. The druchii now outnumbered them even more, but the asur fought with a desperate ferocity.

Morgil was in the heart of the fighting. He took on two of the assassins directly, sliding heavily into one of them before she could get her weapon into position, and punching the other square in the face. Even under his helmet, the second dark elf staggered backwards from the blow. Morgil spun around and traded lightning quick blows with the first assassin. She was forced back. The combat ended with a vicious swing of Morgil’s axe-blade which severed her sword-arm.

Sensing the remaining assailant coming up behind him, Morgil ducked down low and half-rolled to one side. His trailing boot caught the dark elf on the knee, and a satisfying crack told him the blow had caused damage. Morgil jumped back up to his full height and lunged with the axe-blade towards the warrior’s shoulder. The dark elf parried, but the force of the blow knocked him off balance.

Feeling a bitter sense of satisfaction, Morgil buried the blade deep into his chest and wrenched it out roughly. Blood and bone sprayed into the air, and the warrior staggered to the ground, watching in horror as his rib cage opened up and his life drained away before his eyes.

The fighting was heavy on all sides. Even more dark elves arrived – where were they coming from? Khera was in the thick of it, and the dark elves had no answer to her vast bulk and savagery. Thin lines of blood stained her flank where weapons had bit home, but her pelt was thick and such minor scratches barely troubled her. Morgil gave a grim smile as he saw her bear down on an armour-clad druchii and rip his throat, shaking the corpse with abandon before dropping it and moving on to the next assailant.

Still they came. A Swordmaster fell directly in front of Morgil, his noble face cut open from a dark elf blade. Morgil immediately plunged into the gap and swung his axe in a wide, low arc. Ahead, he could see a tall figure at the rear of the dark elf contingent place a staff on the ground and mouth some foul speech. Morgil spat contemptuously. A sorcerer. He furiously battered the warrior aside, and rushed over to where Artheris lay. For the moment, the Swordmasters and Khera would have to hold the line.

‘My lady,’ he said quickly. ‘Can you rise? There is a sorcerer.’

Artheris smiled weakly. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear and steady.

‘Leave him to me,’ she said. ‘Concentrate on those warriors.’

Morgil nodded, and rushed back into the fray. A moment later, the sorcerer struck. His staff flung screaming bolts of snaking, ink-black matter into the melee. Swordmasters and human troops were blasted from their feet. Armour was split apart, helmets smashed. The sorcerer threw more deadly streaks of smoking sorcery. One bolt narrowly missed Morgil as he ducked beneath it. As the dark magic passed, he could feel its malign aura sweep over him. It slammed into one of the last remaining human knights. He was hurled into the air, limbs twitching, before crashing into the barricade with a sickening snap of bone.

The sorcerer raised his iron staff, and new energies burst into being around it. Morgil steeled himself. But then bolts of silver light sprung from behind him and tore towards the sorcerer. The dark elf hurriedly raised a protective ward about him, and the silver darts shattered against it like a shower of jewels. More followed, smashing into the ward with increasing speed and frequency. The sorcerer fell to one knee, battered down by the cumulative force of the new magic. Morgil smiled grimly. Even wounded, Artheris was a match for his dark lore. But she would not last long in her wounded state. Time was still of the essence.

Morgil looked around him quickly. There were few of the retinue left, and the dark elves were in the ascendancy. He tore into the warrior before him, taking his legs out from under him with a mighty swing of the axe before plunging the blade deep into his neck. With Khera at his side, he strode forward, his axe singing, eyes blazing. A fresh warrior leapt up to confront him, and he prepared to dispatch her with the same ease as the rest.

But this time it was different. Morgil swung the axe with blinding speed, hoping to catch the warrior’s trailing thigh with the blade before returning to finish the job. She was too fast, and span out of the attack. Almost too quickly to notice, she flicked a spiked dagger into his face as she turned, and immediately whirled back to renew the attack with a curved short sword dripping in poison. Morgil leapt backwards, letting the dagger fly past his cheek as he parried the sword with the handle of his axe. She was quick, very quick. This was no ordinary warrior.

The White Lion swung the axe heavily towards her, moving it swiftly in a figure of eight motion and limiting the assassin’s space to move. She responded by falling back and leaping high into the air, kicking her spiked boot out at his neck as she sailed over the arc of the axe blade. Morgil dropped down suddenly to his left and punched up with the axe, aiming to catch her on the descent and knock her off balance. The axe connected with something, but it was her own blade, brought down with blistering speed to counteract the anticipated blow. Morgil pushed heavily against the locked weapons, and his greater strength forced her briefly backwards.

Their faces came together for the merest of moments. He found himself looking into two dark eyes, two wells of hatred and bitterness. In the dilated pupils he thought for a second he caught a glimpse of his own mask of concentrated aggression. Their expressions were not so different from one another. Two sides of a coin, fighting the eternal battle, gradually becoming more and more alike.

The momentum of the movement thrust them apart once more. Morgil made to leap after her, but a fresh commotion distracted both of them. Many of the Swordmasters around the archmage had been killed, and only a few remained defiantly standing over the limp form of Artheris. On every side, dark elves swarmed forward, aided by new blasts of snake-like force from the figure of the sorcerer. Artheris was clearly flagging. But, at last, reinforcements had arrived. They had come just in time.

With hope renewed, Morgil pressed forward. Behind newly-arrived asur warriors, lines of Imperial troops could be seen bringing up the rear. Morgil saw the sorcerer look around him uneasily and begin to back away. The dark elves, caught between the two foes, were cut down mercilessly by the fresh troops. They had already lost many of their number in the assault, and now they were hopelessly outnumbered. The tide had turned, and their formation broke. The battle became a slaughter, and the druchii were now the prey.

Morgil turned to the warrior before him. She curled her lip in disdain, and leapt towards him once more. Clearly she had not lost her taste for the fight. Morgil raised his axe, expecting their duel to recommence. But her movement was a feint, and one of dazzling speed and subtlety. She darted under the savage thrust of his blade and threw herself past his guard. Morgil spun around quickly, trying to regain his balance and bring the curve of his weapon to bear. Too late, he realised he was no longer the target. Seeing that all was nearly lost, the dark elf had clearly decided on one last gamble. Pulling a second curved dagger from her armour, she twisted acrobatically away from Morgil’s attack and hurled it towards Artheris.

Morgil followed its trajectory with horror, seeing immediately that it would hit her. He roared out a warning. Even the Swordmasters couldn’t react in time. The blade spun onwards with deadly speed. But it never found its target. Khera, bloodied but unbowed, flung herself in its path. The knife sunk into the flesh up to the hilt. The huge animal roared with agony and crashed back to earth heavily.

‘Khera!’ cried Morgil, suddenly consumed by fear.

He turned to the dark elf, who backed away from him frantically. Morgil felt all restraint leave him. With an incoherent howl of rage, he launched himself forward, swinging the axe in a maelstrom of dazzling strokes. The dark elf retreated before the elemental display, looking desperately over to the sorcerer. The tall figure was backing away himself, seemingly preparing some new spell. All around him dark elf warriors were being cut down like wheat in the harvest. Blind to anything except vengeance, Morgil strode towards his prey with a dark fire in his eyes. The axe was like a reed in his hands, and the weariness of battle had fallen from him in an instant.

The dark elf hurled her remaining weapon straight at him, and turned on her heels. Morgil smacked the spinning blade aside with his axe and charged after her. She was trying to get to the sorcerer, perhaps hoping he might be able to help her. But something was happening to the tall dark-robed figure. His body was shimmering out of focus. With the assassination attempt foiled, he was clearly using his arts to depart the scene.

The assassin ran directly up to the sorcerer, grabbing his cloak frantically. But the sorcerer smiled, and pushed her viciously backwards with a blast from his staff. Then he winked out of existence. A faint smell of ozone was the only residual clue to his presence. With a look of horror and betrayal, the dark elf whirled around quickly.

Her prospects were not good. Fresh asur and human soldiers had swarmed into the narrow space. The remaining dark elves were being butchered. Morgil advanced towards the assassin, relishing the chance for vengeance. Once more, their eyes met.

With incredible strength and speed, she sprung upwards and grasped an overhanging section of the wall behind her. Morgil prepared to leap after her, but one of the remaining warriors blocked his path. With a huge swipe of his axe, Morgil embedded his blade deeply into his armour-clad chest, causing the metal to buckle and split. He flung the limp body of the warrior aside contemptuously. The assassin clambered upwards, and was away, climbing into an open window and disappearing from view. The White Lion made to follow her, when he heard Khera’s roar of death agony. Suddenly, all thought of combat left him.

Morgil turned. Khera’s body lay amidst the carnage. A feeling of dread overtook him. He hurried over to her, heedless of all else happening around him. He lowered himself to her side. Around him, the sounds of battle abated as the dark elves were finished off. Khera’s amber eyes were weak and lacking in focus. Her breathing was shallow and came with difficulty. With some effort, she emitted a low rumble of recognition.

Morgil felt hot tears start in his eyes. The bond between them was inexplicable to outsiders. It was often dismissed as sentiment. But each had saved the life of the other more times than he could remember. Now the poisoned blade was doing its work, and the lioness was dying. Morgil looked down grimly, locked in grief.

With a grunt of pain, Khera tried to rise, but could no longer do so. Her huge body shuddered, and then lay still. Gradually, painfully, the amber light in her eyes dimmed and faded.

Morgil remained fixed in his position for some time, unable to move or respond. The world around him became a blur. Voices rose and fell, but they were insubstantial and echoing. The loss was so acute he felt physically wounded by it. His own breathing became strained. He stared down at the still form of the ivory lioness, the creature he had raised from a cub to fight by his side.

Only after what seemed like an eternity, his wits began to return. He looked up. Artheris was there, her own face drawn with pain and sorrow. She looked at him, but said nothing. Only then did Morgil realise that his face was lined with tears. Normally such emotion would have shamed him, but he cared nothing for it now. He rose shakily.

‘I will avenge her,’ he said, his voice trembling with emotion.

‘Many asur have died,’ Artheris replied. ‘You’re needed here.’

Morgil stared back at her, his face tormented.

‘An assassin escaped,’ he said, his grief sliding easily into hatred. ‘I can find her. Honour demands it.’

Artheris placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

‘Do not do this, Morgil,’ she said. ‘Your rage blinds you. Let fury be your guide, and I’ll not be able to save you a second time.’

Morgil’s eyes suddenly shone with a feral light. Artheris let go of his shoulder. Even she seemed taken aback by the savage expression in his face.

‘My fury is all there is,’ he hissed. ‘I will do this.’

Artheris seemed for a moment as if she would try and dissuade him. Indecision flickered briefly across her face. But her eyes were far-seeing. As she gazed at him, Morgil felt as if his very soul were being examined. After a moment, the archmage sighed.

‘I cannot change you,’ she said, softly. ‘It would break you, and your skills will be needed.’

She looked sorrowful, her elegant features stained by pain.

‘Go,’ Artheris said. ‘May Asuryan guide you.’

Morgil nodded curtly. He turned around and strode through the crowds of elves and men. His face was a mask of grief and dreadful purpose. None dared waylay him. He went back along the side street and into the main thoroughfare. It was almost empty of the living, though dozens of bodies lay in the mud.

Only once he was free of the site of the battle did his emotions overtake him. With a howl of rage and loss, he raised his axe high against the sky and bellowed at the heavens. His cry echoed down the narrow streets, rebounding back towards him and augmenting his fury.

Then his lungs were spent. He let his arms relax once more. The few humans in view crept nervously away, terrified by the vision of madness he presented them. Ignoring them all, Morgil took a deep breath, and set off in the direction the assassin had taken. His expression was dark, but his senses were restored to their normal pitch of acuity. All thought of his previous mission had been abandoned. He would find the dark elf and kill her. Everything else was irrelevant.

The hunt had begun.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The torches in the subterranean vaults under Altdorf had nearly all gone out. The few remaining brands cast a weak red light over the ancient stone. It mattered little to Kalia. As she went quickly through the series of chambers which had served her for so long, her eyes picked out detail in the gloom that a human would have missed in daylight. Despite her weariness she travelled surely amongst the forgotten places beneath the city, driven onward by cold fury.

There were only a few possessions to collect before she had to leave. The streets above were no doubt crawling with asur, and even the catacombs were no longer safe. Her human agents were mostly dead, her entourage destroyed. Attacking the archmage had been a risk too far. It was a bitter setback, though not nearly as bitter as Malek’s treachery. He could have taken her with him easily. Working together, they might even have been able to salvage something from the wreckage. But his true designs were obvious to her now.

He had meant her to die.

That crooked smile on his well-fed face had told her all she needed to know. She was Uthorin, he was Arkaneth. Once again, rivalry between druchii Houses had marred an attempt to strike a blow against the true enemy.

Kalia had passed through his chambers on her way back to her own shadowed lair, hoping against hope he might still be there. But he was not stupid enough to let himself be so easily caught. In his inner sanctum she had found the smashed bowl of a cauldron, stained with gore and the patina of fire. Everything of value had been hastily destroyed. Malek was not coming back.

Her fingers trembling slightly, Kalia uncorked a vial containing a dark blue liquid and poured it on her wounds. Where it touched her pale skin the potion fizzed and burned, cauterising the flesh. Clenching her teeth against the sharp pain, she worked methodically over her body. Feeling weary and slow-witted, she took a draught from another phial, one she used rarely. The potent narcotic rushed into her system, clarifying her mind and sharpening her senses. She leaned back against the dank wall for a moment, giving the powerful substances time to do their work.

She cast her mind back over the recent events. Her adversary, the White Lion, had been formidable. He fought more like one of her own kind than a typical asur. She knew enough of the ways of the Chracians to realise he would be on her trail now. The bond between master and beast was said to be closer than that between brothers. Though she despised the sentimentality, she could not ignore her peril.

Feeling energy slowly return, Kalia pushed herself back to her feet. She went through the remainder of her few belongings, taking fresh daggers and some tight-wrapped bundles of sustenance. Drawing her cloak around her, she set off once more along the narrow ways and into the darkness.

There were few options available to her. The countryside outside Altdorf was as perilous as the city itself. Even with her skills of subterfuge, a druchii was a rare sight in the realms of men. She needed respite, space to recover her strength. Ultimately, she had to find a way back to Naggaroth. But that journey would have to wait. Her only certainty was that she would not leave the shores of Elthin Arvan until Malek lay in a pool of blood at her feet. Whatever other tasks she had to perform, vengeance came first. Her seething anger was barely tempered by the thought of his lingering demise. When it came, it would be a pleasure of the most exquisite kind.

How to achieve that end was another question. Malek would most likely be forced to leave Altdorf too, at least for the time being. Guessing his movements was difficult, but not impossible. She knew the Chaos forces must have started their march south. As the war drew closer, they would come ever nearer to the city. Though any dealings with the fanatical zealots of the Ruinous Powers was an affront to her druchii sense of superiority, she also knew that a grand alliance was part of Malekith’s plans. As unlikely as it seemed, the Chaos armies were the allies she needed. Malek would no doubt decide the same. If Kalia were going to meet him again, there was only one place to lie in wait. At the heart of the storm, amidst the ranks of the invaders.

Of course, the plan relied on the Chaos forces deciding not to kill and eat her, something which could never be entirely certain. She would have to be careful, and use her knowledge of the Empire’s preparations judiciously. Only if she made herself invaluable could her life be safeguarded, and only if Malek performed as expected would she be bound to meet him again.

So much risk, so many uncertainties. But it was worth it for the chance, just the one chance, to slip her dagger across his throat as his fat face looked up at her in terror, pleading for the mercy that would never come.

Like the lingering memory of a nightmare, Kalia flitted swiftly along the slime-encrusted sewers and tunnels. In the wake of her passing, the echoing spaces once more sunk back into darkness and silence. For several moments, nothing stirred but the faint ripple of foetid water.

After much time had passed, a second figure emerged into the dim light of the torches from the darkness of the surrounding catacombs. He went as stealthily as she, and in the gloom seemed almost as insubstantial. But his raiment was pale, and he carried an axe. Pausing only once to check the surroundings for subtle signs of her trail, he advanced implacably, pacing as soundlessly as a feral cat after its prey.

With his departure, the deep places of Altdorf finally returned to their habitual emptiness. The torches guttered, and one by one went out.

Fassbinder brought his horse to a halt, and gazed with distaste ahead of him. The sun had risen an hour since, but the mist hanging over the Reik valley refused to lift. The mournful country was draped in a grim blanket of dank, clinging moisture. The trees on either side of his men loomed darkly in the gloom. A hundred yards in front of him the forest thinned, and the land fell tumbling towards the river. The terrain beyond was a mix of mud, scrub, thin grass and unwholesome pools of oily water.

A mile further on and the marshland finally slumped into the turgid Reik. At a wide bend in the swollen river stood a heavy-set bridge. On the opposite bank was the Emperor’s Arms, seemingly the only mark of civilisation for miles around. It was a typical Reikland inn. Heavy columns of dark, stained stone piled upwards, crowned with sheer-sided roofs of mixed tile, slate and roughly-cut wood. Iron chimneys protruded from every available alcove. The sides of the hulking structure were arranged seemingly at random, jutting in unexpected directions according to the whim of whichever long-dead landlord had jerry-built them.

Like chicks around a bloated mother hen, smaller structures clustered in its shadow. The entire ramshackle collection hugged the banks of the grey water, spewing thick smoke into the sky. Over the years, the place had become a sprawling township in its own right, profiting from passing trade along the route south towards Altdorf. Tanneries jostled against gaudy brothels, which nestled alongside Sigmarite chapels in the shadow of narrow-windowed gambling dens. Despite the ravages of plague, most of the hovels still bore the look of occupation. In the thin light of the morning many watch-fires smouldered.

Even from a distance, Fassbinder could see the extent of the filth clogging every surface. Such places, far from the patrols of the rightful authorities, attracted the rabble and scum of the Empire as warm flesh drew a mosquito. He knew the surviving rebels had fled towards its sanctuary. They had been let off the hook. The removal of half of his men, and some of the best at that, had released the pressure. He could no longer even be sure that his forces outnumbered those of the rebels. If the insurgents had recruited more men at the Emperor’s Arms, then he might be at a disadvantage. So far out in the wilds, the edicts of Lord Heinrich carried very little weight, and there were many who would fight for a few copper coins and the promise of plunder.

His thoughts were interrupted by Kirchner coming up on his right shoulder. Fassbinder thought the man looked sick. Then again, he probably wasn’t a paragon of health himself.

‘There could be hundreds hidden in there,’ Kirchner said bitterly, casting his experienced eyes over the settlement. ‘If those damned fools hadn’t…’

Fassbinder silenced him with a raised hand.

‘Enough!’ he snapped, hearing his own anger show too much in his voice. ‘There’s no use complaining. We have a task to complete, and there’s nothing we can do.’

Kirchner closed his mouth, but his expression remained sour.

‘We’ll carry on as before,’ said Fassbinder. ‘The longer we give them to dig in, the harder they’ll be to dislodge. Take your men through the trees to the right. I’ll take the rest to the opposing flank. At my signal, we’ll close in as planned. They’ll probably still be drunk from the night before. I want this to be their last stand.’

Kirchner looked at him doubtfully.

‘With respect, sir, this is risky. The men are tired. We’ve driven them hard, and we still don’t know where Schulmann is. If we had some time to rest…’

Fassbinder gave him a level stare. In truth, he sympathised with the man’s reasoning. Kirchner was no coward, but the long campaign through the forest hunting both rebels and plague victims was soul-destroying work. He knew his troops were near their limits. A defeat would push many over the edge. But to delay now would only make things worse. Kirchner and the rest could call him a fanatic behind his back as much as they wanted. Command had a price, and it was one he was willing to pay.

‘I’ll hear no more about it,’ he said curtly. ‘Lead your men to their positions. When you hear the signal, you will charge. When we have Schulmann’s head on a spike and his men in chains, then we’ll rest.’

Malek felt a sense of deep satisfaction rise within him. For the first time since leaving the scene of the debacle, the prospect of safety loomed. He had destroyed the evidence of his presence in the undercity, and the final few threads of his activities in Altdorf had been cut. It had taken a while to track down all of his human agents in the city, but now all were dead. Herr Jeremius, the last, swung gently in the air, suspended from the beams of the ceiling by his own leather belt. The old man had put up something of a fight, but a doddery scholar was really no match for a druchii sorcerer. Like all the human tools in Malek’s employ, he had received his just reward in the end.

The dark elf looked around him with some regret. Jeremius’s private chambers were adorned with a magnificent array of rare and priceless artefacts. His writing desk, a beautiful heavy construction of marquetry, was strewn with leather-bound tomes of knowledge. Glass-fronted cabinets, themselves objects of rare price and craftsmanship, were filled with trinkets and sculptures, many of ancient design. Given more time, Malek would have liked nothing more than an hour’s thievery. Human tastes might be crude and blunt, but they occasionally threw up something surprising.

His greed was trumped on this occasion by the need to leave. The asur were running riot. Working quickly, Malek began to rifle through the piles of parchment covering every surface of the old man’s study. After a few moments of increasingly frantic searching, he finally found it. The last few scraps of parchment which could give a pursuer any clue as to his identity. Malek threw the scraps up into the air and whispered a couple of words. They burst into lurid flame, and were devoured before hitting the ground. Satisfied his tracks were covered, Malek looked around the untidy room one more time. So much to take. Feeling it would be shame to leave entirely empty-handed, he stuffed a jewelled ring into his silk jerkin. Such finery was wasted on the humans.

‘A good choice.’

Malek whirled around. His staff was raised, crackling with dark fire. Before him stood a hunched and broken figure leaning heavily on a charred staff. A human, though one horribly scarred. The vestiges of dark magic slunk around him. The stink of the Ruinous Powers stained his aura.

‘You are a moment from death, human,’ Malek hissed. ‘Give me a reason to spare you, and make it good.’

The burned man gave a weak, racking cough, and sat down heavily on one of Jeremius’s priceless chairs.

‘My name is Leopold Klosser,’ said the human sorcerer. ‘We’re in the same trade, more or less. Kill me now and you’ll regret it later. I have news.’

Malek sneered at the pathetic figure before him. Everything about him – his whining voice, twisted stance – spoke of weakness.

‘Never dare to compare us again,’ he spat. ‘You’re nothing to me, whatever paltry powers you may think you have. Tell me your news quickly – your life depends on it.’

Klosser fixed Malek with an expression of distaste.

‘We’re more alike than you know,’ he said bitterly. ‘This Jeremius was known to me. I’ve been on your trail for some time. You’ve failed in your task, just as I have in mine. You need to leave the city before the high elves tear your eyes out. I need to find a way to make up for my mistakes. Join me, and we’ll both benefit.’

Malek leaned back against the desk, sceptical but intrigued.

‘You claim to know much. I wonder how such a filth-stained creature comes by such knowledge?’

Klosser shrugged.

‘I have some powers of my own. Enough to find a fellow sorcerer if I know where to start looking. Your kind always underestimate us. That’s your weakness. But enough of this. Let me tell you what I came here for.’

The wretched figure broke into a fresh fit of coughing. Malek waited impatiently, wondering whether it was worth the bother to keep Klosser alive. Just as he was about to raise his staff and burn out his tongue, the human recovered, and began to speak again.

‘I work for a man named Rachsdorf. I’m one of many sorcerers in his employ. Some of us were charged with the destruction of an observatory. It was manned by Celestial wizards, and they were coming close to unravelling our purposes. We nearly succeeded, but they fought harder than we expected, and the arrival of a Bright wizard caught us unprepared. I was the only survivor. Much damage was done, but the observatory still stands. Rachsdorf is not a kind or understanding man. If he finds out I’m alive, he’ll exact punishment.’

‘How entertaining,’ said Malek dryly. ‘I hope you die as painfully as your wretched stink merits. But what does this have to do with me?’

Klosser ignored the insult, and fixed his rheumy eyes on the dark elf.

‘You’re not doing much better, I think,’ he said with a faint glimmer of satisfaction. ‘I know what you planned. It has failed. You need somewhere to lie low until the high elves are forced to move on. A temporary haven.’

‘I see what you’re doing,’ said Malek. ‘But you offer me nothing. If I wanted a human sorcerer trailing along behind me, there are better candidates than you. Your paltry skills do not interest me.’

Klosser smiled ruefully.

‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘But I can introduce you to someone more worthy of your interest. I know many things. A great warhost is arriving from the north. My master is part of the conspiracy which hastens its coming. One such as you would be a valuable addition to our plans. You would have a warmer welcome with us than if you stayed here. When your adversaries finally track you down, would you not rather be standing beside a Chosen of Tzeentch than on your own?’

Malek worked hard to control his emotions, and his face remained contemptuous. Klosser looked at him keenly, evidently eager to see the effect his words had.

‘What do you gain from this?’ asked Malek, cautiously. It would not do to rush into things, though he had to admit his interest was piqued.

‘Bargaining power,’ said Klosser, his damaged voice wheezing. ‘My life is forfeit whether I return to Rachsdorf or seek to evade his vengeance. But I’ve seen portents about you. The Master of Change is subtle, and news of your presence is known to many. If I were the one to bring you to him, my position would be restored. You see? We can help each other.’

Malek placed a hand within his cloak, and his fingers closed around the ring he had taken. He played with the bauble absently as he pondered. Treachery was ever possible, but the ruined man before him looked incapable of more than petty trickery. The opportunity was enticing. Matters were coming to a head, and he was mindful of his orders from Lady Arkaneth. If he passed up this chance, he might not get another. He let the ring slip back into the folds of his cloak, and pushed himself back into a standing position. He already towered above the bent body of the human, but allowed a subtle art to augment his appearance and lengthen the shadow he cast.

‘Know this, human,’ said Malek, letting the menace slide off his words like acid. ‘If any of what you’ve said is a lie, then your death will reach new heights of pain and depravity. Be in no doubt that my arts in that area are unrivalled. You may show me to this Rachsdorf. If he can lead me to the Chosen, then your pathetic existence will be in no danger, at least from me. Is this understood?’

Klosser looked up at him timorously, any attempt to hide his fear now forgotten.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, his voice cracked and wavering. ‘You may rely on me.’

Malek gave him a scornful look.

‘I had better,’ he said. ‘Now let us go.’

The scarred human dragged himself to his feet and stumbled out of the study. Malek followed him wearing an expression of dark satisfaction. Given all that had happened, this was a most promising development. The archmage may have survived, but his other tasks were progressing nicely. The Uthorin bitch was dead and the route to the Chosen had been revealed. If he ever found a way to report the news, he knew Lady Arkaneth would be pleased.

Artheris steeled herself for the trial ahead. She sat on a throne of pale stone. It stood on a raised dais of polished marble. Before her, the glittering reception chamber of the embassy stretched away. On either side of her, slender columns rose high towards the soaring curve of the roof. The weak sun was filtered through stained glass windows which threw light of many hues across the smooth floor. Incense burned gently in raised bronze bowls, blocking out the worst of the stench from the human city around the elven quarter.

Dozens of officials stood below her, murmuring in low voices. The ambassador was amongst them, his face grave. The assassination attempt had broken the fragile air of amity between the races. Poisonous sentiments had been uttered, and many of the young nobles who had come over with the advance force were openly furious. The surviving Swordmasters were tearing throughout the city in defiance of the terms of the alliance, hunting down any trace of druchii. Their pride had been wounded, and a dangerous spirit of revenge had instilled itself into the whole contingent.

Artheris’s thoughts were broken by a great gong sounding outside the reception chamber. The tall wooden doors at the far end of the hall opened, and the Imperial delegation strode in. The ubiquitous Gerhard was there, but did not lead the party. A tall man wearing heavy armour headed them. Behind him, soldiers of the Reiksguard marched in step. The few officials amongst the group looked cowed and subordinate.

The elves soundlessly withdrew to let the humans approach the dais. As they came, Artheris felt a pang of pain from her wound. It would heal, but the darts of the druchii were always laced with poison. The worst of it had been drawn by the skilled physicians of the embassy, and her own arts countered what remained. She wondered whether it would be as easy to take the bile out of this situation.

The leader approached her, and bowed low. He was a huge man, nearly as tall as an elf and far broader. His face was tanned and heavily scarred, and he wore his heavy armour as if it weighed no more than matchwood.

Good, thought Artheris to herself. A warrior. I’ve had enough of all these officials.

He raised his face, and fixed the archmage with a direct stare.

‘My lady archmage,’ he said. ‘I am Kurt Helborg, Grand Marshal of the Knights of the Reiksguard. I am the right-hand of the Emperor in these matters. He has charged me with conveying his deep regret over what happened. Those responsible have been severely punished.’

He let his gaze slip briefly towards Gerhard, who shifted uncomfortably, before continuing.

‘Let me assure you I have now personally taken control of your safety while you remain in Altdorf. We have no higher priority. A full detachment of my finest Reiksguard have been taken from their duties to bolster your defence.’

Artheris looked down on the grim-faced warrior serenely. He was obviously a proud man, and needed to be handled carefully.

‘Grand Marshal,’ she said, her voice smooth. ‘Your concern is appreciated, as is your offer of help. What happened was unfortunate. Some of our number are dead, as are many of your troops. But such is war. We must all be more vigilant.’

‘Your understanding in this matter is welcome,’ Helborg said, inclining his head. ‘The Emperor is greatly concerned for your wellbeing, and hopes to see you in person soon.’

Artheris was about to reply when a snort of derision came from the ranks of elves.

‘How dare he!’ came the voice of Tethmar, a Dragon Prince of Caledor. ‘He should come here, and risk the anarchy of his own streets!’

A murmur of approval ran around the hall. Helborg visibly bristled, but did his best to respond calmly.

‘The Emperor is detained by many matters. Moreover, he is the master of this land, and will not be dictated to by strangers, no matter how mighty.’

Artheris felt her heart sink. Passions were running high.

‘How can a man be master of a land when assassins shelter in the shadows?’ cried a second voice from the elven contingent, a mage called Rasserion. ‘Or maybe he finds the company of druchii more to his liking than us?’

The Reiksguard company captain, Joachim Stern, stepped forwards then, his face flushed with anger.

‘Hold your tongue, cur, or I’ll cut it out!’ he bellowed, his fingers clutching the pommel of his sword. The mage fixed him a look of pure contempt, and raised his staff threateningly.

‘Enough!’ roared Helborg, pulling his captain back into line. His anger was evident, but he controlled it well. ‘I did not come here to start a new fight. No one regrets what happened more than I. But we are men of the Empire, and will not be spoken to like children!’

Artheris admired his spirit. He was no hot-blooded fool, but neither was he withdrawing an inch.

‘Well spoken, Grand Marshal,’ she said. There was no magic in her voice. To try and soothe the situation with tricks would be an insult to those around her. ‘You are a valiant servant of Karl Franz, and your deeds are known among us. Forgive my people. I am dear to them, and though you may not think it, we are a passionate race.’

She turned her head to the assembled elves.

‘Asur, you shame me,’ she said. Though her voice was quiet, there was a kernel of ithilmar in her speech. ‘One does not summon an Emperor in his own realm. The ways of the druchii are devious, and we have fallen to their traps before. We may mourn the slain, but be glad the prize eluded them. I am alive, and the muster continues. If we fight amongst ourselves, then their dark purpose has been achieved.’

Helborg looked at her carefully as she spoke. When she finished, he inclined his head once more in respect. He looked like a man who had expected to encounter a cheap trickster but instead found a master warrior of equal standing.

‘Your words shame us all,’ he said. ‘We share blame for what happened. What you say is true. If we become divided, all is lost. But I say to you all, do not scorn the men of the Empire! You are a mighty people, but we have faith and strength forged in steel and drenched in the blood of our forefathers. Soon we will march to war, and all will be put to the test. Only then judge our worth.’

Helborg’s thick, gruff voice, born of years of service and hardship, echoed around the hall. Even the ambassador Armorel listened carefully. Artheris liked the Grand Marshal more and more. This Helborg was no silver-tongued orator, but his speech carried the weight of a man of honour.

‘You will prove worthy,’ said Artheris simply. ‘And so shall we. Whenever men and elves have stood together the forces of Chaos have been repelled. It will be no different this time.’

She turned to address the entire hall.

‘The need for swiftness has always been on my mind,’ she said. ‘It is clear now that all things are moving, and we must not be left behind. Our preparations and deliberations have been essential, but they are now concluded. The march will begin before the day is out, and the Empire of Men no longer stands alone. Karl Franz has charged us with bolstering the defence of Lord Heinrich’s lands to the north, sorely tested by revolt and invasion. That is where the hammer will fall, and that is where we shall make our counter-thrust. Nothing, not the blades of the druchii nor the machinations of the Dark Gods can stop it. At long last we ride to war, and to the test of arms. Let no fresh division hamper our joint destiny.’

She let her gaze pass over the assembled throng. The tide of murmuring bitterness had ceased, and the grizzled Reiksguard soldiers looked slightly less belligerent. Helborg nodded with approval.

‘So be it,’ he said. ‘The Emperor will be heartened by these tidings. When you ride, the Reiksguard will be with you. The time has come to end the long retreat, and bring the battle to the enemy at last. I will leave you now. My own paths take me to the east once more. But one day, Sigmar willing, I will fight by your side, and show you in person what steel we still possess. Until then, farewell, and I will look for tidings from the north.’

He bowed once more, and the delegation withdrew. Artheris watched them leave with satisfaction. Relief flooded through her. The first test had been passed. Now the real trials would begin.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Alexander struggled against his captors’ grip, but it was no good. The warriors remained implacable, forcing him onwards. He was pushed into a vast chamber at the heart of the temple. It was bathed in a baleful red light. Huge stone buttresses soared upwards towards a distant domed ceiling. The wide circular floor was pitted with channels filled with a strange, oily liquid. Flames were everywhere in braziers and iron bowls. Brass lanterns were suspended on mighty chains from the roof. Once, the symbols of Sigmar had adorned the place, carved into the massive stone walls by scores of patient artisans. Now they were all defaced, daubed with the crude and debauched signs of Chaos.

Around the edges of the chamber, rows of cowled figures chanted and swayed in unison. The noise and heat were deafening. When they saw Alexander enter, a shiver of anticipation seemed to pass through the cultists’ ranks. Everything in the chamber indicated that some dark purpose was at last coming to fruition.

Alexander didn’t need to guess the object of their adulation. In the centre of the circular space, the high altar of Sigmar had been transformed into a scene of horror. Instead of the prayers of the pious echoing calmly by candlelight, the maniacal spells of the damned were animating strange forces. A pulsing ball of flame, eerily suspended in the air, rolled and spat over the high table itself. The stone altar was charred and blackened from the proximity. As the ball span, flames licked and flickered outward, scorching everything they touched. While Alexander watched, a stream of fiery matter suddenly lurched outwards and caught a genuflecting worshipper. The cultist was quickly doused in fire. The man lurched backwards, clawing at his face. Even his screams failed to make much dent in the echoing wall of noise around them.

That was not the worst of it. Deep within the ball of fire, something stirred. Like a huge, perverted infant, a dark shape was coiled within the sheen of heat, twitching and reaching out as if asleep. It was hard to make out exactly what shape it was, but in the very centre of the roaring furnace, two eyes could be clearly seen. They were twin points of pure malice, pure spite, pure intelligence. Without needing to see any more, Alexander knew what was happening. When that unnatural child came of age, all hope was gone.

Abruptly, the warriors stopped propelling him forward. Alexander was left hanging in their steely embrace several yards before the suspended inferno. At such a distance he could feel his flesh tighten and begin to burn. He was used to flame, but this was of another order.

‘I trust you don’t regret your decision yet, Herr Mortivar?’ cried a mocking voice from above, still using Alexander’s assumed name.

Shakily, Alexander looked up. Rachsdorf stood on a balcony halfway up the far wall of the chamber. He was flanked by more of the dark-armoured warriors. When the cowled figures noticed their master, the already fevered chanting became even more shrill and febrile.

‘This is madness, Rachsdorf!’ yelled Alexander. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re doing! You can’t control this! It will kill you all!’

Rachsdorf laughed. It was a stretched, grating sound. It was as if he was on the brink of a nervous collapse, and wished to banish his fear through arrogance. Even in the midst of his own terror, Alexander could sense the panic within the traitor.

‘Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,’ crowed Rachsdorf. ‘This work has been many months in the preparation. For long years the priests of Sigmar have been corrupted, one by one, and all for this one great purpose. In a dozen hidden places, the spells of the faithful have been slowly bringing it about. Now all have mustered here, the heart of the furnace. Think of the irony, Bright wizard! The holy shrine of Sigmar, turned into the vessel for the damnation of the Empire!’

Rachsdorf’s eyes blazed with an unnatural illumination. At the mention of the Empire’s damnation, shrieks of delight and mockery rose from the corrupted priests. Their voices had become less than human. Some sounded like the squawks of birds or the growls of animals. The corruption ran deep.

‘Listen to me, Rachsdorf!’ cried Alexander. ‘I don’t care what you think you know. This creature brings nothing but death. It will feast on your soul before all others. Stop this foolishness before it’s too late. Your life may be forfeit, but your soul may yet be saved.’

Rachsdorf clutched the handrail of the balcony tightly, his amusement switching to fury in the blink of an eye.

‘False snake of the Empire,’ the sorcerer spat, the veins on his temples bulging. ‘You know nothing of my powers! I am the master of the dark arts. I, Jurgen von Rachsdorf! You should have abased yourself before me when you had the chance. Now your death will only hasten the coming of the Great Master, the Architect of Fate!’

Alexander looked around him quickly. There were maybe a hundred cultists clustered around the altar. His staff was gone. For the first time in his life, he began to seriously entertain the prospect of his own demise.

And yet, there was fire all about. Unholy fire it might be, but it still drew itself towards him. He looked up at Rachsdorf, his expression defiant.

‘I would pity you, traitor, if your folly were less dangerous,’ said Alexander coldly. ‘Your delusion will be your undoing, whether at my hand or those who come after me. Even if I could abase myself and save my life, I’d not do it. I’d rather die faithful than live a traitor!’

Alexander spat the final words out with as much venom as he could muster. It had the desired effect. Rachsdorf’s pale face blushed crimson with rage.

‘Kill him!’ he screamed. ‘Sacrifice the apostate to He Who Comes!’

The Chaos warriors immediately began to drag Alexander towards the altar. It was the moment he had been waiting for. His speech was not just for effect. He had used his anger to mask a gathering of power. Even without his staff, he was able to suck the vital energy of the flames to himself. The Wind of Aqshy surged amidst the corruption like a shaft of clear air in a storm.

‘Taal guide me!’ he cried, letting the pent-up power of fire burst from his hands. Twin balls of energy burst outwards. The two guards were smashed backwards. They slammed into the milling crowd, knocking cultists in all directions.

Alexander span around, kindling fresh fire in his hands. With a cry of rage, he hurled more bolts after the prone warriors. One was knocked from his feet, tumbling into a vial of crimson flame. It kindled quickly, and a strangled cry of agony broke his eerie silence.

The other warrior came at Alexander, hands raised. The wizard pumped streams of smoking flame at him. His hands moved surely. The power of Aqshy was running through him powerfully now. It was as if he was merely a conduit for the rage of the fire around him. The streams smashed into the dark metal of the warrior’s breastplate. The dark figure stumbled in his advance, arms flailing. Alexander felt the thrill of battle rise within him. The bellowing crowd around him made no difference. The arcs of fire kept them at bay.

Suddenly, he felt the clutch of darkness around his heart once more. Even in the middle of the furnace, an unnatural chill struck hard. He looked up. Rachsdorf had raised his staff, and beams of dark magic curled around it. In Rachsdorf’s other hand, Alexander recognised his own staff.

‘Now who’s the fool, Mortivar?’ he screamed. ‘I have your staff! This placed is doused with my magic. You cannot prevail!’

Rachsdorf placed his iron staff across Alexander’s, and smashed them together. A streak of pure agony passed through the Bright wizard’s spine. With a cry of anguish, he crumpled to the floor. Hands shaking, he tried to rise. A spinning ball of flame materialised in his hands, and he hurled it upwards. It exploded against the balcony harmlessly. The warriors were on their feet once more. One loomed over him darkly, arms extended towards his throat. Alexander looked up at the blank iron visor, and smiled grimly.

‘Rot in torment!’ he hissed, and unleashed a blistering pulse of vermillion energy from his fingers.

The warrior screamed, an unearthly wail which echoed around the wide chamber. The agonised figure stumbled over Alexander, blundering into the crowd of cultists, clawing at his face. Seeing his chance, the Bright wizard dragged himself back towards the corridor and away from the altar. Pain coursed through him. The archway was just yards away. But then a heavy hand seized his shoulder. He was hauled back. Though the first warrior lay prone from his injuries, the other was still alive.

Alexander struggled frantically against his grip. He could feel himself weakening. Fresh fire welled up within him, but was extinguished by a new clash of Rachsdorf’s staffs. A torrent of abuse rained down from the balcony. The sorcerer was apoplectic with rage and fear. Alexander didn’t look up. The power of Chaos was pulling at him, sapping his strength with every second. A dull roar emerged from the ball of fire over the altar. The presence within was stirring, sensing the struggle. It reached out for Alexander, and its aura fell on him like iron.

Alexander gazed upwards weakly, feeling his strength giving out. The eyes in the fire stared back at him, two half-formed orbs of hatred and cruelty. His energy finally deserted him, and the fire in his soul went out.

‘Enough of this!’ cried Rachsdorf, his voice breaking under the strain. ‘Throw him into the fire! Kill him!’

Alexander fought with all his remaining strength, but it was not enough. The cultists surged forward, and the remaining warrior held him tight. He was pushed ever closer towards the altar. The flames licked at his face. He closed his eyes, feeling the heat begin to absorb him. A voice whispered something in the very heart of the fire, something seductive, something awful.

The snap of a pistol firing rang out across the chamber. The iron grip released him. Alexander looked up. Suddenly, there was hope.

Annika strode into the chamber. With cool certainty, she raised the pistol again. She had two shots left. The Chaos warrior holding the wizard had been dispatched, and the raving sorcerer on the balcony was her next target. The robed figure screamed something incoherent, and raised his dark staff. There was a shimmer in the lurid air, and a web of shadow seemed to burst from the sorcerer’s vantage point. Annika thrust her blessed icon of Sigmar into the path of the dark magic, and it brushed harmlessly past her. She felt a faint tremor of nausea, and then nothing. Her faith was indomitable, and it would take more than cheap sorcery to penetrate her defences.

Annika made a quick calculation, raised her pistol and fired up at the balcony. A yell of pain came from above, and the body of the sorcerer bent double. Annika smiled in satisfaction. They were no ordinary bullets. Silver-tipped and wound about with prayers of benediction, they were the finest tools in her armoury. The sorcerer withdrew, clutching his chest in agony.

The witch hunter spun around. The situation was still dangerous. The cultists had recovered from their surprise and had started advancing. The Chaos warrior and the Imperial wizard lay unmoving on the floor. Dieter was at her side, and launched himself into the oncoming crowd. His sword swung in mighty strokes against the clutching hands of the cultists, spraying blood and gore high into the air. His expression, locked within his favoured open-faced helmet, was a model of contemptuous hatred. All heresy disgusted him, but the scale of sacrilege with a temple of Sigmar had driven him into a frenzy of rage.

Annika shoved her pistol back into its holster and drew her short sword. A cultist raced towards her, eyes wild, screaming some unintelligible curse. She eviscerated him coldly, flickering her blade with savage speed through his ragged robes before savagely punching him aside. He slumped to the floor, his chest pumping blood onto the stone. Another lurched at her, and was equally quickly despatched.

To her left, Dieter surged through the throng. He looked like an bronze-clad giant wading through a sea of cultists. His sword hammered down with crunching efficiency, splintering bone and slicing through flesh.

‘Come with me,’ cried Annika, punching a cultist away from her and plunging her sword into his neck as he fell. ‘The wizard!’

Dieter nodded grimly, and pushed forward towards the altar. Annika cut her way through the milling crowd. The cultists came onward heedlessly. They were haphazard, but there were dozens of them. Slowly, laboriously, Annika and Dieter fought their way to the spinning ball of fire. Even from several yards away, the heat and stench of the Chaos-born flames were thick and heavy. Dieter smashed his gauntlet into the melee, sending several cultists slamming into each other. He reached the body of the wizard and turned around to face the crowd, eyes blazing. Grateful for his protection, Annika withdrew from the fighting, knelt down and placed a hand on the Bright wizard’s shoulder.

‘Can you walk?’ she hissed.

Alexander looked at her blearily. His face was badly burned, and he looked exhausted.

‘He is coming…’ he breathed.

Annika looked at the wizard with concern. His senses had been taken from him. Taking a deep breath, she threaded her arm under his and laboriously hauled him to his feet. He seemed to recover himself a little, and stood shakily. Cultists continued to press forward, but Dieter held them back with contemptuous ease.

‘We must get you out,’ said Annika sharply.

The Bright wizard shook his head.

‘No time!’ he hissed. ‘He is coming!’

Alexander stared at the inferno behind her. Annika turned to look at the spinning orb. It was beginning to pulse with a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat growing in strength. She felt the horror emanating from it. It was a rift in the world, a portal into the realm of madness and flux. She had seen such things before. The wizard was right. If they didn’t destroy the abomination now, they might never have another chance. She drew a phial of holy water from her jerkin and steeled herself for the challenge.

‘Can you cast?’ she snapped at Alexander. ‘Between the two of us…’

The Bright wizard nodded. He was coming to his senses, standing more steadily.

‘We need to do it now,’ Alexander said, staring grimly at the rapidly expanding sphere.

Annika drew the phial back, and hurled it with all her strength into the heart of the inferno. It exploded in a burst of blinding light. Ripples travelled around the spinning surface of the sphere, and its surface buckled.

‘Foul creature of Chaos!’ she cried, taking the silver icon of the twin-tailed comet from around her neck and striding forward with it held high. ‘Go back to the realm that spawned you!’

The orb, bereft of the chanting support of the cultists, shimmered and flickered in and out of solidity. Annika kept up the barrage, holding the icon high and uttering litanies of exorcism. A strange, muffled wail leaked from the tortured sphere. Whatever was within it seemed able to suffer pain.

Annika felt a thrill of power course through her. The icon blazed in her palm, casting glittering illumination in all directions. She cared nothing for the crowd trying to claw their way past Dieter. He would ensure none got through. Her only focus was the horror before her and the power of her deity coursing through her veins.

Gradually, the vortex of swirling flame began to subside, to waver and shudder like a candle flame in the wind. As she poured scorn and defiance on the weakening presence before her, Annika noticed the wizard raise his own hands high. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his robes torn, but he was bringing something into being. She sensed the power of it before she saw it. A pall of thick smoke began to rise from his palms. It was as dark as pitch and as cloying as oil. Speaking words of power softly, the wizard gently spun more of it into life. Annika concentrated on the scene ahead, but could feel the strange power of the wizard working beside her

With a final cry, he hurled a throbbing mass of smoke into the heart of the inferno. It immediately spread outwards, masking the intense heat, damping and crushing the raging torrents of fire. The wail emanated once more, but was now diminished and feeble. The assault was driving it back, pushing its essence out of the real world and back into nothingness. The wizard kept up a relentless stream of dampening, strangling smoke. Annika felt her voice cracking, but maintained the rites of exorcism. Even as her strength began to ebb, she could feel the withdrawal of the daemonic presence. The sphere of fire shuddered, blanched, and suddenly imploded. With a rush of heated air and a clap like thunder, the summoning dissolved into itself and dissipated in a cloud of white-hot sparks.

Both Annika and the wizard were knocked off their feet. Annika cracked her head heavily against the rough floor. She felt blood rise in her mouth, and her vision rocked. Blearily, she felt hands roughly grab her, and caught the blurred impression of a hate-filled face before her.

‘Annika!’

Dieter’s voice bellowed over the rush of wind and fire. The cultist at her throat was smashed aside, his hands torn from her savagely. Annika saw the robed worshipper hurled across the chamber by the vengeful knight. In his blood-drenched armour, he was like a force of nature unleashed.

Her senses returning, Annika shakily picked up her sword and took her bearings. The chamber was in disarray. Cultists ran aimlessly, bereft of will and purpose. Dozens were dead, hacked down by Dieter’s deadly artistry. The sorcerer had not returned, and the balcony above was empty. Fires still raged all around. Ominously, cracks had begun to appear in the vast domed roof. The banishment of so much daemonic energy was taking its toll.

A cultist blundered towards her, and she plunged her sword into his chest with a punching movement. Impaled, he jerked manically, eyes bursting, until she withdrew the blade smoothly. He slumped to his knees, a look of almost comic surprise on his ruined face.

The Bright wizard limped over to her. He looked terrible.

‘We need to leave now. That much energy…’

‘I’m aware, wizard,’ she snapped back. She had witnessed enough banishments of daemonic power to know what was coming.

‘Dieter!’ Annika yelled. ‘We must withdraw! The temple will collapse!’

The knight pulled his broadsword from the twitching body of a cultist before ramming another into the altar with the full force of his body. In a rare moment of respite, he looked around him. The cracks were growing, and masonry was beginning to shower down from the summit of the dome. Dieter ran over to Annika and the wizard. His fury was still evident.

‘At least they will die in the ruins,’ he hissed, his breathing heavy.

Annika gave a cold smile. Then the three of them hastened from the chamber, pausing only to knock back any cultists unwise enough to block their exit. The wizard was drained, his face pale and drawn, but her and Dieter’s skills were sufficient to ward off the frantic, clumsy attacks of the worshippers.

They passed from the altar room and ascended quickly through the narrow passages to the levels above ground. As they went, rumbles and crashes followed them. Screams rose amidst the confusion. They picked up the pace, and ran along the steeply rising corridors, passing bodies she and Dieter had slain on their way down.

After a brief but confusing navigation though the tortuous ways of the temple, they were back at the hallway leading to the main entrance, a surprisingly modest stone construction which could have passed for any minor Sigmarite chapel throughout the Empire. Daylight streamed in through the open doorway.

‘Hurry!’ cried Annika, hearing the growing noise of destruction behind her. ‘The dome is falling in!’

They sprinted the final few yards as best they could. Dieter struggled to keep up, his armour weighing him down, but somehow managed to keep ahead of the tumbled stone behind him. A thick cloud of dust surged up the narrow passageway, flecked with fire. The wizard was near the end of his strength, his breathing strained and complexion crimson.

Barely ahead of the swelling tide of destruction, they burst from the temple entrance and into the noon sunlight. The very ground beneath them seemed to heave and pitch like the sea. Staggering onwards, they laboured up a shallow incline. Annika felt her thighs burn, but knew they couldn’t slow down for a moment. Muffled thunderclaps of collapsing earth and stonework echoed around them.

They were out.

Only after they were far from the temple entrance and out of range of the shifting earth did they stop. The wizard fell to the ground heavily, breathing in great heaves. Dieter, the slowest of them in his heavy armour, was similarly spent, his face lined with sweat and blood. Annika shaded her eyes and looked back over the route they had come. In the distance, she could see columns and buttresses were falling in on themselves. Thick plumes of smoke rose into the air. The modest-looking temple architecture on the surface was shaking like paper, rocked by the tremors in the larger spaces underground. For some time the rolling, grumbling noises continued. No cultists emerged from the entrance, now blocked by gently subsiding piles of crumbled masonry. Their temple had become their sepulchre.

The tremors lessened. Annika looked around them. They were on the summit of a low mound, sparsely dotted with dark pine trees. Low scrub and gorse marked the land around, which was bleak and windswept. There was no sign of anyone else, either fleeing the temple or racing to its aid. They were alone.

The Bright wizard raised his charred face, and gave a crooked smile.

‘Alexander Heisenherz,’ he said, and extended an unsteady hand.

As he did so, the Griffon medallion fell from his torn robes. It flashed and spun in the grey light. Annika grasped the proffered hand.

‘Annika Bohringer,’ she said. ‘Witch hunter.’

Dieter, who had collapsed on to his back, pushed himself up from the grass into a seated position.

‘Dieter Klinsmann,’ he said. The Griffon emblem hung proudly across his gore-splattered breastplate.

Noticing Alexander’s eyes being drawn to the pendant, Annika withdrew her own from around her neck.

‘I see we’re all part of the same merry band,’ said the wizard, dryly. ‘Gorman said I’d be pleased to be inducted.’

Dieter looked at him suspiciously.

‘The Order of the Griffon is a great honour,’ he said flatly.

Alexander shrugged.

‘If you like being chased, burned alive and robbed, maybe.’

The knight glowered threateningly. Annika sighed. It was already evident that these two were unlikely to get along.

‘Peace,’ she said wearily. ‘Sigmar has brought us together, and that is enough for now. We need to decide what to do next.’

Alexander shrugged. He looked as if the worst effects of the ordeal had retreated somewhat. He looked down at his hands, and flexed his fingers uncertainly. They were burned badly, but already seemed to be healing. No doubt one of the skills of his profession.

‘Suppose you tell me first what you were doing here at all?’ Alexander said. ‘It’s not that I object to being rescued. But your arrival was unexpected, to say the least. Rachsdorf certainly didn’t see it coming.’

Dieter gave Annika a significant look. She nodded with some satisfaction.

‘So the sorcerer on the balcony was Rachsdorf,’ she said. ‘We’ve been seeking him. We’d been investigating rumours of a cabal in Lord Grauenburg’s lands. There was evidence of a scheme to subvert the Sigmarite hierarchy. Many of the priests in this land have been turned to the worship of darkness. For months they have been preparing the summoning we just halted. Rachsdorf is the man behind it. We were lucky to find this place.’

‘Lucky, or guided?’ said Dieter in a rather pious voice.

‘Maybe both,’ said Annika impatiently. ‘In any case, we’ve done what we had to do. Rachsdorf’s plan is halted. If he was not killed by my bullet, he must surely be buried under the ruins now.’

Alexander looked back over the half-collapsed structure doubtfully.

‘Maybe,’ he said warily. ‘You wounded him at least. I’ll warrant he tried to get out.’

Dieter nodded.

‘We’ve dealt a blow to the traitors, but nothing more,’ the knight said with some venom. ‘You know as well as I that there is a greater hand behind all of this. Our task is not over. I’d say it’s just beginning.’

Annika knew the truth of the knight’s words. She drew the icon from her jerkin once more, and looked at it thoughtfully. It was charred and cracked, but the design of the comet was still evident, carved in bold strokes on the silver.

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘I’m not even sure we’ve seen the last of the summoning. An exorcism needs to be done properly. We’ve stopped it happening here, but we can’t undo months of preparation just like that. Such are the ways of the enemy. A victory here leads to defeat elsewhere. We have yet to strike at the root of this contagion.’

Alexander gave her a cynical look.

‘Of course,’ he said sourly. ‘There’s always more to uproot. I’d like to help, but I have an important task of my own. Although I may be too late to do any good, the only reason I’m here is to deliver tidings to Lord Heinrich. I should have been with him days ago, but I’ve run into a few… problems along the way.’

Annika gave him querulous look. Heinrich’s name had come up in her own interrogations.

‘What kind of tidings?’ she said.

Alexander returned her gaze, evidently uncertain how much he should reveal. At length, he gave a resigned shrug.

‘The Celestial College knows of a plot to undermine Lord Heinrich’s defences of the Reikland,’ he said. ‘Someone close to him will betray him. Though the details are unclear, he must be warned before his preparations are complete. If he rides against the coming Chaos hosts unaware of the traitor in his midst, the defence will be lost.’

Dieter looked sceptical.

‘What good is this news?’ he said. ‘Unless you know who the traitor is, Heinrich cannot act on it.’

Alexander gave him a withering gaze.

‘It’s not ideal, I grant you,’ he said. ‘But he can change his plans, alter the arrangements, set up an investigation. Or something. I had more information, some of it in code, but I, er… lost it.’

Dieter made no response, but looked disdainful. Annika didn’t share his dismissive attitude.

‘The defence of these lands is divided between two great magnates,’ she said. ‘One is Lord Heinrich, whose preparations for war have been hampered by a peasant uprising on his estates. The other is Lord Grauenburg, a strange and reclusive man about whom we know little. As I said, he’s the reason we’re here at all. If there is a plot, then you and we may be on the trail of the same quarry. The Celestial wizards might simply have divined what we have long suspected. Grauenburg has fallen into darkness, and imperils the safety of the entire Reikland.’

‘So you think Rachsdorf is working for Grauenburg?’ asked Alexander, looking thoughtful.

Annika shrugged.

‘We have so little evidence. Not a single prisoner has ever uttered his name whilst on the rack. If he is the guiding force, he uses pawns like Rachsdorf skilfully.’

‘But we are on the borders of his lands,’ said Dieter, forcefully. ‘Even if he is not a traitor, he has failed to stamp out heresy on his own estates. Lords have been deposed for less in the past.’

Annika shook her head.

‘He is powerful, with many friends in Altdorf,’ she said. ‘We need proof.’

‘It’s a plausible supposition,’ said Alexander. ‘But I can’t let it detain me. Whether or not it proves useful, I do have to get to Heinrich. A vow is a vow, and he must be warned.’

Annika nodded.

‘Very well. You’re nearer Castle Heinrich than you might think. We will come with you.’

Dieter looked at her sharply.

‘We cannot!’ he said. ‘This place must be purged by fire. And many cultists may have fled before the temple collapsed. There are traitors to be hunted.’

Annika gave him a warning look.

‘I am a Templar of Sigmar,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Do not tell me what we may or may not do. In any case, how do you propose that we cleanse the temple by ourselves? This thing is larger than we can deal with. The time has come to seek fresh allies.’

Dieter flushed red, and looked as if he was about to explode into anger. But he mastered his pride, and inclined his head humbly.

‘Forgive me, Frau Bohringer,’ he said. ‘The effort of the fight has blunted my manners. But is it wise to accompany this wizard to Heinrich’s lands? It is a detour, and one we may regret.’

Annika looked at the earnest face of the knight with a softer expression. He was rigid and unswerving, to be sure, but there was no finer warrior in the Empire, and his hatred of Chaos made him invaluable. His doubts were reasonable, but her mind was set.

‘I know the dangers, Dieter,’ she said. ‘But where is your faith? Can you really think it chance that we stumbled across this wizard in his hour of need? Trust my judgement. Matters are coming to a head, and there are forces of order at work as surely as there are those of darkness. If Grauenburg is the architect of this abomination, then Heinrich must be told. The three of us will make a case he cannot ignore.’

Dieter looked at Alexander, and back to Annika. Eventually he took a deep breath, and nodded resignedly.

‘I’ve trusted your judgement before, and it has never proved unworthy. Very well. We’ll travel to Heinrich. If the war comes to him, at least we’ll be there when the hammer falls.’

Alexander gave a painful smile.

‘I think there’s every chance of that,’ he said wryly. ‘That kind of luck seems to follow me wherever I go.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jhar’zadris nudged his mount ahead. Gromarth bore the shape of a horse, but was no natural steed. A mortal creature would never have tolerated the aura of horror projected by the Chosen. The beast’s flanks were dark grey and mottled with tough patches of scales. His hooves had the sheen of iron, and under the layers of heavy armour his eyes burned like coals. He was both wider and taller than a horse of natural birth. Gromarth was a wholly unnatural creation, bred in the pits of beastmasters in the far north of the world and raised on live human flesh. His teeth were that of a carnivore, spiked and sharp, and he moved with a measured, easy power.

Though the Chosen was too old and steeped in cruelty to be given to sentimentality, Jhar’zadris had developed something of a bond with the monster. There was an intelligent malice running through the charger’s veins which he had grown to appreciate. The Chosen liked to feed Gromarth on the still-warm bodies of those he had slain. There was never a shortage.

The column had wound its way southwards, never hurrying, never dallying. Confident in their invincibility, the heavily armoured regiments had made good progress. But there was no need to hasten. Nothing they had encountered had proved more than a minor distraction from their task. A weary-looking band of militia had attempted an ambush two days previously, but it was half-hearted and pathetic even by human standards. Jhar’zadris had let the cultists at the rear of his entourage butcher them. Some of them enjoyed human flesh too, and it paid to throw then scraps from time to time.

The truth was that the Empire was unprepared, riven by doubt and plague, its armies stretched across a vast frontier in an attempt to engage the larger hosts marching from the east. Jhar’zadris wondered if the more important Imperial magnates knew of his advance at all. He hoped so. Sooner or later his warriors would need a sterner test. Their discipline was good, held in place by the rigid rule of fear he applied, but they needed the promise of more worthy blood to keep them interested. As the column headed deeper into the lands of the feeble Emperor of man, he trusted that a proper army would ride to engage him soon. He was growing bored of peasant-slaying.

On either side of the clanking, swaying column, the land was rising into broken heaps of low hill country. Swathes of black-earthed bogland made the going treacherous. Thin yellow grasses grew in clumps and tussocks, and spinneys of thin dark trees marked the grey horizon sparsely. There was precious little in the deserted, blasted country to note. His enhanced vision detected no trace of magic. It was a forgotten place. If it had ever been inhabited, it had long been abandoned. As he rode, the dry croak of ravens echoed across the empty sky. The more he saw, the more he liked it.

They followed an overgrown and pitted track around the long curve of a hillside. As he rounded the corner and the view ahead spread out before him, Jhar’zadris spied the mounted horseman ahead. A human, alone, waiting patiently.

‘Wait here!’ he hissed, holding his iron gauntlet up and clenching his fist.

The warriors behind him immediately came to a standstill. Orders were barked down the line, and the entire column stopped moving. Once the clank of shifting armour had abated, there was no further noise. His troops stood in silence.

Jhar’zadris kicked Gromarth’s flanks firmly, and the great beast stepped forwards. The Chosen approached the human. He was a large man, arrayed in rich furs and seated on a sturdy charger, but he was dwarfed by the vast armoured bulk of the mounted warrior of Chaos. His steed stamped nervously, but held its ground. It must have become used to such meetings, Jhar’zadris thought. The rider looked up at him coolly. If the man had any fear, he didn’t show it. His thick-set frame was one of a warrior, though his best years were perhaps behind him. Jhar’zadris could detect the stain of sorcery on his face. The human was no mage, but had clearly been in close contact with the dark arts in some form. That was to be expected, of course.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ said Jhar’zadris, once more curling his mutated lips awkwardly around the blunt shapes of human speech.

‘I’m not without arts of my own,’ said the human, his expression giving away a whiff of contempt.

That was good. The man clearly despised the Chosen, in spite of his own dark allegiance. That spoke of a certain courage. Contempt was better than fear.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Jhar’zadris, faintly amused by his insolence. ‘The journey has been tedious so far, and change is always to be welcomed. Now, why have you come to meet me?’

The human looked over Jhar’zadris’s shoulder at the waiting host, and then flicked his gaze back to the Chosen.

‘To check you were on your way,’ he said, flatly. ‘We’d heard nothing for some time. I wanted you to know all has been made ready. Our master’s plans are coming to ripeness, and you have nothing to fear.’

Jhar’zadris’s mouth contorted once more into something like a wracked laugh. As his fused flesh and helmet shifted, a bubbling, echoing sound emerged from deep within his armoured torso.

‘Fear?’ he asked. ‘You think I even remember what that is? I’ve walked under the Chaos moon for centuries and encountered nothing yet to make me afraid. As for your part in this, I have the utmost trust. We both know the price of failure.’

Once again the human showed no sign of anxiety, but merely shrugged. Jhar’zadris was impressed, despite himself. Very few mortals could even stand in his presence, let alone treat his words so lightly. If it ever came to it, he would enjoy killing this one and etching the agonised outline of his nonchalant face on to his armour.

‘There will be no failure,’ the human said. ‘The summoning has reached its final stages, and even now my sorcerers are bringing Him into being. A day more, maybe two. A single sacrifice will suffice.’

Jhar’zadris took a deep, hissing breath.

‘Not too soon!’ he said. ‘I will not hurry my troops. All has been appointed. The Lord of Change must be revealed when I am on hand.’

The human nodded curtly.

‘I’m aware of this,’ he said, impatiently. ‘That’s the other reason for my journey. I needed to be sure how long we have. Be assured, when you engage the Imperial defenders, the cause of their ruin will be on the brink of wakefulness. They’re already weak from plague and insurrection. The strength they may once have had to resist you has gone.’

Jhar’zadris let a sigh of disappointment slip through the twisted visor of his helmet.

‘So weak,’ the Chosen said, wistfully. ‘I find myself missing the futile valour of the past. There were heroes then whose deaths I could really celebrate. You’re a diminished race, human.’

The horseman looked back at him fearlessly.

‘You were once a man yourself,’ he said, meeting Jhar’zadris’s gaze. ‘If we’re so diminished, you should ask why your master needs our help. Don’t underestimate the Empire, Chosen. There are sources of power still active within its borders, and Karl Franz is an astute man. If we take them for granted now, all may yet unravel.’

Jhar’zadris fixed the horseman with a steely gaze. He was intrigued.

‘Fine words,’ he said in a sibilant voice. ‘Tell me, human, if you feel this way, why have you turned from the path of your fathers? If you have such faith in humanity, why help encompass its downfall?’

The rider didn’t flinch for an instant, and kept his eyes fixed on the Chosen.

‘I want what you want,’ he said, calmly. ‘What every man wants. Power. The chance to shape the world, to dominate it. When our work is done here, I’ve been promised much, and have ambition for more. Don’t underestimate me, Jhar’zadris. I’m not some wide-eyed novice, drunk on empty dreams, ripe for betrayal or trickery. I am my own master, and when the Empire is on its knees, when it seems that nothing worse can smite the unhappy realms of men, then I’ll come into my own.’

The man maintained his defiant pose. Jhar’zadris pondered the words. It had been long since any had spoken to him in such a manner. With a swipe of his warhammer, he could extinguish the life before him in an instant. But even if their shared plan didn’t demand the rider’s survival, he would not do it. There was a strange aura about this one.

‘We shall see,’ Jhar’zadris said, his voice low. ‘The time of testing has not yet come.’

The horseman nodded, and took up the reins of his nervous steed.

‘I’ll leave now. My presence will be missed. We’ll meet again when the Lord of Change has been summoned. Until then, may your ways be guided by the Master.’

‘Have no fear of it,’ said Jhar’zadris.

The horseman pulled his mount around, and kicked it into a gallop. The horse flew down the track and back into the bleak hill country, clearly glad to be away from his counterpart’s monstrous presence.

Gromarth uttered a low rumble of contempt, and stamped a heavy clawed hoof. Jhar’zadris reached forward and caressed the snake-like mane absently. The meeting had given him much to think about. Though he was incapable of doubt, he retained an awareness of danger. The man was not what he had expected. Who did he remind him of? Surely not himself. It was so long ago, he could barely recall what the life of a mortal was like. There would be much to consider on the long march south.

The Chosen roused from his introspection, and raised his hand once more. Without looking back, he was satisfied to hear the noise of the column taking up arms once more and resuming the march. Within moments he was surrounded by his retinue of warriors again, and the grinding progress continued. None spoke, perhaps sensing the mood of their commander. As they went, the only noise was the coarse cry of the ravens and the moan of the chill wind from the north.

The horn blared out, echoing around the sodden landscape. Fassbinder spurred his horse, and the cavalry around him burst from cover. Breaking into a gallop, the vanguard charged across the marshy lowland towards the slumbering settlement. Gouts of churned mud flew from the horses’ hooves as they surged forwards. On the other side of the open land, Fassbinder noted Kirchner’s charge from the opposing cover. Tired they might be, but his orders were still followed with a crisp efficiency. Sigmar willing, they would crush the rebels between anvil and hammer. Even if Schulmann had somehow found his way back to his men, his reign of pillage and rebellion would soon be over.

Fassbinder risked a quick look over his shoulder. Behind the rapidly moving lines of cavalry, the footsoldiers were making heavy work of the advance. He returned to the charge. He couldn’t worry about them now. The important thing was strike hard before defences could be organised.

The soggy, treacherous ground began to firm up as they neared the straggling edges of the settlement. It was bigger than it had looked from the forest. Fassbinder rose in the saddle, drawing his sword.

‘For Heinrich and the Empire!’ he roared, brandishing the blade.

The men around him answered with a united cry of aggression, and their own swords glistened with a cold light. They tore across the final few yards, and were quickly amongst the houses. A few men stumbled out to meet them, hastily grabbing pikes or halberds. They were swept away, and the cavalry charge swept onwards. Fassbinder remained at the spear-tip. The houses started to cluster more thickly around him. Villagers, startled by the sudden invasion, jumped up from their fires and scrabbled for weapons. Men of Schulmann’s retinue appeared amongst them. Some were at least half-prepared for a fight, and a ragged line of pikemen charged from the right flank.

‘Keep together!’ yelled Fassbinder, pulling his horse in their direction, relishing the thunder of the massed hooves and the speed of the charge. ‘Break that line!’

A score of horsemen wheeled around and charged directly at the pikemen. One was knocked from his steed as the barbed tip of a pike punched into the horse’s torso. Another fell screaming to the ground, his throat pierced with an arrow. But the speed and the fury of the riders were too great. The thin rank of defenders broke, and Heinrich’s troops rode them down, hacking at the retreating backs of Schulmann’s peasant army.

‘Onward!’ urged Fassbinder, determined not to let the massed charge dilute itself. Speed was their main advantage.

Keeping close together, the riders raced on towards the centre of the settlement. The hulking mass of the coaching inn itself reared above the low roofs of the houses around. Fassbinder heard noises of battle from the far side of the township with satisfaction. Kirchner must have arrived, and was clearly busy. This would be a massacre. His steed maintained a pounding gallop. The sporadic bunches of peasants who dared offer resistance were dispatched with ease. He was nearing his goal.

Fassbinder rounded a corner at the head of his men, and rode into the wide square at the centre of the settlement. Riders fanned out on either side of him. On the far side, the sheer walls of the inn rose up into the dank sky. It was huge, dark and filthy. Columns of smoke belched from its many tottering chimney stacks. At last, some resistance had clearly formed. Lines of footsoldiers had assembled in front of the inn, but hastily and in some disarray. Schulmann’s troops had never bothered much with appearance, and no banners had been raised. The soldiers were in loose ranks, but had no obvious commander. With an incoherent roar, some charged forward, some hung back. The riders ploughed on into those at the forefront, trampling and stabbing at the hapless rebels.

So this was where the final battle would be, thought Fassbinder grimly. He kicked his horse forwards. Peasant soldiers rushed up to meet him. He brought his blade heavily on to the neck of a halberdier trying in vain to knock him from his steed. Another was decapitated with a mighty lunge of his blade. His exhilaration turned to a grim feeling of bitterness. So many would die. The place would be drenched in the blood of those who should be marching under the flag of Lord Heinrich. With a savage thrust of frustration, he hacked his way forward. His sword sliced through leather, clashed heavily with iron. He felt like a blacksmith, hammering away at the traitors, breaking the backs of those he had once been employed to protect.

The fragile ranks of peasants began to break, driven apart by the cavalry charge. At the edges of the square, foot soldiers in Heinrich’s livery were running into the fray. The exits were being cut off.

Fassbinder pulled his horse up. The clean lines of riders around him had dissolved. Each horseman was busy chasing down the remnants of broken rebel ranks. A sudden doubt hit him. Where was Kirchner?

Fassbinder wheeled around, looking over to the west side of the square. A group of Schulmann’s men, faces contorted with hatred, rushed him. They were the typical mix of soldiers, thugs and mercenaries. They advanced in a ragged group, swinging a motley collection of knives, cleavers, short swords and clubs. If Schulmann himself had been an astute opponent, the same could not always be said of his men.

Fassbinder kicked his horse towards them. Their leader was ridden down before he could unleash a single blow. Fassbinder flashed his sword into the face of another, feeling the hot blood splatter against him as the man flew backwards. A wild blow from a mace clanged against his shield, and he wheeled around again quickly. A heavy slice from his sword cut the mace-wielder’s hand from his wrist, and a wail of pure agony rose into the cacophony of battle. Fassbinder punched downwards viciously with the blade, silencing the noise, before pulling his sword in a glittering curve to meet the unpracticed swipes of the remaining peasant soldiers.

Loyalist horsemen arrived at Fassbinder’s side, and the short-lived counter-assault broke. All over the open space, Schulmann’s men were being routed. Fassbinder took a moment to calm his breathing, and made a quick appraisal of the situation. With a stab of relief, he saw Kirchner riding into the square at the head of his men. What had kept him? Fassbinder spurred his steed onwards, and fought his way towards his deputy. He was soon beside him. Kirchner’s armour was dented and streaked with blood, and his visor was down.

‘How goes it?’ shouted Fassbinder, reining in his horse.

Kirchner pulled alongside.

‘We had a surprise, sir,’ he said, flicking his visor up. ‘Just like you.’

Fassbinder registered the voice was strange too late. When he saw the stranger’s face within Kirchner’s armour he raised his sword, but too slowly. A mailed fist crunched into him, knocking him backwards from his steed. His head cracked against stone, and he felt the hot rush of blood within his helmet. He tried to rise, but the world spun and went dark. Fresh strands of blood fell across his eyes, blinding him. A dark shape loomed over him, arms raised high. Fassbinder tried to bring his shield up, but something heavy slammed into his forehead. Lights exploded behind his eyes, bursting with pain, and then subsided. He knew no more.

Emil Schulmann leaned back heavily in his seat. His entire body ached. A lurid weal ran across his forehand, and his right arm was bandaged heavily. He was scratched, bruised and weary. But it had been a long time since he had felt so good.

Before him, the Imperial captain moaned. The man was coming round. His eyes flickered, and snapped open. He raised his head, and then lowered it again, grimacing with pain.

‘Welcome back, captain,’ said Schulmann sardonically. ‘You’ve been out for some time.’

The man tried to rise again, but was restrained by his bonds. He was tied to a heavy wooden chair. The two of them were alone in a sideroom of the Emperor’s Arms. The floor was strewn with dirty straw, and the narrow windows were grimy and stained. From beyond the low door, the sound of drinking and carousing could be heard. Schulmann’s men had fought hard, and many had died. Smashing the cavalry charge by the captain’s deputy had been hard enough, but then wheeling back to regain the square had been almost beyond belief. It had been a triumph, a day that would live long in the memory. All the blood and toil had been worth it at last.

Schulmann rose from his chair and took a flagon of ale in one hand. He reached over to the captain, pulled his lolling head up, and pressed the flagon against his lips. The man gagged and spluttered, but swallowed some of the potent ale.

‘You should drink,’ said Schulmann flatly. ‘It’ll dull the pain.’

The captain fixed him with a stare of contempt. At least his eyes were in focus. The ale had clearly revived him.

‘M-my men…’ he croaked, his voice dry.

Schulmann sat down again, and spread himself comfortably in his chair. Interrogating the man who had given him so much pain would be a rare pleasure. He would take his time.

‘Driven back into the forest,’ he said simply. ‘I’m always amazed by the power of a commander. Once we had you, it all fell apart. It was brave to ride here, captain. Brave, but foolhardy. You needed twice the men you had.’

The captain looked sick, and let his head hang.

‘Suppose you tell me your name?’ said Schulmann, before taking a hefty swig of ale.

The captain didn’t reply at once, but then raised his battered head defiantly.

‘Captain Johannes Fassbinder, of the Third Regiment of Lord Heinrich’s household guard. You must be Schulmann, the traitor.’

Schulmann scowled.

‘That’s my name, though I’m no traitor.’

Fassbinder looked at him scornfully.

‘You’re a thief and a murderer. Sooner or later you’ll hang from the gibbet with the rest of your rabble. I do not fear you. Kill me, and more will come.’

Schulmann felt anger well within him. The arrogance of Heinrich was shared by his men. He rose in a single movement, sending his tankard clattering to the floor.

‘Watch your tongue, Imperial cur!’ he shouted, feeling the hot blood rise in his cheeks. ‘You know nothing of us, or our struggle. We’ve been harried and attacked at every turn, and still we resist! We are no traitors. Just men who were treated like dogs for too long.’

Fassbinder looked up at him fearlessly, but made no reply. Schulmann let his anger drain from him. He was tired. The campaign had been long. He retrieved his tankard, refilled it, and slumped back in his chair.

‘You’ve no idea what we endured,’ Schulmann said in a low voice. ‘I saw men gnawing at the bones of their own children. Priests turning to the dark arts to bring some salvation. Plague beasts rampaging through our ruined fields, tearing up what little hope we had of a harvest. When we thought things could get no harder, then Heinrich’s men arrived. Did they bring us bread? Water? No. Taxes. A levy for fresh wars. When we resisted, they burned the houses around us. Your precious lord.’

Fassbinder’s face was pale from pain, but he held himself as erect as he could.

‘War is coming,’ the captain said. ‘Men are needed. Lord Heinrich does the bidding of the Emperor. We all have our duty.’

Schulmann sneered grimly.

‘When we are dying on our feet? Where were you when the plague creatures were ravaging our homesteads? Only when we stood up and refused to crack under the yoke did you ride to our lands.’

Fassbinder shifted gingerly against his bindings. It looked as if Schulmann’s words pained him.

‘We have all suffered,’ he said, darkly. ‘But not all turned from the law. What do you hope to achieve, Schulmann? You know you can’t prevail forever. You may hold out here for a while, but it can’t last. You weren’t lied to. A war is coming, one beyond your imagination. Whoever wins it will come after you. Do you really think our enemies would treat you more kindly than Lord Heinrich?’

Schulmann took a deep draught of ale, feeling the bitter liquid course through his body, cooling his anger, numbing the pain.

‘Maybe,’ he said grimly. ‘What do I know of the world? I’m just a simple peasant. The kind of scum you work to death for your amusement.’

Fassbinder winced again.

‘What do you take me for?’ he said, wearily. ‘I’m no lord or noble. I’m a Reikland man, just like you. I was raised in Brau, not far from here. I’ve lost kin to the plague. Who hasn’t? We all suffer. Such is the way of the world. We must trust in Sig…’

‘Damn your pieties!’ snapped Schulmann, his anger bursting out once more. ‘You’re nothing like me. Nothing! While you and your kind rule, I and mine will be crushed underfoot. Maybe I don’t have a great plan for what happens now. Perhaps we’ll stay here, and raise a new kingdom around us. Men will flock to my banner. Sure, they’ll come for us in the end. But the more of us there are, the more of you we’ll kill. We’ll drown the Reik in blood before we surrender! And when we die, at least we’ll die as men!’

Schulmann looked directly at Fassbinder, eyes blazing. The captain looked as if he expected to be struck, and braced himself for the blow. Schulmann’s blood was pumping. With some difficulty, he withdrew from the brink. He took another swig. Slowly, his anger ebbed once more. He would not play the savage, the peasant. Now that he had the advantage, he would treat with these people on equal terms. He sat back in his chair, brooding heavily.

There was a period of silence. The two men looked at each other, neither breaking the tense stalemate.

‘I thought I might have killed you earlier,’ said Fassbinder finally. ‘In the forest. For a moment then, I believed the killing could stop, and I’d be able to ride to where I was truly needed. You think I wanted to hunt down my own kind? What kind of man wants that?’

Fassbinder shook his head. Schulmann regarded him carefully. His wounds were serious, and he looked in great pain. And yet he didn’t beg for his life, nor rave with contempt. He remembered the horseman he had seen after the failure at the ambush. Had that been Fassbinder? He had to assume so.

‘Leave your self pity out of this,’ Schulmann said bitterly. ‘We’ve both come too far to regret our actions. There’s no going back.’

Fassbinder sighed, and looked down at the floor.

‘So why don’t you kill me?’ he said quietly. ‘As long as I’m alive, I’m a threat. If our roles were reversed, I’d do it.’

He looked back up, an expectant expression on his face. Despite his wounds, his chin was held high, and his eyes showed no fear. Schulmann reached inside a leather pouch, and withdrew some scrolls. They were stained with mud and blood, but were still legible. He spread them out and held them up in front of the captain.

‘I’ve had these for some time,’ Schulmann said. ‘None of my men can read the code. You can. I want to know what’s written in them. The way we got them makes me think there’s something important in them. You, captain, will tell me their contents. I don’t like torture, but I’m no callow goatherd. I’ll use it if I have to. You’d better start talking.’

Fassbinder smiled coldly.

‘You really think I’d help you?’ the captain asked, bracing himself in his chair in readiness for what might come. ‘Never.’

Schulmann rose, and pushed the scrolls closer to his face.

‘Think carefully, captain,’ he said, an edge of menace in his voice. ‘I’ll be honest, I can’t bring myself to hate you as much as I thought I would. But this cause is everything to me, and I owe it to the men. Read it!’

Fassbinder shook his head sadly, but as he did so his eyes caught something on the pages. His gaze was held, and he scanned quickly across the remainder. His face, already pale, seemed to drain of its residual blood.

‘By Sigmar!’ he breathed.

Fassbinder seemed to diminish in the chair. His frame, held so proudly erect, slumped. An agony of frustration and anguish was etched on his ravaged face.

‘What is it?’ pressed Schulmann urgently. ‘What did you read?’

Fassbinder didn’t reply at once, seemingly caught up in his own internal torment. But then he looked up again, a desperate expression on his face.

‘Though I’ll be damned for this, I’ll tell you,’ he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. ‘But you must listen to me. All of this, everything we’ve done, is irrelevant beside what is to come. You’re asking me to betray all I believe in, to help one who has turned against my rightful lord. I’ll do it. But I beg you, listen to what I say. By Sigmar’s grace, you must listen!’

Schulmann frowned in confusion. The captain looked distraught. He nodded slowly. Something in the man’s voice compelled him.

‘Very well,’ he said, pulling his chair close. ‘Tell me.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Morgil stooped close to the ground, his eyes glinting in the dusk. The shadows of the trees lay in bars across the forest floor. The sky was as tormented as it had been since he had arrived in Elthin Arvan. Streaks of flecked cloud were driven fast and high by the unquiet air. The light of the Chaos moon, slick and lurid, lay across the land like a curse.

The White Lion rose soundlessly. His keen ears could hear the slightest movement, but nothing stirred in the dark wood. The place was sick. On his long journey north from Altdorf, he had seen for himself the blight on the land. Empty villages, deserted farms. Even the beasts of the field had suffered. In some abandoned paddocks, grotesque mockeries of cattle and horses had limped and bellowed. The carcasses of their unaffected kin lay rotting in the mud, bite marks glistening on their flesh. All health had been replaced with affliction, all order with perversion. The city had been bad enough, but the trackless depths of the wilderness were far worse.

Picking up a faint trace of noise ahead, he broke into a loping run. His footfalls were impossibly quiet, but he still managed a steady pace. He flitted through the trees like a shade, his pale clothing reflecting the tainted moonlight dully. He had come many leagues since leaving Altdorf. His quarry, the dark elf, had gone amazingly quickly. Even for one of her kind, she was skilled in subterfuge and concealment. She had left no obvious tracks, nor rested for a moment in her desperate flight from vengeance. Morgil did not fool himself that she was running from him. The way she had fought spoke of a dark pride in her abilities. If she didn’t have some other errand, she would have turned by now, cornered him in some dark and forgotten part of the forest and resumed the duel.

No, there was some other purpose to her retreat. She went fast, as fast as anyone Morgil had ever tracked. She never tired, never deviated, never flagged. Despite his skill, he worried that the trail had gone cold. The last sign of her passing had been two days ago. His vengeance would have to wait.

As Morgil ran, the trees slipped past smoothly in the semi-darkness. His senses had been honed to perfection over a lifetime of tracking. The startled bound of a roe deer, many yards away in the deep forest, was as clear to him as a bell chime. Lit with the corrupted sheen of Morrsleib, the foliage around him stood sharply against the shadows. There were still noises ahead, very distant, but clear for all that. Perhaps plague beasts. They infested the forests, even though their numbers seemed to be falling as the worst of the contagion eased. If the dark elf had stumbled into a band of such monsters, Morgil knew he would stand alongside her to slay them all before turning his axe against her. He wanted no other hand to share in her slaying. So it had always been with him. All or nothing. That is what had caused all the trouble in Ulthuan, had prevented his induction into the Phoenix King’s retinue, had seen him nearly banished from Chrace. Artheris had saved him, taken in the young, wayward warrior and schooled him as best she could in restraint. But he could not change. Khera’s death had only heightened his lonely sense of defiance.

The noises were becoming louder. They were plague creatures indeed, crashing through the undergrowth clumsily. Even when human they had no doubt been lumbering imbeciles. Now consumed with the plague-generated mania they were little more than animals. The trees clustered thickly on all sides. They were tall and ancient, their trunks lined with clinging fronds of vine and mould. Sounds of battle echoed amongst them from ahead, booming eerily in the vault-like spaces. He was coming closer.

Morgil smoothly shifted the weight of his axe into his preferred left hand, picked up speed, and uttered a brief prayer to Kurnous under his breath. Not for his own safety – that would be beneath contempt – but for the swift discovery of his quarry and an honourable kill. So all hunters prayed in Ulthuan before entering the domain of their most prized prey, the white lions they both hunted and venerated.

He burst from the shadows. The stink assailed his senses immediately. With a snarling hiss, three plague creatures turned towards him. With just two perfectly aimed thrusts of the axe, they fell to the ground, eviscerated. Morgil leapt over them and collided heavily with a fourth beast. Using his momentum to knock it backwards, he followed up with a savage zig-zag swipe. Its head slid from its crumbing torso, falling to the ground in a cascade of blood. He was coming to the heart of it. There were human voices raised in anger. The sound of a pistol rang out through the trees. A roar of aggression followed. There was a flash of crimson light, and a blast of hot air rushed past him. Checking his direction slightly, Morgil raced towards the new sounds. If there were humans in the forest they were surely doomed.

Smashing his way through a grasping band of plague beasts, he burst from their clutches and into a wide, open area. The Chaos moon poured its baleful light into the clearing, and Morgil could see the dozens of plague creatures basking in its cloying luminescence as they groped their way towards their prey. Dozens more of them lay in the mire, their limbs hacked off or ribcages smashed. Many had horrific burn marks. Whoever they were hunting, they were no mere band of peasants or militia.

A cry rang out, and a wall of fire burst into being ahead. The plague creatures ploughed into it regardless. Many of them ignited and crumpled in agony. The flames swept across them. Morgil flung himself to the ground, feeling the intense heat scream over him, inches above his prone body. It was magical fire, and his asur senses detected the Wind of Aqshy swirling within it. No branch kindled, only flesh. But the casting, for all its impressive appearance, was weak. The mage behind it was clearly tired. The rushing fire blew itself out, and Morgil sprang to his feet once more. All around him the plague creatures staggered towards him. One half-dead monstrosity, burned black and writhing in the mud, blindly grabbed his ankle. Another flung itself at him, its stench almost as overpowering as its body weight. Others loomed behind them. The sheer number of mutants was beginning to pose a problem.

Morgil let his body go briefly limp, putting the stinking hulk pushing against him off-balance, before twisting away and bringing the axe-blade heavily down on its back. A second stroke severed the fingers scrabbling at his feet. He savagely punched another plague beast aside, crushed another’s skull with his axe pommel, and then burst from the horde. There were three humans before him. A wizard, his face pale and drawn, trying to summon fresh magic without a staff. A knight, hauling a broadsword with impressive strength, his raw bellows still full of defiance. A witch hunter, coolly using her short sword with great skill, an icy hatred etched on her solid face.

The knight swung his huge sword in Morgil’s direction. The blow was clumsy, perhaps misdirected by fatigue. The White Lion casually ducked beneath the swipe before turning and dispatching the nearest plague mutant with aplomb.

‘Fool!’ he snapped. ‘Save your haymaking for the mutants.’

The knight stared at him for a moment, eyes wide with surprise, before the grasping limbs of another plague beast drew him away. His companions were too busy to react. Giving up for the moment on thoughts of his quest, Morgil let himself relax into a state of pure martial awareness. If his movements had been quick before, they became a blur. The axe ceased to be a separate entity, and became fused with his body. The movements of his enemies became, as they always did, strangely sluggish. He felt the fire of his soul surge, his blood pulse with a savage heat. In such a state, he was death incarnate. Bodies piled up around him. A savage roar burst from his normally silent mouth, and he sliced and danced his way through the crowd of unnatural, twisted bodies with something approaching mania. Blood flew. Bone crunched. Flesh ripped. Awareness of the real world passed into memory, and his consciousness sunk into a focussed point of aggression. The spirit of the lion animated him, and all that remained was the hunt, the fight, the killing.

After what seemed like mere moments, but was in reality much longer, the tide ebbed. Even the plague creatures, their senses dulled to all but horror and blood-lust, were cowed. They began to retreat, limping and skulking back into the shadows. The cadavers of their kin lay in piles around them. Slowly, haltingly, they retreated to the trees. They went slowly, grudgingly. As their numbers thinned, some remembrance of fear stirred in their fevered minds. More fell. The rest broke into a lurching run, merging into the shadows of the forest like wraiths. A howl of frustration rose from the branches, and fell away mournfully. For the moment, they were gone.

Morgil allowed his senses to return to their usual pitch. He looked around him. The humans still lived. The wizard was near the end of his strength, but fire burned fitfully in the palms of his hands. The knight slumped to the ground, his heavy armour dented and scored by hundreds of long scratches. The witch hunter limped over to him, her face lined with fatigue.

She dropped to the ground beside him, looking utterly exhausted. Morgil sat beside her. The intense burning in his eyes had extinguished, and his features had returned to their normal composed arrangement. He waited patiently for her breathing to return to normal. He had no contempt for her, nor for her companions. They had fought well, and might have been doing so for hours before he had arrived.

‘So,’ she said at length. ‘Who in Sigmar’s name are you?’

‘Morgil of Chrace,’ he said in his halting, imperfect Reikspiel. ‘And you?’

Annika introduced herself and the others. The knight and wizard had recovered some of their poise. Dieter looked around him with distaste, and painfully rose to his feet.

‘We cannot stay here,’ the knight said, his voice dry. ‘These plague beasts are lethal, even in death. We should burn them, and move on.’

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Alexander in a surly voice, sounding exhausted.

Morgil looked around the scene of desolation. The knight was right. The place was heavy with contagion and death.

‘The bodies will have to lie here,’ he said flatly. ‘You must find a better place to rest.’

Morgil turned around to see the trio of humans looking at him with undisguised suspicion. For a moment, he was tempted to return their scorn, and disappear back into the trees. But such a move would be foolish. Even for one of his skills, the shadows were perilous. Though he was loathe to admit it to himself, the trail of the dark elf had given out. He had grown weary, and until matters resolved themselves, allies would be welcome.

‘You do not trust me,’ Morgil said to the humans.

Dieter stared at him darkly, looking unwittingly murderous in the dark with his blood-splattered armour. Alexander seemed nearly as reticent, but said nothing. Annika, the witch hunter, seemed to be in charge.

‘It’s not common to find one of your kind in the Reikwald,’ she said. ‘These are strange times.’

Morgil shrugged. The air of either wonder or aggression shown towards him by humans had long since become tiresome.

‘So they are,’ he said. ‘But talking about it will do us no good. The creatures are numerous. We should remain together, at least until the dawn. Then I’ll be on my way. To part now would be unwise, for both of us.’

The witch hunter looked pensive for a moment. Morgil suspected that if they had been less exhausted, the humans would have resisted his offer. But their faces were all heavy with fatigue.

‘Very well,’ Annika said at last. ‘We’ll tell each other our stories as we move. I assume your presence here is not an accident any more than ours is.’

‘Indeed,’ said Morgil darkly.

The White Lion turned and began to scout out a route up to higher ground. The rest of the weary group collected themselves, brushed the worst of the grime and gore from their clothes, and joined him. Painfully, haltingly, the unlikely band walked from the scene of destruction and back into the endless sea of trees.

Dawn was near, but the ever-present cloud cover masked the sun and kept the land shrouded in gloom. On a jagged plateau of iron-dark granite, a vast castle stood against the horizon. A few narrow windows flecked its mighty sides with brief orange light, but otherwise it sat in shadows. Like all Imperial keeps, it was heavily-built, with massive stone buttresses supporting a collection of towers, pinnacles and sheer-roofed halls.

This was no nobleman’s folly or country retreat. It was a keep designed for war and siege. The battlements were cut from stone a yard thick, the dry moat was wide and studded with spikes of twisted metal. The massive gates were barred by a mighty iron-bound drawbridge. Murder holes perforated the stone above it, and arrow slits marked every wall. The land was bleak in every direction, empty and devoid of life. It was a formidable location, and was the home of a formidable man. Castle Grauenburg mimicked the character of its owner. Dour, huge, unshakeable.

As the eastern horizon finally began to show a faint blush of red, a lone horseman made his way along the stone pathway towards the gates. He rode erratically, and the horse stumbled more than once before arriving beneath the soaring walls. Some signal was given, and the drawbridge began to lower. It was huge. As it slowly descended, thick chains the width of a man’s waist became visible. The scrape of metal against metal filled the air, and the noise of intricate machinery clanged from the vault beneath.

The wooden drawbridge fell on to its stone heel with a resounding boom. The horseman entered, passing under the shadow of the mighty ramparts and into darkness. Behind him, the portcullis began to creep downwards again. With a shriek of metal, the drawbridge started to rise. The chains, mighty as they were, shuddered and creaked as the vast construction of oak and iron was hauled high. Eventually, the machinery ceased its clashing, and the breach was sealed. The castle sat inviolate once more.

In a chamber high up in the central tower, Lord Grauenburg waited on a throne of burnished bronze. Little natural light struggled through the narrow windows. Great metal bowls filled with a lurid fire lit the cavernous space. Cold, unadorned stone walls rose high, tapering towards the roof thirty feet up. The chamber was furnished sparsely. Aside from the mighty throne, decorated with the emblems of Grauenburg’s long and proud line, there was a simple altar to Sigmar and three tattered standards. The flags had been nearly worn away with age, and hung limply in the chill air. A fireplace of huge dimensions sat in the centre of the wall on the left-hand side, but only embers lay in the grate. Grauenburg sat alone, seemingly lost in thought. An empty flagon and a crystal goblet sat on the stone steps at his feet.

A firm knock came from outside. The lord stirred slightly, and motioned with a finger. Though no servants were visible, the doors opened. A thin figure entered. The horseman. He walked up to the throne, his boots clattering on the stone and breaking the silence. When six feet before Grauenburg, he abased himself fully. The doors closed behind him with a heavy clang of metal.

‘Rachsdorf,’ said Lord Grauenburg. ‘You may rise.’

The sorcerer clambered to his feet stiffly. Rachsdorf seemed wounded, and clutched his midriff anxiously. He was pale and clammy. Grauenburg looked at him with disgust. The man was weak. He had made a misjudgement with this one. Some men controlled the powers of the gods well, others badly. He had thought Rachsdorf capable of dealing with the knowledge he had been given. His judgement had been poor on this occasion. The thought angered him, and he regarded the sorcerer darkly.

‘You have some nerve, to come here,’ Grauenburg said, his voice a low growl.

Rachsdorf quailed, but held his position.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said weakly. ‘I know my life is forfeit. Though I may die here, my duty was to return, to tell you what we have done to remedy matters.’

Grauenburg found himself repelled by the obsequy. He leaned forward, his fingers gripping the arms of the throne tightly.

‘I’m not sure you appreciate the full predicament you’re in, Rachsdorf,’ he said, keeping his voice low and calm. Behind the words, though, there was an unmistakable timbre of menace. ‘I’m not long back from meeting with the commander of the forces ordained to join us. He is not a man to be trifled with. In fact, he is no longer a man at all. To let him down would be disastrous. Even for me. And yet I have blithely told him all is in hand, all is ready, and our plans are proceeding apace.’

Rachsdorf swallowed gingerly, but knew better than to interrupt. Grauenburg leaned back in the throne and fixed him with a baleful gaze.

‘So imagine my disquiet when I discovered what has been going on in my absence,’ he continued acidly. ‘I am told that the temple was infiltrated. A regiment of knights, supported by wizards, broke into the sanctum and disrupted the summoning. The altar is destroyed, our work undone. You have failed, brought all our plans to ruin, and still have the gall to come here and beg for your life. I am amazed.’

Rachsdorf was now shivering visibly. He looked at the end of his strength, eaten up from within by the powers he barely controlled, battered by the events at the temple. He took a deep breath, and attempted to look Grauenburg in the eye.

‘I am sorry, my lord,’ he said, his voice thin and wavering. ‘I’ve failed you. I know the penalty. But, if I may, all is not yet lost. We were assailed by a whole regiment of knights, as you have heard. They were of the Griffon Order. Though my men fought hard, we were bested. As you can see, I myself was wounded defending the altar from their captain. Only after I’d slain the Bright wizard in their retinue did a wound from a tainted bullet force me to withdraw.’

Rachsdorf swallowed again, and Grauenburg felt his patience wearing thin. This rhetoric was not helping the sorcerer’s chances of survival.

‘It’s true that their intervention has disrupted the great scheme,’ continued the sorcerer. ‘The forces unleashed in the defence of the temple caused many parts of it to collapse. The humans were destroyed in the aftermath, and I only barely escaped with my life. Once I’d recovered, I collected together our scattered forces as best I could. With much labour, we returned to the temple and took control once more. Excavations have begun. The altar will soon be uncovered. The process can be resumed. Such magic as has been woven cannot be undone easily. The Lord of Change will be born, as you have determined.’

Grauenburg frowned, pondering this news. If the man wasn’t lying, it was an interesting development.

‘What do you think? Is this likely to be true?’ Grauenburg said.

Rachsdorf looked confused, not realising the words were not addressed to him. Grauenburg ignored him. From the shadows, two figures came forward. The room, which had seemed empty, harboured many surprises.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said one of them, a crippled, warped man, his dark skin laced with burns. It was Klosser. Despite his horrific wounds, his eyes still flashed with a vicious, spiteful fire. ‘It is possible. A summoning is a delicate art, performed over many months of sacrifice. Once begun, it can only be undone with an application of the proper rites. If these knights did not have a chance to purge the temple before it collapsed, then the process might be revived.’

The other figure, a tall druchii shrouded in purple robes, stayed silent. Grauenburg regarded this newcomer, Malek, with some suspicion. Dark elves had not formed part of his plan. There were many things about the current situation which unnerved him. Even after so long steeped in the arts of Chaos, the sorcerer was an uncanny figure. He had the arrogance and flippant cruelty of all his kind. And yet, one could not deny the power he offered to bring with him.

‘I didn’t realise we weren’t alone, my lord,’ said Rachsdorf, attempting to cast off the worst of his craven demeanour. ‘But I’m glad Herr Klosser has survived such a perilous mission. And the powers of the dark elves are well known. If I may ask, what relevance do they have to my tidings?’

Grauenburg let slip a faint sneer. The man was slow, and would have to be disposed of. But there were still things he could make himself useful for.

‘Your efforts at the temple are gratefully appreciated,’ the lord said in a voice that betrayed his contempt. ‘But you will no longer command my forces there. I have a more pressing task I wish you to undertake. The only man with the power to uncover us is the bastard Heinrich. I’m told he is near crushing his rebellion, and every day musters more men to resist our allies from the north. You will lead a diversionary strike. Occupied as he is with other things, Heinrich will not expect to be facing an enemy in his own lands. We’ve been preparing our own force of warriors for months. It’s time to unleash them. Rachsdorf, you will lead them. Take the army to Lord Heinrich’s castle and destroy it. Should you do so, your failure at the temple will be forgotten.’

Rachsdorf looked amazed.

‘But, my lord,’ he said, his mouth opening and closing foolishly. ‘What of the Lord of Change? How will…’

Grauenburg locked his flint-grey eyes on the sorcerer once more.

‘Should you refuse this task,’ he said, his voice steely, ‘there may be other ways in which you can atone for your misdeeds. Perhaps in the lower levels of this castle.’

Rachsdorf blanched, and shook his head frantically.

‘No, my lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘It will be an honour! I’ll make my preparations at once.’

‘You do that,’ said Grauenburg. ‘Speak to my castellan. All has been set in place. But time is short. Ride today, and I want to hear of no delays. Heinrich must be surprised. And at all costs keep my name out of this! The day is coming when I shall reveal myself, but for now the pretence must be maintained. Heinrich must know nothing of my hand in this. Now go!’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Rachsdorf, and scuttled backwards, clutching his side as he went. With his passing, the doors clanged shut once more.

‘A wise move?’ asked Malek, sardonically. ‘He’s failed you once. I see ill-directed magic leaking from him like blood from a cadaver.’

Grauenburg shot him a vicious look. He hated all elves, and the arrogance of the druchii was insufferable. If this Malek were not so useful, he would have been killed on arrival.

‘Don’t lecture me in my own hall,’ said Grauenburg, an edge of malice in his voice. ‘You think yourself superior, but I know more of your lore than you might suppose. I’m no ordinary man. You are a race of the defeated, Malek, driven from your lands by those you hate. Until you set your own house in order, do not presume to lecture me on mine.’

Grauenburg could see Malek was stung, but kept his eyes fixed on him. The dark elf had to know that he was expendable. The sorcerer collected himself, and gave a forced smile.

‘I see your lore is great,’ Malek said, still with a faint trace of sarcasm. ‘And since I have agreed to work with you for our common goal, I willingly defer to your judgement.’

Grauenburg maintained his level gaze. It would be foolish to regard Malek as anything but a fair-weather friend, and a most unreliable one at that.

‘If Rachsdorf succeeds,’ Grauenburg said, ‘then it aids us. If he fails and dies, then we have lost nothing. The army of cultists we have raised here is nothing compared to the forces on their way from the north. Rachsdorf will tie up Heinrich, and by the time he unravels himself the Lord of Change will be present in the world.’

Malek raised an eyebrow.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You have sent the architect of the magic away. Will the remaining sorcerers in your employ be capable of the task?’

‘Of course not,’ said Grauenburg, irritably. ‘You can cease pretending, Malek. You know as well as I do that only you and Klosser have the power. You will ride to the temple immediately and oversee the resumption of the rites. Do not even think of treachery. The daemon is bound to my will, and there will be an army of flesh-eating warriors at my side very soon. Fail in this, and your soul will have an eternity to weep its pain away. Succeed, and your riches and power will be assured forever.’

Klosser, almost unable to contain his excitement at being given a fresh task, stammered his thanks. Malek bowed low, his purple robes rustling faintly along the stone.

‘A wise judgement,’ he said, a crooked smile on his inscrutable face. ‘This alliance is proving to be more interesting than I could have hoped for.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Alexander woke after a deep slumber. His vision took several moments to return, and it was only after some time that he remembered the events of the previous night. It was late afternoon. He was lying on the summit of a bare hill in the midst of the forest. A fire smouldered a few feet away. Dieter and Annika sat by it, eating what looked like pigeon. Neither spoke, but when Dieter saw Alexander was awake he beckoned him over.

With a grimace, the Bright wizard roused himself and limped awkwardly over to the dying fire.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Annika, dryly.

‘How long was I out?’ asked Alexander, still groggy with sleep.

‘All day, I presume,’ said Dieter, munching on a sliver of grey meat. ‘We awoke only an hour or so ago.’

‘Then who did…?’ started Alexander, before remembering the White Lion.

Annika gave a wry smile.

‘I don’t think he slept at all,’ she said. ‘You can thank him for leading us here, and for the fire, and no doubt for watching over us as we slept. He’s been coming and going this afternoon. Doesn’t talk much. I think he’s anxious to be going. I told him you’d nearly been burned alive and that we’ve been fighting ever since, but he didn’t look sympathetic.’

As she finished speaking, Morgil returned. He had a brace of skinned rabbits flung over his shoulder. Acknowledging Alexander with a curt nod, he skewered one of the carcasses and placed it over the fire.

‘So,’ said Alexander awkwardly. Manners did not come easily to him. ‘You have our thanks.’

Morgil shrugged, and turned the rabbit over slowly. Alexander watched it roasting over the flames, and had to work hard not to drool. It seemed like an age since he had eaten anything but the most measly scraps.

‘Where are you heading?’ Alexander said, trying to break the oppressive silence.

The elf looked up from his cooking, and gave him an unreadable expression.

‘I am hunting prey. She passed this way. I will be gone soon.’

Annika finished chewing on her meal, and sat back.

‘You can’t really be intending to travel on your own?’ she said, incredulously. ‘Something is drawing these beasts together. There were more in one place than I’ve ever seen before. We’re safer together, at least until we reach our destination.’

Morgil shook his head.

‘Our destinations are different,’ he said simply.

Dieter shook his head. He could not hide a certain resentment. Until Morgil had arrived Dieter had been the most accomplished amongst them at close combat. Even Alexander could tell that his pride had been a little stung by the elf’s appearance, despite the fact it had probably saved his life.

‘You may think that now,’ the knight said. ‘But soon this whole land will be aflame. We’ll be lucky to arrive at our destination before it engulfs us. If you’re out on your own, you’ll be killed. I don’t care how skilful you are.’

Morgil weighed the words carefully, but did not speak. Alexander struggled to keep his eyes off the slowly crisping rabbit.

‘Dieter’s right,’ said the wizard. ‘I don’t know who you’re after, and it’s none of my concern. But she’ll fare no better out in the open than you will. For all you know, she was killed by the plague beasts in the woods. There are hundreds of them.’

Morgil shook his head.

‘She’s not dead. I’d know.’

Annika sighed, and began to collect her belongings together. The pistol had been cleaned and reloaded, and her sword had been cleaned and freshly sharpened.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Whoever you’re after has only two choices ahead of her. Either she’s planning on heading to Castle Heinrich to ride out the storm, as we are, or she’s intent on joining the enemy. There’s no other reason for her to be here. Unless she’s lost, which given the way you refer to her I find hard to believe.’

Morgil turned the rabbit meat over on the fire. He didn’t dismiss her words immediately, and seemed to reflect on them for a moment.

‘Frau Bohringer is right,’ said Alexander. ‘From here, there’s nowhere else to go but Castle Heinrich. Either the woman you seek will be there, or she’s heading directly for the advancing enemy. If you try and follow her there, you’ll never achieve your goal.’

Dieter looked intently at the elf. The White Lion finished cooking the rabbit, pulled the skewer from the flesh, and tossed it to Alexander. Despite himself, the wizard grabbed eagerly at the hot meat. It could have been served on the Emperor’s platter at Altdorf, and would have tasted no finer.

‘We are both heading north for a while,’ said Morgil. ‘I will accompany you from the forest, since our paths lie together. From what you say, the castle is not far. When you reach it, I will make a decision. Do not trouble me further about it.’

Dieter’s expression was hard to read. Annika looked satisfied.

‘The right decision,’ she said. ‘When the wizard is ready, we should head off.’

Alexander, mouth full of tender, fatty rabbit, scowled.

‘Let me eat this in peace, damn you,’ he snapped. ‘Then we can go.’

From deep within the forest, a thin wail rose into the air. For the first time, Alexander noticed that Morgil’s clothes were streaked with blood. Fresh blood. The elf looked at him darkly. The wizard rose quickly, gobbling more of the meat as he did so.

‘All right,’ he said grudgingly, mouth full of gristle. ‘Perhaps we’d better keep moving.’

Artheris touched the reins lightly, and her Ellyrian steed came to a halt. The proud beast whinnied and stamped, nostrils flaring. The archmage whispered a few words of soothing, and the horse calmed down. Artheris let her shoulders relax, feeling the muscles begin to unwind. It had been a long, hard march north. She looked around, taking advantage of her position on a long, windswept ridge to gain an impression of the country.

The terrain was vast. Towards all points of the compass, the landscape was thick with trees. In the very far distance, a blue-grey shape of mountains rose. They were firmly in the grip of the Reikwald, the wild forest which dominated the heart of the Empire. In Ulthuan, one was never far from the coast, even in Averlorn or Saphery. But here it felt as if the dry land went on forever. There wasn’t the faintest tang of salt in the air, just the dreary stink of mud, rotting matter, stagnant water, mould, decay. No doubt the plague had blighted the land more than was usual, but even so it was a wearying, unremitting country. At least on the ridge the wind moved freely and she could feel the breeze against her face. In the lowlands, the trees seemed to reach out with grasping fingers, beckoning the unwary traveller to enter the dim and gloomy world under the branches, places that had remained almost untouched since the days of the ill-fated asur colonies.

All around her Reavers fanned out, their watchful eyes trained on the trees. Their steeds were the best in all Ulthuan, and they went proudly over the treacherous terrain. Artheris looked over her shoulder. The rest of the army toiled up the shallow incline. The bulk of her forces was composed of men. They marched in ragged companies, some to the beat of crude leather drums, all in the varied colours of their many regions and allegiances. The majority of the state troops were decked in the blue and red of Altdorf, though there was a veritable rainbow of bright shades from all over the Empire. Helborg had been busy raising troops from wherever he could find them, and had done the best he could.

At the vanguard rode three companies of Reiksguard knights, the finest human soldiers in the entire army. They drove a hard pace, heedless of the toils of the infantry behind them. They were haughty and grim, riding sturdy mounts and encased in heavy plate armour. They spoke rarely, and most kept well away from the elven contingent. Only their captain, Stern, conversed with her regularly. He was the commander of the entire Empire contingent, subordinate only to her as the head of the allied force. He was a plain-speaking man, quick to perceive a slight or rise to anger, but also an experienced commander. His men looked up to him and trusted his judgement. That was all Artheris needed.

The bulk of the human soldiers were armed with halberds, pikes, or crudely-forged swords. At the rear of the straggling Imperial forces were the companies of more specialist troops. Archers and handgunners mingled with a troop of engineers, their light artillery pieces being hauled by teams of horses. A train of carts and wains followed, stocked with supplies. These needed to be guarded nightly, as food was carefully rationed. The snaking column of men had so far held together reasonably well, and reports of desertion or thievery were uncommon. How long that would last as the campaign went on was anyone’s guess, though the Reiksguard were brutally efficient at stamping out dissent.

The elven army was a different proposition entirely. At the rearguard, in the position of most danger, the Swordmasters marched in glittering ranks of perfection, their eyes cold. They had matched their pace to the slowest of the humans they guarded. If such duties offended their sense of martial pride, they didn’t show it. She knew many of them had taken vows of penance after the incident in Altdorf, and would follow her every order as if she were Tyrion himself. When the battle was joined, they would be as deadly and focussed as ever. Along the flanks of the crawling mass of men rode the Ellyrian Reavers, keeping a tight watch on the wilderness around them. Every so often on the march they had ridden off, seemingly at random, only to return with the blood of the plague creatures on their blades. Their horses, cooped up for so long in the holds of hawkships, seemed to relish even the foul air of the Reikwald.

The bulk of the elven force consisted of tightly-ordered companies of spearmen and archers. Though not as thoroughly steeped in the martial lore as the Swordmasters and Reavers, they still presented a much more impressive aspect than most of their human allies. They kept in close formation throughout the march, eschewing the crude banter of the state troops and staying eerily silent. Their equipment was of the highest quality, and glinted brightly even in the weak sunlight. In contrast to the gaudy patterns of the Empire militia, the insignias on their shields were elegant and artfully inscribed. Contingents had been drawn from all over Ulthuan. Hawks of Yvresse were seen beside the tower emblems of Hoeth and the sea dragons of Eataine. Behind them, bolt thrower teams followed. Even though the machines were far lighter than the clumsy human equivalents, they were still borne by horses, whose progress through the grime could be laborious when the ground became treacherous. They were worth it, however, and Artheris was glad of them. Volleys of blackpowder weapons working in concert with the bolts of the elven machines would give any enemy commander something to ponder.

At the vanguard of the entire cavalcade stood Artheris’s retinue. Standard bearers, human and asur, carried the mighty devices of the assembled companies proudly. Foremost among them was Artheris’s own insignia, the crested horse-head of the Ellyrian knights surmounted by the rune Lecai. In the still, close weather it hung limply from the spear shaft. Other emblems, including the black and gold of the Reiksguard, clustered around it.

As she stood, absorbing the shape of her army, considering the ways it might be employed when the time came, Stern brought his steed over to her.

‘I’d like more men,’ he said brusquely, following her gaze.

Artheris nodded.

‘Yes, captain,’ she said. ‘This is not the mighty host the Emperor hoped for. But more will come. We are the vanguard, nothing more.’

Stern grunted, clearly unconvinced.

‘Still, more artillery would’ve been good. And I’d prefer some more knights. Not to disparage your kind, Archmage, but I don’t reckon those spearmen will stand up to a determined charge. They’ve good gear, I grant you, but a Chaos warrior is a force to be reckoned with. We need more blackpowder, and more knights.’

Artheris smiled tolerantly.

‘I agree with you,’ she said diplomatically. ‘The fame of the Reiksguard is known even in Ulthuan. But do not be too hasty to disregard my countrymen. We have been fighting the long war against Chaos for millennia. The spearmen may look fragile, but I’d vouch for each one of them.’

Stern pursed his lips. The nearest Ellyrian Reaver, who had overheard the exchange, looked on stonily.

‘I’ll take that on trust, Archmage,’ he said. ‘I’ve never fought with your sort before, and I won’t write off a man till I’ve bled alongside him. But I will say this. If you get in trouble, don’t be slow to summon the Reiksguard. The Grand Marshal has charged me personally with your protection, and I won’t forget it.’

Artheris found his concern touching, but let none of her amusement show. Like his commander Helborg, Stern was a proud man. A human, who lived for perhaps fifty years if he was lucky, could have no conception of how ephemeral his life seemed to one who had seen centuries come and go. The mightiest of them, even the Emperor, were like mayflies compared to her race. Their achievements were impressive, but they barely lived long enough to appreciate them. It took a real effort of will for Artheris to see the blunt, grave figure before her as anything other than a child. What the humans often mistook for arrogance was merely an imperfect concealment of this fact. Did they treat their own children like grown men?

‘Your offer is gratefully received,’ Artheris said warmly. ‘I’ll remember your words when battle is joined. The Grand Master is right to place his trust in you.’

Despite himself, Stern seemed to blush slightly.

‘Well, that’s that, then,’ he said, and kicked his horse ahead.

Artheris watched him return to his men with a sad expression. Stern had little idea of the extent of her powers. How could he? For all he knew, she had been wounded in Altdorf by a gang of dark elves, and was therefore no stronger than one of the humans’ own erratic wizards. The impression was not something she had expended effort to contest. How could the humans understand that her magic was of a deep and subtle kind? It couldn’t just be plucked out of the air like any village conjurer’s. But with adequate preparation, she had strength within her to shake the very elements. Her frame was slender and frail, but her spirit was vigorous and indomitable.

Still, the time of proving would come soon enough. Artheris could feel the growth of corruption as they marched. With every step, the aura of civilisation ebbed a little and the ambience of Chaos increased. They were still hundreds of miles within the borders of the Empire, but the taint ran deep. There was a presence, something tangible. Despite her long training, her profound understanding of the dark arts, she was unable to pinpoint the sensation. The corruption all around didn’t help, but there was more to it than that. It was almost as if something terrible was merely slumbering, biding its time, waiting for the moment to reveal itself.

She shuddered slightly, and realised she had grown cold in her stillness. With a whispered word, she urged her steed onwards once more. The time when all would be revealed was nearly at hand.

Jhar’zadris had watched the sun go down with satisfaction. He was no more than a day away from the temple. He was surprised he could not feel the presence of the Lord of Change more strongly. But something was definitely stirring. Grauenburg may have exaggerated, but he hadn’t lied. The Chosen was in a good mood. They had made progress. Tchar’zanek would be pleased. All was unfolding as it should.

He lay back in his tent, enjoying the sensation of the plates of his armour-flesh relaxing. Most of the army slept in the open, but his hide tent was a concession to the past. It was in the style of the nomadic tribe he had once been a member of. Now he could barely remember their name. Just dim impressions of wide, cold plains. Did he regret it? Maybe a small part of him did mourn his lost humanity. But only rarely, and it was dangerous to entertain such thoughts. The god who had chosen him was most definitely a jealous master, and there was no going back. For the most part, he gloried in his power and majesty, far beyond what any mortal of his tribe could have hoped for.

He took an ornate golden chalice from a low table beside him, and drained it in a single draught. The killing would soon begin, and his every sense anticipated it with relish.

Suddenly, there was a strange noise outside the tent entrance. Jhar’zadris rose to a seated position, intrigued. There were warriors stationed all around him, and sentries beyond them. Fires had been lit all over the camp. Surely no human had been foolish enough to try and enter?

Fresh noises rose into the night air. The clash of blades, a confused shout. Jhar’zadris was half-inclined to find out what was going on, when a woman burst into the tent, breathing heavily. She was bleeding from a gash across her cheek. Two warriors followed her inside, both with blades raised.

‘If you kill me, Chosen, you’ll regret it!’ she shouted desperately, spinning away from the killing blow of one of the warriors.

Jhar’zadris barked an order in the Dark Tongue. His warriors froze instantly, let their weapons fall, and withdrew. Their expressions remained hidden behind their iron helmets. The woman fell to her knees before him.

‘Speak quickly,’ said the Chosen with menace. ‘You are moments away from agony.’

He towered above her. She looked frail, insignificant. But then she lifted her face, and the candlelight uncovered her expression. She was a dark elf, and her exquisite features betrayed her fierce heritage. Whatever else she might be, she wasn’t frail.

‘You should train your guards better,’ she said, wiping the blood from her cheek disdainfully. ‘Three are dead.’

Jhar’zadris felt a kernel of pleasure rise within him, and decided to string this out a little. As much as killing this druchii would give him much satisfaction, there had been the message in the entrails. Was this the one who had been promised? Perhaps it had all been ordained. Such were the ways of his master.

‘If one such as you can slip under their guard, they deserve to be dead,’ Jhar’zadris said. ‘I can live with a little wastage, but only if you have something to give me in return.’

The dark elf looked at him fearlessly. She had kept her blades exposed, and the Chosen could see that she was poised to use them. The fact amused him.

‘My service,’ she said coldly. ‘You may find a Disciple of Khaine of more use than a dozen of your lumbering warriors. But I also bring you tidings. An army is marching, led by an asur archmage. I can tell you more of her.’

Jhar’zadris felt his gurgling, rattling laugh rise up within him once more.

‘A feeble bargain!’ he sneered. ‘I have no need of warriors, and fear no elven army. You have no idea of the powers at work here. If you thought that your coming would add anything to my plans, you were mistaken. You are fleeing from something. I can see it in your aura. You may not even be aware what it is. But your doom follows you closely, dark elf.’

The druchii hissed with anger, and clutched her daggers more tightly. The Chosen could sense her wishes before she herself. Her spirit was impressive, but he had tired of her arrogance. As quick as thought, he reached forward and clutched her around the neck. Her eyes opened wide with surprise. Jhar’zadris knew he looked vast and cumbersome in his armour, but his twisted adornments had long since ceased to dampen his powers of speed. He squeezed her delicate throat with spiked fingers, enjoying the thin trickles of blood between them.

‘Your confidence is your undoing, witch,’ he hissed. ‘I may have you skinned alive and tender pieces of your heart distributed amongst my favourites while your dying eyes watch. One of my favourite activities.’

He let her go, and she crumpled to the floor, gagging.

‘You’re in luck, Disciple of Khaine,’ said Jhar’zadris coldly. ‘My master is directing things this way. Your coming has been predicted. So I am inclined to let you live.’

He rose from his low bed, the massive plates of his armour sliding over one another smoothly. The druchii looked up at him, still fearlessly, but with considerable wariness.

‘But know this,’ he hissed, placing his face directly in front of hers. ‘Your kind has a deserved reputation for treachery. I will use you. If you fail, or return my magnanimity with betrayal, your death will rise to new heights of artful pain.’

Only then did her expression register the faintest sliver of fear. She kept her gaze steady, however, and looked up into his twisted visor defiantly.

‘I will serve as promised,’ she said, her voice level. It sounded as if the words were being ripped from her unwilling lips.

Jhar’zadris sat back on the bed, keeping his eyes fixed on her at all times.

‘So you shall,’ he said. ‘Go now. Should you emerge alive from my tent, my warriors will know you have my protection. I will ask you about this elven sorcerer later. Until then, you had better hope there are no others of your kind here. The signs were vague, and if I discover you have no part in my master’s plan, your death will not be swift.’

The dark elf bowed curtly, and withdrew from the tent.

Jhar’zadris lay back, turning things over in his mind. A surprising turn. Foretold in the entrails, it was true, but surprising nonetheless. A less indulgent commander would have had her killed immediately. But after centuries of existence, he had long realised that the only true aim of life was the avoidance of boredom. She was interesting, and that had saved her life. Only fate would now tell what her role in the coming battle would be, and whether his decision had been the right one. He reached for more of the wine.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lord Heinrich looked down from his high seat. His raven hair hung to his shoulders, and his robes were of dark sable. He was not famed for his tolerance, and now his severe face was heavy with disapproval. Alexander felt his heart sinking. They had battled so hard to get to the castle, fighting through more bands of plague beasts before breaking out into the spare highlands and safety. Their welcome from the suspicious guards had been cold, and Heinrich had kept them waiting hours for an audience. Now, after so much pain and effort, it seemed as if all their efforts had been in vain.

Annika, Dieter and he stood in a line before the throne. They were in a draughty hall of bare stone within Castle Heinrich. The high windows threw a cold, clear light across them. Everything was austere, spare, utilitarian. On either side of them, groups of courtiers and soldiers watched impassively. The standard of Lord Heinrich’s personal guard hung against the wall over where he sat, listless and heavy. The device was a wolf’s head in black on a silver-grey field. Grim and forbidding, like its owner.

Morgil stood to the side, flanked by a score of Heinrich’s guards. The elf had remained with them, against all the odds. He had been taciturn and moody for the last two days, occasionally muttering something about his trail going cold. He hadn’t been keen to enter the castle, but Annika had eventually persuaded him. To have remained outside the walls in such conditions would have been foolhardy, even for a warrior such as him. Unfortunately, Heinrich’s welcome had been even harsher for the White Lion. Only Annika’s intervention had prevented him being clapped in irons. Alexander was no elf-lover, but the shabby treatment of such an evidently mighty warrior pained him.

‘So, let me see if I understand you,’ said Lord Heinrich to Alexander, his voice betraying his scorn. ‘You have news of a conspiracy against me. Someone in the Imperial order has turned to the dark powers, and our defences are in jeopardy. And yet you have no proof of this. You don’t even have a name. Nor can you tell me in what manner this treachery will reveal itself. Forgive me, Bright wizard, if I am less than impressed with your tidings.’

Alexander controlled his frustration, and kept his voice steady. After coming through so much, it was imperative something should come of it.

‘I realise I’ve not given you much to go on,’ said Alexander, apologetically. ‘I was charged with carrying detailed reports to you, concealed in an Imperial cipher. I’m ashamed to say that these were taken from me by force. I make no excuse for this. I was at fault. But since then I have walked through miles of open countryside, crawling with mutants and bandits, to deliver what news I could. In the process I’ve nearly died. Twice.’

He paused, observing the weary expression on the lord’s face. The man was used to death and struggle. Such pleading would do no good here.

‘My lord,’ said the wizard, realising his time was nearly up, ‘I still believe something can be learned from this. Whatever plans you have must be altered. They are known to the enemy. If you do nothing else, please consider revising the preparations you have made.’

Lord Heinrich looked unmoveable, as if carved from the very stone of his hall.

‘You are not a commander of men, wizard,’ he said, ‘so I shall forgive the stupidity inherent in your question. Do you have any idea of what we face? My forces are divided. Half of them are busy scouring the land of plague and infestation before it drags us all down. One of my best captains is miles away to the south crushing a rebellion that has threatened to overthrow my rule. Those forces I have left at my disposal are as subject to the plague as their kin in the fields, and only fear of what is to come keeps them from mutiny. We are short of food, and the promised help from Altdorf is nowhere to be seen. And yet this may all be solved, so you say, by changing my preparations. What, pray, would you have me do differently?’

Alexander hung his head. There was no answer. Perhaps the tidings were useless in any case. Heinrich was overstretched just trying to keep his realm together. When the Chaos armies descended, there could be no hope.

Heinrich shook his head wearily.

‘Witch hunter, what is your opinion?’ he asked.

‘My lord,’ said Annika. ‘I can’t add much to what the Bright wizard has said, but it’s allied to our suspicions. We’ve revealed nothing of this until now for lack of proof, but the time has long since passed for caution. Lord Heinrich, I believe your peer Lord Grauenburg has turned to darkness. We’ve witnessed cabals on his lands, and uncovered sacrilege in a temple of Sigmar on his borders. I realise that such words seem wild and irreverent, but I beg you to heed them. On my honour as a Templar of Sigmar, I urge you not to trust this man. He will betray us all.’

When she had finished, Lord Heinrich rose from his seat. His anger was now barely contained, but when he spoke it was in a low, measured voice.

‘How dare you,’ he said icily. ‘Do you even know what you’re saying? To accuse a lord of the Empire without the slightest proof, to insinuate the most grievous of crimes without adducing a trace of evidence, this is a grave offence. If you were not a witch hunter, I’d have you thrown in the gaol.’

Alexander wondered whether he should intervene again, but suddenly there was a commotion at the far end of the hall. There was a clatter of arms outside, and the huge doors were flung open. A man in heavy armour entered and lumbered past them towards the high seat.

‘Lord Heinrich!’ he said, clearly in a state of some agitation. ‘The scouts have returned. It is as you feared. An army has been sighted in the west, and it bears the eight-pointed star.’

Lord Heinrich gave Alexander a curious look.

‘Intriguing,’ he said, slowly. ‘That such a thing should happen so soon after your arrival. You may regret coming this far to find me. We’ll have to take this up another time.’

Heinrich rose from his throne. The audience was clearly over. As the hall descended into a nervous murmuring, Alexander looked at Annika and Dieter, who reflected his concern in their faces. Whatever plans the Celestial wizards had seen were now unfolding. The wizard felt his foreboding grow.

Alexander screwed his eyes up against the haze, and tried to make out the nature of the enemy they faced. Along with Dieter and Annika, he was high up on the west face of the main keep on a great stone balcony. Heinrich and his captains of war were all around them. It had been only a few hours since their arrival at the castle, and the lord was still distrustful of their intentions. But Heinrich had not been able to keep the anxiety entirely out of his expression. As the scale of the threat became clearer, it was increasingly obvious he was concerned about the survival of the castle. In such circumstances, a wizard, witch hunter and knight were not allies to be casually cast aside, so Alexander and the others had been ordered to join the captains on the balcony to survey the coming battle. Keeping a low profile, Morgil had accompanied them also. He stayed in the shadows as much as possible, speaking little, seemingly preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Below them, the sides of the castle fell away in sheer cascades. The thick outer walls were below and in front of them, maybe forty feet down. Men crawled over the battlements preparing weaponry and hauling cauldrons of boiling oil to the ramparts. All eyes were drawn across the undulating land to the west. The hills rose and fell like waves, marked only rarely by pockets of scrub. Less than two miles distant, a sea of bodies was moving. They were moving quickly, and the sound of a beating drum was audible even from such a distance. Tattered banners waved erratically as the host moved. It was hard to make out details, but their numbers were considerable. There were far more soldiers out on the plains than Alexander had seen evidence of in the castle.

Morgil peered into the distance.

‘The scouts were right,’ he said quietly to Alexander. ‘They bear the device of Chaos. They’re humans. A rabble, but numerous.’

Watching the approach with a stern expression, Lord Heinrich took a deep breath.

‘They’ll be at the walls soon enough,’ he said, seemingly to himself. ‘Something is driving them hard.’

He turned to one of the soldiers next to him.

‘Captain Hanneke,’ he said crisply. ‘Get all the gunnery we possess on the west-facing walls. I want volleys of fire to keep them away from the gates as long as possible.’

He turned to address the others.

‘We’ll seal the gates, keep them from scaling the walls,’ he said. ‘There are too many to risk an encounter in the open. If Fassbinder were here, it might be different. But given the few men we have here, we have no option. Messages have been sent, recalling all troops to the castle. Until they arrive, we must hold out.’

Dieter shook his head, shot Annika a glance, and an understanding seemed to pass between them. The witch hunter approached Lord Heinrich. After the encounter in his hall, they had learned to tread carefully around him.

‘With respect, my lord,’ she said, keeping her voice as unassuming as possible, ‘I believe we’re being manipulated into this. The attack is designed to keep us penned-up here while the real work is done elsewhere. We told you of the temple and the summoning we prevented. We must assume that the place has been retaken by now. If we delay here, this man Rachsdorf will finish what he has started. Only your forces stand between him and his goal of bringing a force of darkness into the world. The longer we are detained here, the closer they will come to fulfilling their objective.’

Heinrich threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

‘Is there no end to your insolence?’ he exclaimed, utterly without humour. ‘Witch hunter, my patience is rapidly running out. You have told me about the abomination at the temple, and if things were otherwise I would lend you a whole company of warrior priests to go and root it out. But, as you may observe, we are a little busy with our own problems for the present. Now, you can either make yourself useful in the defence, or take your chances outside the gates. I’m sure those outside would welcome you with open arms.’

He gave her a chill smile, and swept from the balcony into the innards of the castle, pursued by his retinue.

Alexander gave Annika a wry look.

‘This is going well, isn’t it?’ he said.

Dieter started pulling the leather straps of his armour tight.

‘No use complaining,’ he said. ‘There’ll be plenty of work for us here.’

Annika nodded, pulling her pistol from her holster.

‘Indeed. But whatever the noble lord thinks, this castle is not what they’re after. If we survive this, we must convince him to release more troops to take the temple. And somehow persuade him Grauenburg is behind all this without getting ourselves executed. And then worry about the war to come.’

She turned to Morgil.

‘Not what I expected,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Morgil looked over the battlements towards the surging mass of cultists. He pulled his axe from its bindings on his back and hefted it lightly in his hands.

‘Worry not,’ he said, gazing at the approaching tide of cultists with a savage look in his eye. ‘I was at fault for allowing myself to be drawn into this. But there is hunting here, and my vengeance will come one way or another.’

The keep was lit by flame. For over an hour the mass of cultists had assaulted the gates, throwing themselves with abandon at the heavy, buttressed archway. They were possessed with manic energy, drooling and screaming as they pressed forward. From the battlements, Alexander could see the wide-eyed, crazed looks on their faces. Bodies of the dead lay heaped at the foot of the walls, and the ground was slick and sodden with gore. The roll of the drums was maddening and unceasing. Out of the range of the archers, teams of frenzied cultists pounded the great hide-bound instruments.

The army was mostly composed of foot soldiers. They were poorly armed with an assortment of crude weapons. Even from his high vantage point, Alexander could see many of them bearing the marks of mutation. But there were more formidable warriors in their ranks, companies of heavily-armed marauders. They were being held in reserve by the army commander, who was content to let his expendable fanatics take the brunt of the first attacks on the castle. At the rear of the host, huge wagons had been drawn up out of reach of the defenders’ arrows. Machines of war were being unloaded and reconstructed. In the very centre of the army there was a cluster of robed figures. They seemed to be urging the others on, driving their unnatural bloodlust. It was impossible to make out features in the confusion, but Alexander could swear that one of them bore the aura of Rachsdorf. So the sorcerer had survived the collapse of the temple.

Alexander turned his gaze from the horde below him and looked along the long, narrow ramparts to his right. He was on the outer wall. The defenders mostly crouched behind the high battlements, clutching what few arrows remained. Captain Hanneke was marshalling the defence of the outer perimeter and occupied the ramparts over the gate itself. Heinrich himself had remained in his high tower, overseeing the defence from his vantage point. The vast central keep soared into the air, blackened by the balls of flame which had been hurled upwards at it. Even now, fresh arrows streaming with smoke soared over the high walls and into the courtyard beyond. Fires burned everywhere, and men rushed back and forth with paltry buckets of water trying to douse them. The walls had not yet been breached, but it had been a close run thing. Ladders and hooks had been thrown up against the sides of the castle. Like rats, cultists swarmed up them, only to be pushed back, screaming, by the defenders on the ramparts. Darts were flying thickly from the attackers, and any defenders putting their bodies above the protective crenulations even briefly were at risk of the wayward shafts thudding into them. Cannonade and gunnery fire cracked out at regular intervals from the walls, but it seemed to do little to dent the fury of the horde.

Dieter and Alexander had been assigned to the defence of a section of rampart south of the gates. Heinrich’s soldiers regarded the wizard with some distrust, but they followed Dieter’s orders without question. The wizard turned back, gazing at the furious horde through the gaps between the battlements. He clenched his new staff tightly. The wooden shaft had been lent to him, and it was weak with age and misuse. There had been a Bright wizard in Lord Heinrich’s employ until recently, but he had succumbed to the plague. His staff had been preserved, as even the ungifted knew what a powerful weapon it could be. The unfamiliar instrument felt awkward in Alexander’s hands. It took time to attune oneself to the harmonies of a new staff. Any old stick would not do. A wizard’s staff was bound with spells and warded against the ever-present lure of dark magic. Over time, a wizard learned to unlock the power within the weapon, to use the particular properties of wood and iron to best effect. Using a dead man’s staff was difficult. But it was better than nothing.

He rose briefly to his feet, swirled the instrument around his head to pick up momentum, and hurled a spitting ball of fire into the air. He ducked down quickly. A hail of arrows shot through the air where his head had been. They were poor shots, but the cultists seemed to have an infinite supply of wickedly-barbed darts.

The ball of fire exploded in mid-air, dividing into hundreds of smaller orbs. The lesser spheres further divided, multiplying like animals, scurrying around in the air, falling to earth like the sparks from a blacksmith’s forge. When they hit fabric, leather or wood they burst into fresh life. The points of light and heat were searing. From below, Alexander listened to the frantic screams with a grim pleasure. A difficult spell, but its wide range made it worth the effort. As scores of cultists dropped their bows in horror, stung by the sudden heat, the hail of arrows over the ramparts slackened.

‘Now!’ came Dieter’s booming voice behind Alexander.

All along their section of the battlements, men rose and fitted arrows to their bows. In a single, disciplined volley, darts rained down from the castle walls, spinning into the wailing mass of flesh below. Fresh screams punctured the air, and the momentum of the assault faltered. The men ducked back down behind the protection of the rampart as Alexander’s unnatural fire died out. The torrent from below resumed.

Alexander turned in the direction of the speaker. Dieter crouched in the lee of the walls, smiling coldly.

‘Good work,’ he said, his eyes alive with the fire of battle. ‘Another one?’

Alexander grinned at him, already preparing a fresh fireball.

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘But I warn you this is tiring work. Just one more, and then I’ll need to give some thought to that sorcer…’

Before Alexander could finish, a huge crash startled both of them. Dieter rose to his feet, then ducked down again immediately. A rock sailed over the battlements and careered into the keep beyond. Stone blocks smashed, raining rubble down on those below.

‘Catapults?’ hissed Dieter.

Alexander pushed him aside roughly and squinted through the narrow gap. Heavy wooden stone-throwers had been dragged forward through the rows of baying cultists. They were hideous, ornate contraptions, banded with black iron and decorated with grotesque symbols of Chaos. Teams of slaves dragged them into position, and their spiked brass wheels tore the earth as they came. Human skeletons hung from the impressive beams, swaying eerily as the mighty machines hurled their deadly contents at the walls. Unadulterated, they would perhaps have been little threat to Castle Heinrich’s defences. But each catapult shimmered with dark magic. In the daylight, the effect was insubstantial, but Alexander’s eyes were capable of seeing further than most. They were encased in a writhing aura like a nest of translucent snakes. Something had been done to them, or bound to them, to augment their power tenfold. Rachsdorf and his cabal had been busy.

The stones continued to smash into the walls. All over the ramparts, men scrabbled to get to safety. Captain Hanneke’s voice was raised, ordering them to stay at their stations. Before Alexander could react, a fresh series of rocks soared up into the air. One landed a few feet away, clipping the top of the parapet, smashing the walkway behind and sending a dozen men screaming to their deaths. The entire section of the wall buckled, and masonry showered into the courtyard behind them. Dieter grabbed him and hauled him away from the gaping hole. More stonework collapsed. Men withdrew from the teetering rampart as best they could, but many lost their footing or were felled by the arrows streaming upwards once more. The gap at the top of the wall widened as more blocks toppled to earth.

Ladders sprung up from the far side. The cultists raced up them, caring little for the treacherous stonework tumbling all around them. They poured up over the shattered space at the top of the ramparts and surged up in either direction along the precarious walkway. Further along the walls, the cascading stones had ripped fresh holes in the masonry. All over the castle, the defenders were struggling to maintain their grip on the parapet.

‘A breach!’ roared Dieter, unsheathing his sword and striding forward. ‘To me!’

The men around them surged towards the gap in the ramparts. Lumbering along the surviving section of walkway, Dieter barrelled into the first of the cultists to arrive on the parapet, swinging his mighty sword with abandon. Blood flew high into the air. Bodies were flung down on the courtyard below, smashing with a sickening crack as they hit the distant stone. More cultists clambered up the ladders and on to the parapets. None could get past Dieter, but other defenders were slower to react. On the far side of the breach, the cultists were making progress.

Alexander rose and prepared a cast. A series of screaming firebolts left his hands. But the spell had been too hastily made. A few bolts found their target, hurling intruders from the walls. But most fizzled out, falling from the air harmlessly. The wizard cursed himself, and started work on a fresh cast. There was no time for such mistakes. The numbers of cultists in the breach grew. Arrows whined over them from below, slamming into the defenders trying to stem the tide. More heavy rocks rose high into the air, crashing into stonework. The castle was being demolished, stone by stone. So much for waiting the assault out.

Alexander rose once more, his staff humming with fresh power. But his hand was stayed. A new presence had entered the fray. Amidst the struggling ranks of men, both cultist and defender, the White Lion had come. He tore a path along the tottering walls on the far side of the gap. With incredible deftness, Morgil sprinted along the parapet and launched himself at the emerging invaders. The speed of his axe-work was breathtaking. Like a shard of clear light piercing shadow, he spun, ducked and leapt through the mass of bodies. The way was narrow and dangerous, but he fought as if there were no steepling drop on either side of him. The cultists, armed with crude halberds and hooked blades, had no answer. They were cut down in droves, flung into either the crush on the far side of the walls or the flaming confusion of the courtyard.

On the near side of the rift, Dieter was making progress too. His style was very different to the elf’s. Like an armoured behemoth, he strode forwards inexorably, wielding his heavy broadsword in both hands, crushing those before him and forcing them back towards the gap in the walls.

The incursion began to waver. Arrows started to fly once more from the keep above, pinning the cultists down and preventing further entry. Slowly, painfully, Dieter and Morgil closed the gap. The last of the cultists was dispatched with a rending blow from Morgil, his body torn nearly in half. Dieter reached the ladder. With a cry of effort, Dieter pushed it from the walls. It teetered backwards, still loaded with men clambering up it, before succumbing to gravity and collapsing back into the crowds beneath.

Alexander looked behind him, back into the courtyard, hoping to see fresh reinforcements coming their way. What he saw sucked the last hope from him. In every direction, the cultists had succeeded in getting ladders up to the top of the ramparts. Huge holes had been gouged in the thick walls by the falling rocks, and wherever the defence was thin, scores of cultists had pressed forward. Hand-to-hand fighting was taking place all over the castle. It was now only a matter of time. The enemy were in the courtyard, on the walls, hammering at the very stones of the keep.

The situation had become desperate. Finally, Heinrich himself emerged into the courtyard at the head of a company of his knights. Annika was with him, and her distinctive pistol shots rang out in the echoing space. The defenders in the courtyard rallied around Heinrich, but the perimeter was still broken in many places. As Alexander watched powerlessly, a truly huge boulder smashed into the parapets over the gates. Hanneke’s position was obliterated, and shattered masonry fell like tears to the ground.

‘Damn them!’ spat Dieter, a fury born of frustration in his eyes. ‘We must fall back!’

His words were already being heeded. Castle guards were being harried from the walls. Arrows still cascaded down from the upper reaches of the huge central structure, but the outer wall was all but lost. Heinrich had started an ambitious counter-attack across the burned and cracked courtyard, but with every passing moment his men became more and more outnumbered.

‘If we surrender the walls, we’ll never get out of here,’ said Alexander, reluctant to join the rout.

Dieter gave him a grim look.

‘They’re already lost,’ he said.

‘Hold!’ cried Morgil, peering through the narrow battlements. ‘This is not over yet.’

His expression had changed from one of grim defiance to a desperate hopefulness. Alexander paused for a moment, looking around him carefully. Something had indeed changed. The torrent of rocks ebbed, and then stopped entirely. The cultists continued to hurl themselves into every gap and crawl up every ladder, but their numbers were thinning. The beating of the drums had become erratic.

Suddenly, horns blared from the keep. The signal for a sortie had been given. Alexander turned to Dieter in disbelief.

‘Heinrich has gone mad!’ he cried.

Dieter looked torn between his devotion to duty and common sense. The walls were lost, and yet a sortie had clearly been ordered. Heinrich and his knights were already cutting their way to the gates. The entire situation had been thrown into mayhem.

Morgil smiled savagely.

‘Not mad,’ he said. ‘The lookouts in the keep have seen something. We must join them – better to die in the open than cooped in a cage.’

With that, the White Lion ran along the parapet to a stone stairway leading down into the courtyard and towards the main gates. Soldiers all over the castle were doing likewise, deserting their station and joining the growing muster below. It wasn’t easy, for there were still cultists in the castle, and the fighting was fierce. But Heinrich had given the order, and his army struggled to obey.

Dieter looked at Alexander for a moment, still disbelieving.

‘Annika’s with him,’ said the knight, taking up his heavy sword. ‘She wouldn’t permit such madness unless there was a good reason, even if he is a lord of the Empire. Something has changed. We have been commanded.’

‘That doesn’t make me feel much better,’ said Alexander.

The two of them hurried along the narrow walkway and joined the flow of men from the walls. They descended quickly and were soon at the gate. Pikemen, halberdiers and archers had been collected together, all that could be gleaned from the fighting all around. Fires still raged, and cultists still pressed against the defenders. But the tide had not turned into a flood. The greater mass of them were still outside the walls.

Heinrich had mounted a charger, and he raised his long-sword aloft.

‘Keep your formations!’ he roared. His previous cold demeanour had been replaced with a savage, dark energy. ‘The tide of battle has turned. Follow me! Trust not what you see, but in the grace of Sigmar!’

He gave the order to open the gate as his troops let out an answering cry of acclamation. The heavy portcullis rose quickly, chains clanking. The opening beyond revealed a scene of total confusion. The cultists near the walls were in disarray. Those in the front ranks caught sight of the opening gate and rushed forward. But those behind indeed seemed distracted by something else.

Heinrich charged forward, his knights close around him. Morgil and Dieter pushed ahead eagerly, the light of battle in their eyes. Alexander kept up as best he could in the jostling, hurrying crowd of men, but was soon separated. In a few moments the sortie had passed the gates and was out in the open. There were enemy soldiers all around them. The drums still rolled, but less fiercely. The air of madness had ebbed. A cultist, his face distorted with hatred, threw himself in Alexander’s path. The man brandished a cruelly spiked club, and whirled it crazily over his head. With a snort of disdain, Alexander swung the foot of his staff upwards. The iron heel caught his assailant on the chin, knocking him on to his back. Alexander strode forward and smashed the shaft hard into the prone man’s face, cracking bone and extinguishing his madness forever.

There was no time to enjoy the kill. Alexander gripped the staff tight, and let a small, bright flame burst into being at his staff-tip. Using it as a firebrand, he waded into the confusion of battle. On his right-hand side, Dieter was clearing a huge path through the ranks of cultists, hammering them into submission, seemingly impervious to harm in his heavy armour. Morgil was causing havoc too. His ferocious speed and sheer brutality far surpassed anything the cultists were capable of mustering, and his axe was dropping them like a scythe through wheat.

As Alexander turned, a blow cracked hard across the back of his neck, and he staggered forwards. A thick wedge of pain coursed through him, and he fell to his knees. Knowing a second blow would quickly fall, he rolled on to his back, raising his staff to intercept it. A club smashed against the wood, jarring the staff along its length and pushing Alexander’s arms against his chest. With a snarl of triumph, a cultist raised his cudgel a third time. The wizard tried to muster fresh magic, but knew it would come too late. With a dreadful certainty, Alexander saw his own death reflected in the eyes of his assailant. He spat defiantly. At least he would go with honour.

Suddenly, the cultist was roughly barged aside. A heavy-set man had burst from the crowd. With a huge heave of his heavily notched sword, he sliced Alexander’s assailant from shoulder to waist, spraying blood in every direction. The cultist screamed, his limbs flailing, before falling in the mud, foaming at the mouth and twitching pathetically. More cultists came forward, but more loyalists appeared too. Some wore the uniforms of Heinrich’s guards. Others looked more like bandits. Where were they coming from?

Alexander clambered to his feet. There was fighting all around. The man who had saved him dispatched another cultist with an expert thrust of his sword, and then turned to face Alexander.

‘You all right?’ he asked, wiping his sweat and mud-spattered brow.

All around them, fresh loyalist troops were piling forward. The cultists were being driven back.

‘Yes, thanks to you,’ said Alexander shakily. ‘But what’s going on? Who are you?’

The man grinned.

‘Emil Schulmann,’ he said. ‘The rescue party.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The last of the fires had been put out. Smoke drifted lazily across the churned approaches to the castle. A straggling band of painfully thin peasants moved slowly over the battlefield, stripping the bodies of anything of worth. Heinrich’s forces were either too busy making the castle walls safe, harrying the surviving cultists as they fled south, or surreptitiously doing the same thing themselves. The desperation of plague and war had driven all to extremes.

Inside the castle, a council had hastily been convened. The roof of the great hall had been shattered by several rocks and was partly ruined. The participants met in a chamber deep within the keep, lit only by torches.

A dozen figures sat around a long table. At the head was Lord Heinrich. He had sustained many wounds defending the courtyard, but still looked as severe and forbidding as ever. Beside him were his surviving captains, including a man called Fassbinder. Alexander’s rescuer, Schulmann, sat at the far end of the table, flanked by his own men. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, a mix of belligerence, awkwardness and fear. Annika, Dieter and Morgil were all present. Their deeds during the battle seemed to have earned Heinrich’s grudging respect. But the meeting was not going well. Schulmann’s forces were billeted in the castle, and tension between them and Heinrich’s own troops was high. The lord was clearly itching to see the traitor condemned, but his position was weak. Schulmann had lifted the siege, and now had an army of his own within the castle walls. Matters were delicately poised. Oddly enough, it was Heinrich’s captain Fassbinder who spoke most forcefully on Schulmann’s behalf.

‘My lord,’ said Fassbinder, ‘I know more than most of the crimes this man has committed. I’ve pursued him for weeks. He has killed men of my command, and I have killed men of his. He even had me at his mercy. And yet, despite all this, he agreed to come back with me. If it had not been for him, this castle would now be occupied by the enemy.’

Lord Heinrich looked at him darkly. Alexander didn’t know the full details of what had transpired in the past between Schulmann and Heinrich, but the outline was obvious.

‘What is it that separates the realms of men from the wilderness of Chaos?’ Lord Heinrich asked, his voice low. ‘The law. The code by which we live, and in defence of which we die. Without it, we’re no better than the slavering wretches we’ve just bested.’

The lord turned his baleful gaze to Schulmann, who sat glowering at the far end of the table.

‘You’re a traitor, Schulmann,’ he said, his voice fiery with rage. ‘You’ve killed, pillaged and burned, all in the name of your rebellion. By your actions my realm has been laid open to attack. Companies of my finest troops have been dispatched trying to hunt you down. By the law, your life is forfeit. You’ve earned death a hundred times over.’

Schulmann’s face reddened with rage, and he placed both fists on the table. He looked ready to explode.

‘My lord,’ interjected Fassbinder quickly. ‘Your words are just, as always. But listen, I beg you. When have I ever shirked from duty? Never while in your service. Times are changing. None of us are safe. While we pursue these quarrels, the enemy draws nearer, untroubled by such divisions. I gave Schulmann my word he would be safe. How else could I have persuaded him to put aside the uprising? I was in his power. He could have chosen to remain at large.’

Lord Heinrich took a deep breath, still looking at Schulmann.

‘So what persuaded you to come back, traitor?’ he said. ‘You must have known there was a price on your head.’

Schulmann wore an expression of disgust.

‘That fool did,’ he said, nodding towards Fassbinder. ‘I curse the day I listened to his words. I must have been weak. Weary of fighting, weary of death. Despite everything you think of me, I’m no traitor. Far from it. It is you, with your iron rule, your hatred of the common folk, who have brought this on yourself. We only fought for our lives. You have no idea, could have no idea, what it’s like in the villages of your realm. Your own people, and you know nothing of them.’

Fassbinder looked down at his hands and didn’t speak. Alexander saw that Annika and Dieter were anxious to contribute. Morgil remained inscrutable as always.

‘Don’t talk to me of the people, traitor,’ spat Heinrich contemptuously. ‘Hard times require hard actions. I’ll not justify myself to you. There’s a war on our doorstep. Without me, there’d be nothing standing in their way at all. If you hadn’t taken leave of your senses, I’d have had twice as many men to defend this place.’

Schulmann was about to blurt out a reply when Annika intervened. She had fought by Heinrich’s side during the defence of the courtyard, and seemed to think she had gained some trust.

‘That may be true, my lord,’ the witch hunter said, her voice measured. ‘But whatever has happened in the past, this man travelled far to raise the siege. He knew his life would be in danger, yet still made the decision to come. That cannot be forgotten, surely?’

Heinrich let a momentary flicker of indecision cross his face. It was soon gone, replaced by the more familiar iron certainty.

‘So, Schulmann,’ he said, ignoring Annika, his voice still acid. ‘You’ve not answered me. What made the difference? I can’t believe Captain Fassbinder, as good a warrior as he is, has such a silver tongue.’

Schulmann reached into his bloodstained shirt and pulled out a ragged collection of scrolls. He threw them across the table contemptuously.

‘These reports,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I couldn’t have read them without Fassbinder. They told us of the coming war, of the traitor in your midst, of the advance of Chaos. I should never have had them translated. I must’ve been mad. For some reason, I let myself be convinced that if you fell, we’d be next.’

Schulmann looked accusingly at Fassbinder.

‘Don’t be so sure he doesn’t have a silver tongue,’ he said caustically. ‘If I’d known what thanks I’d get for putting everything at risk, for leading my men back into penury, I’d never have done it. Better to die an honest death fighting in the field than swinging on a lord’s gibbet.’

At the sight of the scrolls, Alexander felt the blood rise in his cheeks. He sank down slightly in his chair, wishing he could remember that spell of concealment he’d learned as an acolyte. Oh, to be a Grey wizard. Heinrich looked at him with undisguised contempt.

‘I’m aware of the existence of these scrolls,’ the lord said, not bothering to pick them up. ‘Their tidings came here too late to be of any use. But it seems they’ve played some role after all. I’m amazed such vague predictions prompted your change of heart.’

Fassbinder raised his head again.

‘They were just the spark which lit the fire,’ he said. ‘We debated long and hard about the scrolls. He was hard to convince, as you’d expect. Much anger had to be put aside, on both sides.’

He looked over at Schulmann, his expression regretful.

‘I promised him safety and pardon if he returned to your lands. Such a thing was perhaps not in my power. But my life was in his hands, and he behaved honourably to me. When I read the reports of the war to come, predicted by Celestial mages no less, I convinced him that our disagreements were no longer important. Unless we joined forces, we would all die. It was not an easy case to make.’

Dieter, who had remained silent throughout, leaned forward.

‘I, for one, am glad you did, Captain,’ the knight said. ‘Your men fought well. Schulmann’s men fought well. They have all been hardened by combat. I was honoured to stand alongside them.’

He turned to Lord Heinrich.

‘This man Schulmann stands condemned,’ Dieter continued. ‘I will not excuse his actions. But consider this. Without his troops on our side, we would have half the men we have now. Even as we speak they are garrisoned in the castle, cheek by jowl with those who have been pursuing them to the death. If such low-born peasants can put aside their feud in the cause of the Empire, we should ask ourselves why we cannot.’

Schulmann grimaced at the expression ‘low-born’, but kept his mouth shut. No other voices were raised. Heinrich sat for a moment in thought.

‘I would never have thought it,’ he said eventually. ‘A witch hunter, an Imperial knight, a captain of my guard. All pleading leniency for this murderer. The times are strange indeed.’

He sighed deeply, and flexed his hunched shoulders.

‘A lord is not governed by popular vote,’ Heinrich said, a cold smile on his lips. ‘I will not be dictated to in my own castle. Forgiveness is a matter for priests and cuckolds. And yet I am not entirely deaf to reason. You did come back, Schulmann, and if for no other reason than reckless bravery, that deserves to be commended. Moreover, we all know that I am hardly in a position of strength. Your rabble numbers nearly as many as my own men, Fassbinder’s company included. I won’t have blood shed in this castle twice in one day.’

He turned to look at Annika.

‘Witch hunter,’ he said, sounding almost resigned. ‘You are determined to return to the temple, I take it?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Annika said. ‘I believe it is the true goal of the enemy, the source of all he has been working towards.’

Heinrich nodded.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then this is my verdict. The soldiers of my household will remain in this castle. There is rebuilding to be done. The cultists have been driven off, but not all destroyed. Some remain in the wilds, and more Chaos troops will surely come. You have my leave to head south and retake the temple. If you arrive in time, burn it and all it houses. If you come too late, then contain the threat as best you can and send warning to me and to Altdorf. I have no men left to aid you further.’

He turned his gaze to Schulmann.

‘You’ll go with them,’ Heinrich said. ‘As will Fassbinder. The mere act of your riding to my aid is insufficient atonement for the many crimes you have committed. Prove worthy in this, and we’ll call all debts settled. Sigmar will be the judge of it. If you die, consider it your just sentence. If you live, I’ll grant your pardon.’

Schulmann looked momentarily dumbfounded.

‘Just sentence?’ he asked, looking to his captains on either side of him for support. ‘I have risked everything for this!’

Fassbinder slammed his fist on the table.

‘Now who’s being thick-headed?’ he cried in exasperation. ‘You have been offered a way out. Take it! If what the witch hunter says is true, we’ll all be fighting for a long time to come. Where would you rather be? Hiding out in the fields again, endlessly slaying plague beasts as they creep towards you? Or playing some part in all this? I appealed to your duty before. You’ve never denounced the Emperor, nor your faith in men. Do this thing, with me alongside you, and your honour will be restored. I know what that means to you.’

Schulmann looked startled, then angry, then uncertain. He glared at Heinrich, clearly in two minds, but said nothing. Silence hung over the table. No one broke it.

Eventually, the rebel leader began to laugh. It was a strange, bitter sound. His captains looked on with consternation.

‘I’ll do it,’ Schulmann said suddenly. ‘I’ll play the fool one last time, and trust to your word. If I die, then so be it. But if I live, I’m coming back. And after my pardon, this business between us will not end. I didn’t lead good men into death to return to the old ways once all is done. Things will change, my lord. You may have my word on that too.’

Heinrich looked on stonily, but did not immediately demur.

‘We’ll see,’ he said.

Alexander caught Annika’s gaze from the other side of the table. She raised an eyebrow. Against all the odds, it looked like a settlement had been reached. The wizard took a breath, and gripped the arms of his chair a little more tightly. It was decided. They were going back to the temple.

The wind tore across the bleak country, finding its way into every fold of clothing with icy fingers. Alexander pulled his robes around him tightly. The sun was low on the western horizon, and the dusk was falling fast. They had been marching for three days, and the constant journeying was beginning to wear him down. It seemed like ever since the wizard had left Altdorf, he had been hounded from one battle to another. Now the endgame was approaching, he felt something like relief. They were nearing the temple once more. Either the abomination would be halted here, or they would all perish.

If he was honest, Alexander didn’t give much for their chances. Not for the first time, he wondered whether the whole mission was more about Heinrich ridding himself of an enemy than countering the Chaos threat. Fassbinder and Schulmann’s forces numbered a little over three hundred men. Though all were battle-hardened troops, they had been driven hard over the past few months. Fassbinder’s contingent of State troopers was the more disciplined and well-equipped, but Schulmann’s had a more hard-bitten look about them. Both companies bore the scars of campaign. Given their long history of antipathy, it amazed Alexander that there were not frequent fights between them. In truth, they mostly looked exhausted, with haggard faces and resigned expressions. All had been on the road for too long. Perhaps they simply didn’t have the energy to quarrel.

Fassbinder had set a fast pace since the army had left Castle Heinrich. Though nominally in command of the allied companies of troops, in practice the decisions were shared amongst him, Schulmann, Annika and Dieter. It was a very unusual arrangement. But then the army itself was hardly standard.

As he rode, Alexander slowly became aware of Schulmann’s presence at his shoulder. He turned, and gave a thin smile.

‘Feeling good about your decision yet?’ he said, dryly.

The rebel leader shrugged.

‘I haven’t felt good about any of my choices recently,’ he said. ‘But better to be out here than cooped up in there with Lord Ironarse.’

Alexander grinned.

‘Anyway, I owe you an apology,’ said Schulmann, a little gingerly. ‘I didn’t know it was you we’d taken the scrolls from. My men told me they’d fought off a wizard, but they only just told me who it was.’

Alexander felt a twinge of embarrassment again. The whole episode was one he would rather forget.

‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, slightly too earnestly. ‘It worked out for the best. Who knows? Perhaps it was ordained, as our sanctimonious knight clearly believes.’

Alexander nodded towards Dieter, who was deep in consultation with Fassbinder as he rode.

‘Those two are cast from the same mould,’ said Schulmann, grimly.

‘Anyway, they didn’t exactly fight me off,’ said Alexander, his pride wounded. ‘I gave them a display of fire to remember me by. But I have to hand it to them. They picked my pocket as well as any rat-child from Altdorf.’

Schulmann smiled.

‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘I trained them well in some respects, at least.’

A shadow passed over his face then.

‘The man who stole the scrolls is dead now,’ Schulmann said, a trace of bitterness entering his voice. ‘As is Friedrich, my lieutenant. Most of those who started this thing are now gone.’

Alexander paused for a moment before replying.

‘Is that why you gave up?’ he said, carefully. ‘It was a brave decision. I don’t think Heinrich’s the forgiving type.’

Schulmann sighed.

‘There was nowhere for us to go,’ he said. ‘I’d captured Fassbinder, but his army was intact. They’d have come for him. We couldn’t hold them forever. And even if we had, another would have come. Either one from Heinrich, or this Chaos force the scrolls speak of.’

He rode on in silence, looking pained. Alexander didn’t speak.

‘Fassbinder put it best,’ said Schulmann at length. ‘There comes a time when all that matters is that you’re a man. Not a noble, not a peasant, just a man. And when there are those at the gates who only wish to destroy us all, it’s worth remembering. Just words, maybe. But he might have had a point.’

Alexander looked at him thoughtfully. He was about to reply, when hissed warnings passed along the long and straggling column of men. The temple had been sighted. Alexander looked around. Even in the fading light, the countryside did indeed look familiar.

‘Here we go,’ he said to Schulmann. ‘Taal be with us.’

Schulmann raised an eyebrow.

‘And Sigmar.’

They kicked their steeds onward, and joined the rest of the command group at the head of the column. The ragged army came to a standstill, and the tired-looking troops sank to the ground gratefully.

‘We need to get a good look at the place first,’ said Dieter, dismounting heavily. ‘There’ve been no signs of the cabal so far, but we can’t rely on that.’

‘Agreed,’ said Fassbinder, doing likewise. ‘That ridge looks promising. It must overlook the entrance.’

‘I know,’ said Alexander sardonically. ‘We’ve been there.’

The three escapees from the temple, plus Morgil, Fassbinder and Schulmann, walked carefully through the gorse and brambles towards the ridge. As they approached the summit, they fell to their knees, crawling onwards through the straggling vegetation. Alexander found himself next to Morgil, and immediately felt as clumsy as an orc.

‘What are you still doing here?’ Alexander whispered irritably. ‘I thought you had to go hunting or something.’

Morgil’s expression remained blank.

‘It is as you said yourself,’ he replied coldly. ‘She’ll be with the enemy, or nowhere. This is where all scores will be settled.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re so sure about it,’ muttered Alexander. The elf’s eerie sense of certainty was beginning to annoy him.

They reached the crest of the rise. The full moon had risen in the east, casting a silvery light over the landscape. Morrslieb was still below the horizon, but it had also been waxing to the full over the previous nights. When it rose, it would be at the peak of its malignant power.

Alexander peered through the strands of briar. From his vantage point, the entire valley was laid out before him. The area around the ruined temple entrance was alive with activity. Men, or what looked like men, hurried to and fro carrying burning torches. Great braziers had been set up and were hurriedly being lit. Red light was beginning to spread across the bleak landscape. On either side of the entrance, huge piles of soil and rubble had been raised. Robed figures were freely passing in and out of the re-erected doorway.

‘They’ve been busy,’ hissed Alexander.

Annika frowned, absorbed in the scene below them.

‘Seems so,’ she said. ‘They must have been, to delve back down to the central chamber. We’ve come at just the right time.’

‘Then our role is clear,’ said Dieter, his voice betraying his rising anger. ‘We must sweep down from here and drive them out. We have the men. This place must burn.’

Morgil looked uncharacteristically concerned.

‘There is a strange and potent force at work below,’ he said ominously. ‘I can feel it. Swords are not the only weapons here.’

Alexander looked at Annika, and the witch hunter nodded. She could obviously sense the same thing. Alexander, perhaps the most attuned of all to the emanations of dark magic, felt the aura of wrongness keenly. Whatever they may have done to delay the coming of the abomination had clearly not been enough.

‘We’re going to have to lead the attack ourselves,’ the Bright wizard said, slightly hesitantly. The thought of re-entering the chamber of fire was not welcome. ‘Dieter, Annika and I have been there before. We have the skills needed to bring this to a halt again. But we’ll need support from the soldiers to get there. There must be hundreds of cultists down there.’

Dieter shook his head.

‘Such numbers. This whole land has been corrupted.’

‘Grauenburg,’ spat Annika, the single word enough to convey what she felt.

Fassbinder cast an expert eye over the terrain, and then took a deep breath.

‘Very well,’ he said, resignedly. ‘Our task is clear. The three of you must be delivered to the central chamber once more. Schulmann and I will engage the cultists and keep them from you. May Sigmar guide us. Let’s move.’

The captain glanced at Schulmann quickly, and the two of them shuffled back down the incline to where the rest of the contingent were waiting. Moments later, the whole army was climbing up to the vantage point, keeping their heads and weapons low. In the mingled moonlight and fireglow, their faces looked drawn and unearthly. The lines of men fanned out along the ridge on either side.

Morgil pulled his axe from its bindings, and looked reflectively at the blade.

‘I will come with you to the chamber,’ he said calmly. ‘I will be more use there than culling these corrupted.’

Annika nodded, withdrawing her pistol silently. With hushed noises, the assembled troops unsheathed swords, buckled helmets tight, and muttered prayers to whichever god seemed most likely to aid them. Dieter closed his eyes and made the sign of the comet on his chest. When his eyes reopened, they were lit with a feral light.

‘For the Empire!’ he whispered to himself fervently, and rose to his feet.

The assembled companies did likewise, emerging from the dark undergrowth in a single flowing movement. The leaders broke cover, and the entire body of men began to charge down the slope towards the temple. There were no battlecries. The need for surprise was paramount. Like an army of ghosts, the Imperial troops sped across the shallow incline, closing the gap between them and the corrupted temple.

Alexander felt the familiar surge of latent magic course through his body. The last time he had been here, he had been exhausted, drained of power and lacking a staff. Though hardly in perfect condition now, he was feeling far stronger. Flickers of fire ran up the length of his staff in readiness, and he could sense the power of Aqshy brimming within him. To be afforded the chance for vengeance was a rare gift, and he intended to make use of it.

The temple neared, and the charge picked up pace. They were spotted by the robed figures. Cries of alarm broke out amongst the cultists milling around the grounds. Before they had a chance to organise themselves, the Imperial troops were in amongst them. The campaign-hardened warriors tore through the unsuspecting crowds of robed figures. Fighting broke out all across the wide space in front of the temple gates. The cultists took up arms, but were on the back foot. Fassbinder and Schulmann’s men slammed into them, driving them back in confusion.

Alexander was quickly into the centre of things. With a snapped command, his staff burst into flame. A startled cultist blundered into his path. He thrust the flaming shaft into his face. The man screamed in agony, scraping at his eyes with desperate fingers. Alexander thrust him aside savagely and pressed on. On his left, Morgil was tearing a path towards the gates. With typical grace, he dispatched any defender foolish enough to stand in his way. His axe moved so quickly it seemed to leave shimmering lines in the air.

Annika was also busy, her short sword flashing in the mixed light. Dieter was slower to arrive at the front. He finally came crashing into the crowds of cultists like an enraged bull. His visor was up, and his snarling visage was terrifying in the fiery light of the braziers. He towered over the rest of the entourage, and hefted his broadsword in huge strokes. Any defender who got near enough to him to land a blow saw their curved blades clatter weakly against his heavy armour. They never got a second chance.

Recovering from their initial surprise, the cultists began to rally. All were armed with curved blades under their robes, and they were still numerous. The advance of the attackers slowed, and the allied troops began to get bogged-down in hand to hand combat.

‘We can hold them!’ cried Fassbinder to Dieter. ‘Enter the temple! We’ll keep them from your backs!’

The captain hurled himself back into the ranks of cultists. Schulmann ran to his side, and the two men were soon in the thick of the fighting. Even in the midst of his own combat, Alexander couldn’t help noticing that they fought in the same way.

‘To me!’ roared Dieter, smashing his armoured gauntlet into the throat of his assailant and sending the limp body crashing to the ground. ‘The gate is clear!’

Alexander sent a burst of flame spinning into the cluster of cultists before him, blasting them aside like rag dolls. He sprinted towards the gates. Annika and Morgil were beside him. Behind them, more troops followed to cut off pursuit. Fassbinder and Schulmann stayed with the bulk of the men to engage the mass of cultist soldiers.

Dieter was unstoppable. He sliced, crunched, beat and hammered his way through any opposition. He seemed to have entered some crazed state, and he hurled his huge sword around as if it were a cutlass. With Morgil and Annika at his side, the path to the entrance was cleared in moments. The quartet raced into the familiar tunnels, and descended quickly. Signs of ruin were everywhere. Crumbling stonework had been propped up by massive wooden scaffolds, and there were excavation marks on every wall. Huge labour must have been expended to reopen the fallen corridors. Alexander let his staff bloom more powerfully, lighting their way by his fire. Any defenders in their path were ruthlessly cut aside. They were heading to the heart of it.

As they went, the sense of dread grew. A throbbing, heaving noise filled the narrow spaces. There was no chanting, just a dull roar. Even as he ran, Alexander could feel nausea grip him. Of his companions, only Morgil seemed unaffected, but the elf could clearly sense something. His expression had turned to one of utter disgust and loathing.

They hurried down the winding ways, past the defaced emblems of Sigmar, through the deep places where Alexander had been interrogated. The roar grew. It was like a huge, turbulent inferno raging. At the edges of his vision, Alexander could see flickers of dark force skirling over the stonework. He fed more power to his staff, willing the bright light to cut through the thickening slurry of fear.

They burst into the altar room. The spinning ball of fire had returned, but it was twice as big as before. It stretched nearly across the entire dome of the chamber, swirling and glowing madly. Vast sheets of flames circled it. Amidst the roaring heat, a massive dark shape was moving. Like a foetus, it curled and span within the magma, flailing with indistinct limbs. It was on the cusp of birth, teetering in the space between worlds.

‘The abomination!’ cried Dieter, and raced towards it, sword held high.

Annika stood aside and reloaded her pistol. She fired three shots in quick succession. Each bullet plunged into the ragged sphere, and a scream of anguish and hatred tore from the tortured surface. Streams of fire hurled themselves outwards from the orb, slamming into the walls and exploding in showers of molten stone.

Directly beneath the surging ball of energy, a figure stood. Even amidst the surging magic, his aura of sorcery was evident. Alexander looked around the chamber quickly. No other cultists were to be seen. The robed sorcerer was tall, and his purple cloak rippled against the billowing waves of magic. Then Alexander saw a second man. He had a grotesquely misshapen body and had been strapped to the altar. The man writhed against his bonds weakly.

Morgil leapt forward, his eyes like ice.

‘Druchii!’ he spat.

As soon as he said it, Alexander saw it was true. The sorcerer was no human. Morgil lost all restraint and ran at the dark elf, his axe whirling around him. Dieter and Annika followed in his wake.

The sorcerer laughed, and raised his staff of iron. The sphere above him responded, and a wall of liquid flame burst towards the attackers. All three were hurled backwards like children.

‘Too late!’ cried Malek, his face a mask of triumph and bloodlust. ‘Nothing can stop this now! He is coming! Just one more sacrifice will break the barrier!’

Alexander hissed words of power, and a screaming torrent of his own flame shot towards the altar. It curled back on itself, sucked upwards by the raging inferno, and was absorbed.

Inviolate, the dark elf turned to the altar.

‘You fool, Klosser!’ he spat, gloating over the straining body of the broken human sorcerer. ‘Did you think there would be any redemption for one such as you? Only in death will you now serve!’

Malek raised a curved knife high. The orb of flame blazed wildly. The roar reached deafening levels. Rocks began to dislodge from the roof of the chamber. The hastily-repaired dome was falling apart, unable to contain the forces within it.

Alexander reached deep within himself, willing more power to flow to his fingers. A dark ball of heavy smoke began to spin into being as it had before, sucking the flames around him into nothingness. But it was insignificant compared to the inferno raging around him. In despair, he cast it into the centre of the orb. At the same moment, Malek’s knife fell, and a gurgled scream rose from the altar. Klosser writhed wildly as the blade plunged downwards, coughing blood high into the intense blaze.

The roar changed. Like a mighty creature of the deep crashing through the waves into the air, the dull rumble instantly became a scream of awareness. Vast streams of energy crackled from the epicentre of the sphere, lashing against the stone, smashing holes in the roof, lacerating the intricate masonry. Alexander flung himself to one side as a massive keystone crashed to earth beside him. The floor was reeling.

The swirling sphere was accelerating. It began to spin faster and faster. A high-pitched wail was added to the cacophony of unnatural noise. Forces had been unleashed which were beyond any of them. Alexander crawled over to the prone forms of his companions. They gazed as one on the birth of the monster, transfixed by horror.

The dark foetus flailed wildly, growing in size, gorging and rippling. A massive column of lurid fire surged upwards. It smashed against the roof, shattering it, breaking into the open. The dome was blasted apart. Starlight shone suddenly through the breach, and a howling gale rushed to greet to the power unleashed from beneath the ground. The huge buttresses and arches were thrown far into the night, falling like ruinous rain far from the gaping hole which had once been the roof of the chamber. The altar was exposed to the night air.

Nearly overcome with horror, Alexander saw the full face of Morrslieb in the night sky above. With a screeching wail, the skein of fire around the sphere rushed outwards and exploded, tearing away into nothingness. From within, a vast shape uncurled itself. Massive clawed feet descended, crushing the stones where they fell. A shimmering, many-coloured torso soared upwards. The roaring dissipated, to be replaced by an ear-splitting scream of triumph. Vast pinions uncurled and stretched far into the night. A mighty staff, huge beyond the dreams of any mortal wizard, stretched into being. It was crowned with a massive gold symbol of Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways, and dark magic rippled from it.

A huge, heavy head rose. It was like some dread, distorted bird. A heavy curved beak, flashing and gleaming with dazzling colours, opened wide. Rows of teeth the length of a man’s forearm glittered within it. A long, lascivious tongue flickered across them. Its eyes, pools of swirling, vivid hues, snapped open. It stared around itself, and took a deep, scraping breath of real air. It raised its two scaly arms high, and dark energy spat and flickered around it.

The abomination, the Lord of Change, had come.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Artheris brought her steed to a halt. The dusk was advancing, and there was a chill wind in the east. Clouds were being driven westwards in tatters. The world’s moon was high in the sky, and light was fading fast. Sariour na Yenlui was yet to rise, but she could feel its malign pull just below the horizon. They were nearing the heart of the contagion. Her enhanced senses, attuned to the flow of magic across the world, had been guiding her for days. With every step she could feel the foul source of corruption grow in strength. Some abomination was about to occur. In her heart, she guessed well enough what it was, but could not quite bring herself to admit it. She was weary, tired of wading through the blighted land, loathe to look at another bleak stretch of forgotten country. The designs of Chaos had been long and subtle in this place, and the rot had entered the very earth itself. Compared to the soaring peaks of the Annuli or the fragrant woods of Averlorn, the grim vistas of the Old World were mired in misery.

Stern came to her side. He seemed to sense the disquiet of the earth too, even though he was as far from a mage as it was possible to get.

‘Do you think we’re near?’ he said. His voice betrayed his eagerness for the fight. After so long marching, with so much promise of war, the entire Reiksguard company were restless and impatient.

‘Very near,’ said Artheris, resignedly. She had less enthusiasm for the slaughter to come. ‘I feel a great wrong, and it is close. The enemy we have heard so much about has arrived. Prepare your men. I will guide us.’

Stern nodded. Though he kept his features steady, he couldn’t hide his pleasure in the news.

‘Good,’ he said curtly. ‘I’d begun to wonder whether this attack was coming at all. The men’ll be pleased.’

Artheris looked at him, hiding her dismay at his pleasure. Stern was a fine warrior, strong and proud. But there were forces in the world no mortal deserved to witness, and his great sword and finely-wrought armour would be of no use against the one she knew was waiting for them.

‘Pass the word on,’ she said. ‘We must make haste.’

Orders were barked down the long, winding columns of elves and men. Stern marshalled his soldiers expertly, and even the dishevelled ranks of State troops began to order themselves into tight formations. The carefree banter between the humans ceased, and a mix of expectation and anxiety fell over the entire host. The asur, most of whom could sense the proximity of fell magic, were even more impassive than normal.

The pace of the march picked up. The Reavers fanned out ahead, searching for signs of enemy activity. The Chaos moon finally rose above the horizon. It was full. Its scarred face reflected poisonous light over the dark landscape. It was perilous to look too often at the sickening orb, but Artheris allowed herself a glance. The warped and marked surface looked like a grotesque face, laughing uncontrollably at the unhappiness of the world below. She turned away in disgust, and urged her steed onwards.

No mage’s ears were needed to hear the first sign. The rumble and boom under the surface of the earth knocked many of the soldiers from their feet. The ground continued to shake, and even some of the elven contingent looked up at her anxiously.

‘Now is the time!’ cried Artheris, rising in her stirrups and addressing all those around her. Her voice was as measured as ever, but subtle art carried her words to all those in the straggling army. ‘Men of the Empire! Asur of Ulthuan! Control your fear. There are great powers amongst us. Now we ride. Ride to the enemy. Dawn shall come again!’

The massed companies responded with a roar of acclamation. Artheris kicked her horse onwards, and around her the entire army surged forward. The Reavers and knights led the charge, thundering towards the ridge ahead, their steeds tearing up the earth as they went. The archers, spearmen and Imperial soldiers followed in their wake, running hard. None were as swift as the Swordmasters. The memory of their failure in Altdorf still burned fiercely, and they swept forward in a single wave of silver and white. Their naked blades flashed in the moonlight, taking the corrupted light of Morrslieb and reflecting light as pure as ithilmar. Beyond the northern horizon, lurid lights were tearing across the sky. The enemy had come. Artheris mouthed a prayer.

Schulmann looked up in horror. The ground beneath his feet was moving, and fighters on both sides were losing their feet. A few hundred yards ahead of him, where the underground chambers of the temple were buried, a huge dome of earth and stone was raising itself, surging upwards in defiance of all reason. It looked as if the world was being reshaped by the gods themselves.

‘Fall back!’ he cried, his voice cracking.

The order was unnecessary. Men were running away from the rapidly rising hillside in droves. Even the deranged cultists had forgotten about the battle and stood in confused clusters, gazing at the ever-expanding swelling. Waves of ruin and sickness radiated outwards, and Schulmann found himself breaking into a run alongside his men. Whatever was coming, it could not be fought by such as him.

He realised only slowly that Fassbinder was at his side.

‘What in Sigmar’s name…?’ the captain started, his expression as horror-struck as Schulmann’s.

‘Nothing natural,’ cried Schulmann, grimly. There was a crushing aura of fear and malice permeating the air.

He risked a quick look over his shoulder. The dome of earth began to crack open as it enlarged. Shafts of angry light burst from the dark crust. A fiery glow was revealed within. It was as if the underworld was rising to the surface.

Suddenly, there was a huge, muffled boom from within the cracking dome. The entire skein of earth and stone burst open in a massive explosion. Detritus flew high into the air. Rocks rained down in every direction, crushing cultists and Imperial soldiers alike. Schulmann and Fassbinder both threw themselves to the ground as the deadly rain continued.

A high-pitched scream emerged from the centre of the conflagration. Schulmann turned back to face the temple, brushing the earth and stones from his body. The swelling of tortured rock had burst, blasted away by whatever dark forces had been unleashed within it. Now a wide cauldron of blood-red light welled up from the sides of the newly-created crater. The sense of dread and horror, strong before, became almost overwhelming. He knew he should begin to rally the men, draw them together to face whatever was coming, but he couldn’t move. Fassbinder was similarly static beside him.

Streaks of lightning crackled around the edges of the opening. The flames within seemed to die down, but were replaced by an unnatural sapphire glow. Something was rising from the ruins. Enormous wings extended into the night sky. They glowed with an eerie, shifting blue sheen. Slowly, deliberately, vast pinions unfurled. Schulmann had to work hard to quell the rising panic within him. He had heard stories of the strange creatures of Chaos before, but this was something else.

A massive head rose from the lip of the crater. Giant, unblinking yellow eyes cast a baleful gaze across the entire scene. Even from such a distance, Schulmann could see the swirls of light revolving around the pupils. It was scanning the land, and its gaze felt like an icy blast of stormwind when it passed.

The huge creature crouched low, and then leapt into the air. Its enormous wings flapped in an ungainly fashion. It landed a few dozen feet from the crater, its back hunched and limbs crooked. It was a strange mixture of characteristics, at once awkward and frail-looking, but also radiating a sense of crushing, awful menace. It was hard to look directly at it. When he tried, Schulmann’s found his eyes wouldn’t focus. His overwhelming instinct was to run. If his limbs had not frozen, he would have surely done so.

The monster raised its staff into the night air, and screamed once more. A shaft of forked lightning tore down from the heavens, bathing it in a blinding cloak of light. The earth itself recoiled against the claws of the creature, rupturing and boiling like water. Any humans close to the abomination began to mutate wildly, and their screams tore into the air. Cultists and attackers alike flailed, foaming at the mouth. Those nearest exploded into impossible shapes, morphing and changing with dizzying speed. Their flesh was ripped apart, only to be replaced with new hides of dazzling colours and textures. Many of those out of range of the worst of the daemon’s power fell to the ground, wailing and clawing at the earth in madness.

Schulmann turned his face away, hands shaking, panic rising. Despairingly, he looked up at the hills around. They were lined with silhouettes. Giant armoured figures, many crowned with spikes or twisted hooks were outlined against the night sky. Some of his men were heading right for them, running as fast as they could from the horror at the crater’s edge. With a dreadful sense of purpose, the shadowy newcomers began to advance towards the temple. In their midst, a single towering individual rode on a nightmarish horse. His armour was huge, far larger than that worn by a normal man. Even in the dim light Schulmann could see it shifting madly, warping from shape to shape as it came. As if excited by the coruscating horror waiting for it, the dread warrior’s outer skin had burst into a dreadful, mutated life. Schulmann felt the last shards of hope leave him, and he began to shake uncontrollably.

Fassbinder rose. He looked impossibly frail next to the towering form of the daemon and the massive frames of the Chaos warriors. His face was pale with fear, but he held his sword firmly and did not tremble.

‘Men of the Empire!’ he roared, waving his blade high. ‘To me! Remember your duty!’

Some of the few troops who had not yet succumbed to wailing incoherence or a suicidal flight into the ranks of Chaos warriors heard his desperate cry and hurried to his position. No hope glimmered in their eyes, but still they came.

Schulmann, shamed by Fassbinder’s resolve, rose shakily to his feet and stood beside him. His knuckles were white around the grip of his sword.

‘There’s no escape,’ he said, his voice trembling.

Fassbinder nodded, surveying the scene of madness and desolation.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This is the end. But we can sell our lives as men.’

The warriors on the horizon had launched themselves into a rolling charge. The vast figure on horseback reached the first motley bands of survivors, and laid into them with a mighty warhammer. Seeing the carnage, the daemon grinned viciously. Myriad lights began to coalesce around its staff. With every second, its awareness seemed to be growing. It took a faltering step towards the scattered bands of humans.

‘So be it,’ said Schulmann, the certainty of death calming his fear. ‘As men.’

Alexander shook the rubble from his back and emerged groggily into the open once more. He looked up to the sky. The roof of the chamber had gone, blasted out and upward. Around him, Dieter and Annika were doing the same. Morgil stood above them, his normally inscrutable face marked with horror.

‘A Lord of Change,’ the elf hissed.

Annika hastily brushed herself down, hands shaking.

‘A foe beyond any of us,’ she said grimly, reaching for pistol. ‘Where has it gone?’

Morgil pointed to the lip of the crater.

‘The surface,’ he said. ‘It failed to notice us. Or perhaps we were beneath its contempt.’

The altar chamber and many other adjoining rooms had been unroofed by the trauma of the Greater Daemon’s birth. Fires still flickered in the rubble. Most of the earth above them had been consumed by the energies of the summoning or flung out in every direction, but the altar itself was subsumed in broken masonry. The sides of the crater extended upwards in a sheer curve, laced with the residual flickering of dark energy.

Dieter retrieved his sword from the rubble and turned to the others, a look of fierce desperation in his eyes.

‘We can climb these walls. Though it may do no good, we must contest this monster.’

The knight turned and began to scramble up the treacherous slopes of the crater, labouring hard through the unstable earth. Annika finished loading her weapon, and followed him. Alexander pulled his staff from a pile of broken stonework and wordlessly began his ascent. His entire body ached from the many lacerations caused by flying splinters of stone. At the back of his mind he wondered what had happened to the dark elf sorcerer, but he was nowhere to be seen. Even Morgil seemed content to let him go and stay with them for the time being. The horror of the daemon was all-consuming. There was no hope of any of them defeating such a monster. A Lord of Change was one of the most deadly and mysterious creatures in the entire world, spoken of in hushed tones only in the very heart of the Bright College. To witness one was to gaze into a world of insanity. Though clad in a beguiling rainbow of mysticism, Alexander knew full well what it was capable of. Even with Annika at his side there was no hope of hurting it. Morgil’s skill at arms would be useless. Whatever Dieter may have said, they all knew the truth. They would die before even raising a weapon against the monster.

Despite the treacherous surface, they made rapid progress up the slope. From above, the noise of screams rose. The daemon was becoming active, and flashes of lurid light raked across the sky. But there was something else too. The sound of arms clashing. It seemed as if the entire valley was consumed with battle. Alexander hurried upwards as fast as he could. All things were coming together. His staff throbbed with pent-up energy, fuelled by the fire all around. He felt his fear give way to a kind of resigned equanimity. Something within him remained calm, even confident. Gorman had told him that war was the making of some men. Perhaps Alexander finally knew what he meant. It was as if everything leading to this moment had been a preparation for his final acts as a wizard. He was ready.

As he reached the crater’s edge, the wind and fire whistling around his ears, he leaned heavily on his staff, feeling the energies coursing within it. Annika, Dieter and Morgil were beside him.

The fury of battle was laid out before them. The remnants of the forces they had brought from Castle Heinrich were close by. They had attempted to rally, but were rapidly being surrounded by a horde of armoured Chaos warriors. More were descending from the hills around. Some were of a vast size, titans amongst men. The heavens flared with ripples of sorcerous light, and Morrslieb had eclipsed the natural light of Mannslieb entirely. The daemon was wading with nightmarish slowness into the fray, and beams of lustrous energy sprung from its staff. Mutated spawns splattered and mewled in its wake. The very air hummed with madness.

‘For Myrmidia and the Empire!’ cried Dieter, whirling his mighty sword around his head.

The knight surged forward, lumbering towards the desperate band of human warriors in a hopeless attempt to bolster their defences. With grim faces, the others did likewise. Alexander began to run wildly, his robes flying behind him, fire bursting from his staff in streaming, white-hot arcs.

The maelstrom had come at last. And they were heading into the heart of it.

Jhar’zadris thundered down the slope, relishing the feeling of power. He swung his warhammer in a huge, lazy curve, bringing it down on the back of one fleeing Imperial soldier. He had not expected to find any resistance at the temple. Clearly, something had gone awry with Grauenburg’s plans. But it mattered not. The Lord of Change was in the world, and the Chosen gloried in the immense power projected by the daemon’s aura. The remaining humans would be swept aside in moments, and then they would march together towards the real object of all their endeavours.

A robed cultist, his face a mixture of ecstasy and terror, blundered into Gromarth’s path. Jhar’zadris stooped to grab him by the throat. The little man flailed wildly. Jhar’zadris threw him upwards as if he were made of mere rags. With the unfortunate Chaos worshipper still tumbling in the air, Jhar’zadris hefted his warhammer and brought it across in a curve of dazzling power and speed. The head of the hammer passed straight through the body of the cultist, spraying bone and blood in a grotesque explosion. The troops around Jhar’zadris cheered maniacally, grabbing at the gobbets of flesh and gore, before daubing the remains over their own armour. Bloodlust had descended, and the feast had begun.

Jhar’zadris urged Gromarth towards the Lord of Change, which was making its way steadily towards a small cluster of human warriors near the edge of its birth-crater. The Greater Daemon spied him, and waited for his approach. Impossibly tall and spindly, the towering monster looked awkward, as if deliberately mocking the regular proportions of the world. But Jhar’zadris could feel the deep, subtle and terrifying power leaking from its aura. Others of his kind had underestimated daemons of this order, and had paid for their arrogance. He would not make the same mistake.

Arriving beneath the gargantuan body of the Lord of Change, Jhar’zadris raised his warhammer in salute.

‘Hail, Herald of the Grand Schemer!’ he cried aloft in the Dark Tongue. It was a pleasure to use the shifting, mellifluous language again.

The daemon gazed down upon him. In those eyes, terrible and deep, was contained the weight of past, present and future, all the knowledge and malice of a true master of pure sorcery. Alongside wisdom was madness. The daemon was a living embodiment of flux, and even the Chosen felt his resolve crumble. Overcome with a kind of terror and ecstasy, Jhar’zadris dismounted and knelt before the presence of the Lord of Change. Magic flowed all around him in vast swathes. The air shimmered, the earth hummed. Jhar’zadris’s armour blazed with brilliant light, basking in the waves of pure Chaos emanating from the Greater Daemon. For all his long service in the ways of the Ruinous Powers, the Chosen felt drunk on the heady flood of power resonating around him.

The daemon turned its gaze away, and Jhar’zadris felt the overwhelming power ease. The Lord of Change extended a long, emaciated arm. Jhar’zadris looked to where it pointed. Along the hillside to the south, a new force had arrived. Ranks of armoured humans were pouring towards the temple. Riders in white led the charge, and knights on heavy chargers followed in their wake. There were Swordmasters amongst them, their ithilmar flashing coldly in the fiery night. Banners of Ulthuan and the Reikland had been raised on the ridge. The dark elf Disciple had been right. A new army had come to meet them. Jhar’zadris’s augmented senses could see the tight fury on the faces of the foremost. Amidst them there was a woman. A mage. The Chosen could feel her presence even over the all-encompassing aura of the Lord of Change.

Worthy adversaries, at last. Tzeentch be praised.

Jhar’zadris hurriedly mounted, and let slip a massive, many-dimensioned roar. His entourage paused in their slaughter and looked up. Seeing the newcomers, they kicked their steeds to join him. Without waiting for them, Jhar’zadris rode towards the advance of the human and elven reinforcements. His armour blazed with a thousand shifting shapes. Like a nightmare made flesh, Gromarth thundered onwards, the spirit of his master pulsing in his warped veins. Jhar’zadris swung the warhammer around him with abandon, lost in the glorious lust of battle. When he was done, the blood would run in rivers.

Artheris rode hard, her cloak streaming out behind her. The valley was laced with fire. Enormous braziers had been set up, most of which still burned furiously. The mingled fire and corrupted moonlight lit the scene with a bizarre blend of colours. A great rent in the earth lay at the heart of the place, choked with scree and blasted stone. In all directions, the men struggled in mortal combat. A mighty Chaos host filled the valley, and more were pouring in from the northern slopes. A small band of what looked like Imperial troops held together near to the crater and were fighting valiantly, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Even as she watched, mighty warriors of Chaos ploughed into the lines of defenders. They would not hold out for long.

Artheris knew that many of the humans in her army still doubted her. But now all would be revealed. She was ready for the test ahead. She took up her staff, feeling the raw essence of magic pulsating along its length. Bursts of brilliant silver flame burst unbidden from the crown. The air was alive with power, both dark and light. A scream of agony, unearthly and shrill, scored the heavens. Artheris knew the nature of her foe. It was as she had predicted. A Lord of Change.

The daemon towered over those around it. It was stooped like an old man, but nothing else in its appearance was remotely human. Its wings stretched high into the air, and its grotesque bird face snapped and grinned insanely. It was a vision of horror made flesh, a shimmering presence of infinite cruelty and perversion. Even to mortal eyes, it was an abomination. But her mage-born eyes saw further. She saw the dimension from which it had come reflected in its aura. Artheris knew it for what it was, a mere splinter of the infinite madness and horror which would one day engulf the world. It was change incarnate, the very essence of Chaos. Only she, with her long years of lore behind her and her subtle magical vision could see all of this. Only she, whose fate it was to drive the monster back to the realm of madness, truly knew the depths of the horror they faced.

The daemon perceived her, and its gaze was like a knife at her breast. She raised her staff high, letting the tip blaze with light.

‘Asuryan be my guide,’ she breathed.

Her robes streaming behind her, her face fixed into a mask of determination, Artheris rode to meet the Lord of Change. Now all would be put to the test.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Annika ducked to her left hastily. The heavy Chaos warrior slipped in the mud, and his blade fell wide. It slammed into the ground where she had just been, carving through the earth with ease. He toppled over towards her, fighting to regain balance.

Her heart thumping, Annika disobeyed all her instincts and leapt forward. She pressed her pistol to the side of his horned helmet, and fired. The bullet shattered the ornate shell, spraying shards of iron and steel. The warrior staggered, but did not fall. Annika, wondering what she had to do to finish him off, jumped back. Her adversary seemed impossible to kill. His cracked helmet hung from his face. The exposed flesh was terrible to witness. A red-rimmed eye glared at her with intense hatred, ringed by bizarrely coloured and warped skin. The monster within the iron shell was human, but only just. He came forward, grinning through spiked teeth.

Annika lowered the pistol once more. Her last bullet. She fired into his breastplate, cracking the heavy plate and sending the warrior lurching backwards once more. Tucking the pistol into her belt, she moved quickly to press the advantage. Sword in hand, she thrust towards the gaping hole in his armour, probing for the weak spot.

She was too slow. With a roar, the huge warrior met her blade with his own. His strength was incredible. Annika was borne down by the weight of the blow. It felt like her arm was nearly ripped off, but she somehow clung on to her weapon. Clenching her teeth, she tried to wrench her blade around. But the warrior was in complete control. With a strangled laugh of triumph, he spun her sword away into the night with a flick of his own, and knocked her to the ground with a massive mailed fist.

Annika felt the sharp taste of blood in her mouth, and her temples rang with pain. The world juddered and shifted. She tried to rise, but slipped in the mud and gore. The shape of the warrior loomed over her, dark and huge. He raised the blade for the killing blow. Annika’s vision cleared just in time to see the sword fall.

‘Sigmar!’ she breathed

A shower of sparks doused her. A second blade had intercepted the first. Her senses rushing back, she scrambled backwards to retrieve her weapon. Dieter, standing between her and the warrior, hurled the warrior’s sword upwards, crying aloud from the exertion. Not for the first time, he had saved her life.

He looked like a vision of one of the savage tribal warriors of old. His helmet had been knocked from his head, and his long blond hair flew wildly as he laboured. He was caked in blood, his own and that of his victims. Every blow with his sword was titanic. He seemed to have been infused with a strength beyond anything she had ever seen from him.

The Chaos warrior, caught off-balance, struggled to cope with Dieter’s crushing strikes, and was driven backwards. Annika raced back into the fight. As Dieter piled in with his huge swipes, Annika fell to the ground and plunged her short sword into the warrior’s calf muscle. The stab was well directed, finding a gap between the shifting plates of armour. With satisfaction, Annika felt the sharp edge cut through sinew and muscle.

The warrior roared with pain, and fell awkwardly to one side. Annika rolled away, just in time for Dieter to bring his greatsword down two-handed on the warrior’s neck. Blood as black as pitch splattered against his encrusted breastplate. The warrior flailed for a moment, then twitched, then lay still. The light in his tortured eye went out.

Annika rose to her feet and went over to Dieter. He had already withdrawn his blade and was looking for the next fight. Warriors, human and Chaotic, were struggling all around them in mortal conflict. The sky was still marred with streaks of magic. The situation had moved from being hopeless to merely desperate. The charge of the elven warriors had broken the Chaos lines momentarily, but the iron-armoured warriors had regrouped quickly. Now the entire battlefield was in confusion. Swordmasters and Imperial knights had engaged the core of the Chaos army, and the hundreds of auxiliary troops were grappling with the mass of cultists. In the night, lit only by the rampant flames and blasts of sorcery, all pretence at formation and manoeuvre had been lost.

‘Where’s the wizard?’ cried Annika over the noise.

‘Don’t know!’ yelled Dieter, launching himself at a hapless cultist. ‘Don’t care!’

Annika joined him in the assault, and their twin attack made short work of their deranged opponent.

‘That champion!’ she cried, parrying a blow from a fresh cultist in front of her. ‘He’s too strong for Heinrich’s men. We must stop him!’

Dieter looked across the melee. The huge form of the Chosen was some distance away. None could stand against him. His warhammer was flying in massive, devastating circles, slaughtering any who came near. Blood ran in rivulets down his armour and the flanks of his monstrous steed.

‘Agreed,’ said Dieter, grimly. ‘Together.’

They began to barge their way towards Jhar’zadris, swords labouring, cutting their way through the throng like harvesters in the fields. Step by grinding step, they made their way to the towering Chosen. Annika clutched the icon in her left hand, ready to use its divine power when the moment came.

Even in the heat of battle, the massive warrior seemed to sense their impending arrival. While still some distance away, he turned his horned head and spied their progress. A roar of anger, or maybe pleasure, burst from his distorted lips. Spurring his mount on, he rode directly for them. With a resounding clash of armour, battle was joined.

Alexander smashed aside the heavily-armoured warrior before him. The man cartwheeled backwards, his armour rent asunder by the force of the fiery blast. His ruined body still smoking, he attempted to rise to his feet again. Alexander brought the blazing tip of his staff down heavily on his chest. The white-hot shaft sunk into the warrior’s torso. He screamed wildly, his face etched with agony as the fire purged his body of corruption.

Alexander withdrew the shaft, and whirled around, trying to get his bearings. In every direction, fresh warriors, both of Chaos and of the Empire, were grappling with each other. There were even elves in the midst of them. It was hard to tell who was doing better. On both sides, the slaughter was heavy. A cultist charged towards him. Alexander blasted him aside disdainfully. The wretched man was thrown from his feet, taking several others with him. On the far side of the space cleared by his fall, a tall figure was revealed. He wore purple robes and carried a twisted iron staff. Alexander pointed his staff-tip at him in readiness, and the sorcerer smiled coldly.

‘A human wizard,’ Malek spat, raising his staff also. ‘How amusing.’

Alexander let the Wind of Aqshy mould a new spell. A corona of flame screamed into being over him, and he charged forward. Malek raised his own staff, and lurid energy whirled around him like a nest of snakes. On every side, warriors hurriedly retreated from the explosion of magical energies. Consumed by their own battles, none were foolish enough to try and interfere with a wizards’ conflict.

Alexander flung the corona at the sorcerer. Malek raised his staff, and the magical fire exploded against a shield of dark sorcery. Shards of steaming matter flung themselves in every direction. Alexander followed up the attack with a wave of spitting firebolts. Malek was forced backwards, driven nearly to his knees by the searing heat of Alexander’s fury. Bolt after bolt of blood-red energy slammed into his shadowy shield, bursting around the perimeter in torrents of flame. Alexander smiled grimly as he worked. Truly the essence of Aqshy was strong in this place.

But Malek was a sorcerer of the druchii, born to a race whose ancient mastery of magic far exceeded the fitful efforts of mankind. Though Alexander’s skills were impressive, they were raw and wayward in comparison to the studied arts of the dark elves. Too late Alexander realised the dark shield was not just for protection. It began to push against him, sucking the force out of his attack, latching on to his limbs like a morass of heavy pitch. The wizard fed more power to the attack. The flames rose higher, coursing towards the dark elf like a pack of wild animals. And yet still the cloying, dampening sheen of darkness grew. It extended, throwing tentacles of shadow in every direction.

One caught him by the neck, and Alexander felt the dread power within it clutch at his soul. More tendrils landed, dragging him downward, crushing his fire. Malek rose to his full height. He raised his staff high, and the crushing, draining entity reared even higher.

Alexander could feel the danger. The Wind of Aqshy was blocked by the dampening substance. He was being encased, slowly muffled and crushed by the inexorably growing darkness. He tried to withdraw, to pull himself free of the soul-draining matter. But even as he flailed, the stuff clung tighter, winding itself around his struggling limbs, choking the life out of him.

Alexander felt panic rise suddenly. He had been overconfident, blinded by the apparent ease of victory. Malek looked at him scornfully.

‘So it ends, little wizard,’ he said.

The curtain of darkness rose, and Alexander saw no more.

Morgil stood loosely before the iron-clad Chaos warrior. Two of the creature’s companions lay in the mire. His axe was slick with their blood. He looked directly up at the warped visor of his opponent.

The warrior was vast. Massive gold-laced greaves enclosed his legs, while a heavy breastplate with the sigil of Tzeentch dominated his torso. Horns twisted in elaborate shapes above the dark helmet. Like most of the warriors in the Chaos army, his armour was laced with intricate designs of a strange and unsettling nature. Nothing was regular, everything was asymmetrical and off-balance. The servants of the Master of Change had adorned their battle-gear to his liking. Morgil despised the ostentation. His own garb was simple. His axe, a great heirloom of his House, was marked with only a single rune. Ceyl, the sign of law, passion, and justice. It was a fitting emblem.

The Chaos warrior strode towards him heavily, swinging an axe of his own. The double-bladed weapon was far larger than the weapons wielded by ordinary mortals, and arced through the air with a savage grace. A bunch of skulls, some still with scraps of flesh clinging to the scalps, hung from the shaft. They clattered against the steel as the warrior advanced. Morgil accepted the danger of the killing blow in order to get close. He ducked under a coruscating sweep of the axe, letting the blade graze the very top of his crouched body, before springing up directly into the warrior’s path. There would be no possibility of withdrawal. Either the blow was executed perfectly, or he would be dead.

Leaping up between the warrior’s flailing arms, Morgil thrust the axe upwards towards the helmet. With a rasp of metal against metal, the edge passed between the warrior’s helmet and breastplate. It bit deep into the flesh. The warrior roared in pain as his momentum carried him into the blow.

Feeling the axe connect, Morgil twisted it further, working the head into the neck of the enraged warrior. Desperately, vast armoured arms beat at him, trying to push him back. But the blows were frantic and poorly aimed. With a final, sickening wrench, Morgil heaved on the axe, and the warrior’s head was torn from his shoulders. Bile and gore sprayed over the White Lion, but he kept his grip on the axe. Like a toppling mountain, the mighty warrior crumpled into the mud.

Morgil spun away from the collapsing body, careful not to be dragged down with it. The horned head rolled into the mire and came to rest, while the severed neck spewed blood vigorously. The great double-bladed axe rolled harmlessly from the warrior’s lifeless grip.

More Chaos troops strode towards him menacingly. All around him human soldiers were being cut down by the immense warriors. Few could stand against them, and even the heavily-armoured Imperial knights were hard pressed. The battle was poised. The lumbering warriors of Chaos had made huge inroads into the allied army, but determined charges by the Reiksguard and Reavers had halted their advance. Now the two heavily-armoured forces were closely engaged. Swordmasters were present wherever the fighting was fiercest, spinning and dancing into the fray with deadly grace. Lesser troops on both sides conducted their own vicious feuds, dragging each other into the gore and grime of the battlefield.

As was his wont, Morgil fought alone, choosing his personal battles with care. On either side of him, human State troops rushed forward to meet the Chaos warriors. They stood no chance, but Morgil admired their bravery. Before joining them, the White Lion risked a look upwards. The daemon was wading through warriors with its strange, nightmarish gait. Its staff rang with lurid colour, and blasts of strangely-hued energies tore from the tip. It should have been capable of destroying them all. And yet, it was being contested. Some counter-force had engaged it, and prevented their complete destruction. Morgil felt a tremor of hope in his heart. Artheris. There could be no one else.

Knowing he would be no help in such a duel, Morgil came to the aid of the humans, swinging his axe freely. Bodies were everywhere, friend and foe, looming before him, clutching at his arms, crushed into the earth and covered with blood. It was a slaughter. As Morgil entered the melee, punching and swiping with his axe, the fluttering of a dark cloak suddenly caught his eye. His view was obscured by the press of warriors around him, all grappling in mortal combat. But the glimpse had been all he had needed. It was her. With a sudden lurch of excitement, Morgil sprinted forwards. A cultist blocked his way. Morgil’s axe flashed, and the man’s arm was detached from his body. Not bothering to finish him off. Morgil cut his way through the press ahead. Kurnous had guided him well. Now all had changed. The battle around him became unimportant. Like a hunter after his quarry, Morgil ducked and weaved towards the Disciple of Khaine, his axe thirsty for more blood.

Artheris dismounted. No horse would bear her closer. The Lord of Change was waiting. An inscrutable smile was on its grotesque face. Its very presence was an affront to the order of the world, a violation of the laws of the earth.

A score of Chaos warriors charged towards her. The Swordmasters around her surged to meet them, and they clashed in a whirl of glittering steel. Artheris stood alone, untroubled by the hosts raging to get at her. The Swordmasters knew their task, and fought with a controlled fervour she had never seen before. Their shame at the debacle in Altdorf drove them onwards, and no enemy warrior got close.

Artheris planted her staff firmly on the ground, and fixed the daemon with a defiant gaze. For a moment, they regarded one another. The stare from the daemon’s distorted face radiated maleficence. If Artheris had been less mighty, just a glance from those terrible eyes would have been unendurable. Even with all her lore and skill, she felt her heart beating faster within her breast, her skin breaking out into a sweat. The depths of depravity and perversion unleashed to bring a Greater Daemon into the world were almost beyond imagination. She took a deep breath, willing her body and mind to obey her commands, to tap the vast wells of magic around her. As Artheris stood before the monster, she felt the fire within kindle. Pure magic, all eight colours combined, danced across her brow.

Suddenly, a burst of brilliant light surged from her staff. The magic was unleashed, and Artheris soared high into the night air. Her cloak billowed out around her, and a halo of searing energy sprung into existence. She seemed to grow in size, as if her frail body had been enhanced in the lens of a spyglass. Her simple robes suddenly blazed with golden runes, and her face glowed with the sunlight of Averlorn. Those beneath her gazed up in wonder. With all need for disguise removed, she now appeared as her true self. Artheris of Ellyrion. Disciple of Teclis. Archmage of the Lore of Hoeth.

The Lord of Change croaked what seemed like a meagre laugh. Its emaciated neck strained with the effort. Waves of warping energy emanated from it, sweeping through the night air like ripples on a lake. In its wake, the spawns at its feet gurgled and wept in misery. It limped forwards, croaking vile obscenities in some language no mortal could comprehend. Artheris found images entering her mind, visions of her soul shrivelling and burning before a throne of adamant and sapphire. She saw endless torment, saw herself begging for death while the foul denizens of the Realm of Chaos laughed and bayed for more. The warning was clear. This was the fate which awaited her if she should fail.

Artheris raised her staff over her head, and her halo exploded in shards of silver. A stream of pulsating, pure energy raced towards the daemon, shattering as it impacted on the glittering skin. The Lord of Change reeled. It took a step back, and slammed its staff into the earth. Chaos warriors milling at its feet were thrown aside as violent purple flames raced up the length of the massive shaft. When they reached the sigil of Tzeentch, they erupted in swirls of many colours, dousing Artheris’s white illumination and polluting it with a riot of shades.

Artheris, floating effortlessly at the same level of the daemon’s head, sent a fresh barrage of searing white energy at the monstrous creature. The forces unleashed screamed through the air. The flickers and sparks of lesser magic on the battlefield were nothing compared with the titanic energies being wielded in the heavens.

The Lord of Change leaned into the assault. Its wings rose high into the night, blotting out the meagre light of the world’s moon and capturing the unhealthy aura of Morrslieb. It absorbed the column of cascading light magic, though it had to take another backwards step. With a bird-like cry of effort, it began to bend the shaft of pure energy into a new shape, moulding the magical essence like molten metal. As Artheris poured fresh power into the incantation, the daemon turned the ethereal substance back on itself.

The spitting, incandescent matter slowly warped into a bizarre flock of violently evolving creatures. Each was striped with all the colours of the rainbow, endlessly flickering and changing. Eyes popped into being before dissolving into beaks. Limbs thrust themselves outwards before shredding instantaneously and becoming wings or spikes of bone. The flock grew, feeding on Artheris’s energy, pulling it from the heavens and transmuting the pure magic into corruption and madness.

With a triumphant howl, the daemon let its progeny loose. They swept in a great wave towards Artheris. The mage whirled her staff around, and her robes flew about her like a whirlwind. Blazing bolts of magic flew from her, piercing the swooping creatures before they could latch on to her. Twisted, morphing carcasses fell from the sky, dissipating into boiling pools of fluid where they struck the ground.

The battle in the air was fierce. The Lord of Change limped forward, spinning more screaming mockeries of birds from the magic-drenched air. Artheris cried aloud, and her staff instantly transmuted into a huge flaming sword, blazing with argent light. She soared amongst the creatures of pure Chaos, scything them from the skies with great sweeps of her mage-born blade. Where the sword passed, the air seemed to ignite with a sparkling fire. She swept through them, carving a swathe of destruction.

The last of them fell. Artheris swooped towards the Lord of Change. Her face was set in determination, and still glowed with light. At her breast, a golden orb was growing. She fed it power, glorying in its perfection and beauty even in the midst of the struggle. The daemon began a fresh spell, and eerie hoops of lambent colour began to shift up and down its crooked staff.

With words of blessing, Artheris sent the golden orb spinning from her towards the Lord of Change. Before it hit, the daemon issued its own counter-spell. Vast tendrils of brilliant hues shot from its staff, snaking towards the archmage in a writhing, straining bunch. They latched on to her like vines, dragging her downwards, clutching at her staff and robes. Strange blind jaws clamped on to her cloak. Where they closed over the runes, bursts of energy discharged, singeing the swirling forest of tendrils and causing them to drop, smoking, from the air.

Under the weight of the mass of serpentine entities, Artheris felt her strength begin to sap. Where they fastened on to her, streaks of pain shot into her body, draining her power and crippling the link between her and the buffeting winds of magic. Her face remaining calm, she delved deep, whispering words of lore. Nothing happened. She was engulfed in the many-hued tendrils, and began to plummet to earth under the weight of them. With a crack of arcane power, the entire bundle slammed into the ground, exploding in a riot of colour. Gouts of steam leapt up. Any warriors close to the impact were knocked backwards, and the ground heaved and broke.

The waves of magic ebbed away. The Lord of Change walked over to the site warily. The last of the tendrils were disappearing, unwinding into nothingness as the spells which held them together extinguished. The forgotten golden orb sank gently over its forehead. Then it exploded into a blaze of light and heat. The daemon was pitched backwards, its wings flapping wildly. From the centre of the inferno, darts of fiery gold tore towards the reeling Lord of Change. From the very centre of the storm of arrows, Artheris emerged. She was clad in gold from head to toe, as if the orb had somehow become her. Or perhaps she had become the orb. A smile of satisfaction was marked on her smooth features.

‘Trust not in your eyes, daemon!’ she cried. ‘I have powers you may only guess at!’

With that, she slammed more searing darts at the Lord of Change, who cowered under the onslaught. Raising its wings around it, it vainly tried to ward off the spinning, spitting points of brilliant flame, trying to prevent them from finding their target. It roared with pain and frustration, staggering and lurching. Artheris swept onwards, summoning more darts. Lightning flickered around her, kindling on the vast aura of magic swirling in the heavens and blazing brightly. Like a vision of Asuryan himself, she sent bolt after bolt thumping into the hide of the monster before her.

But her foe was not some mere mortal enchanter. The Lord of Change had powers drawn from the Master of Sorcery himself. It was an avatar of magic, a living shard of Chaos, an aspect of Tzeentch himself. It screeched with pain and fury, and a great web of whirling distortion began to emerge before it. Like an insubstantial shield, it spread across the space between it and the vengeful Artheris. It was transparent, its presence only given away by the turbulence it caused. The distortion grew. When the bolts hit it, they spiralled away in every direction, flying high into the sky or raining ruinously into the hosts beneath. As the warping barrier expanded, few found their mark.

Artheris modified the spell, sending the darts looping over the edges of the great circular shield. But the Lord of Change, uncurled from its cowering posture, thrust its staff into the centre of the vortex. The emanation rippled and enveloped the daemon. The entire form of the Lord of Change became a shower of broken, half-complete images. It was as if its reflection was being spied in a shattered mirror.

Artheris withdrew, her face marked with consternation. A horrifying collection of daemon aspects advanced towards her. A dozen copies of its eye stared out from the reflective splinters, a dozen copies of its beak curled in satisfaction. The staff, in all its splintered confusion, rose high. Artheris felt something clench around her heart. She looked down in horror. Her own body was beginning to rebel. Distortions and growths rippled beneath her skin. She began to lose control of her limbs, and had to issue a spell of command to regain her mastery. She was being changed, warped by the power of the daemon into one of its playthings.

Crying out from fear and pain, she pulled a shimmering cloak of warding from the aethyr around her. It clung to her, and the worst of the attack was blunted. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she let fly a fresh barrage of silver energy. The screen of distortion encasing the daemon buckled. More energy flowed, fed by the elemental forces whirling around them. The screen shattered. A surge of dark magic rushed outwards, buffeting Artheris and sending her spinning backwards.

She fought her way back to her position, labouring through the air like a swimmer against the tide. Even her prodigious strength was beginning to wane. She faced the daemon once more. It stood as it had before, whole and undivided. It looked at her with a leering, sardonic expression on its ancient face.

At that, Artheris finally felt fury overtake her. On the ground below, she could see the bodies of the slain. She could sense the anguish of those that still fought. The pure white cloth of the Swordmasters lay in the mire alongside the black iron armour of the enemy. So many had died. So many would die. Teclis had always taught her not to hate, but now his warning went unheeded. The cause of all their suffering stood before her, sneering and grinning.

Knowing the danger, knowing what perils anger could bring, she unlocked the long-confined hatred in her soul. Her staff shifted into the form of a mighty spear, tipped with blazing ithilmar and engraved with runes of awesome power.

With a cry of anguish and loathing, she soared high into the air, wheeling like a bird of the heavens. Holding the spear aloft, she plummeted down towards the daemon, uncaring of the clouds of dark magic billowing up to meet her.

She fell like lightning from heaven. It raised its staff to meet her. They came together with a clap of thunder. Cataclysmic forces rocked the earth beneath them, and a crushing wave of force radiated outwards, scattering those still close by. Pure magic clashed with pure sorcery. The end had come.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lost in a world of darkness, Alexander felt his awareness begin to slip away. Malek’s spell was crushing the life out of him. His hands scrabbled at his eyes, trying desperately to scrape the thick, suffocating substance from his face. It was in his mouth, his nose, crushing the life from him as surely as the serpents of legend. His staff had been dropped, and the power which had surged so effortlessly through him had now abated.

Gasping for breath, he sank to his knees. Not for the first time since he had left Altdorf on his fateful assignment, the prospect of death loomed vividly. He collapsed into the mud, feeling the slick, cool surface under his tortured body. And then, against all expectation, the shadowy web evaporated. With a lurch, he sucked in a lungful of air. Stars exploded in his temples, and he reeled. The heavy sorcerous weight lifted immediately, as if it had never been there. His vision clearing somewhat, he pushed himself back up on to his knees, and tried to make sense of what was going on.

The last shreds of shadow left him, and he blinked furiously. The battle still raged all around, though no warrior had dared to come between Malek and him. The sorcerer was some distance away. His face was rent with pain, and he was bent double, clutching his midriff. His iron staff lay discarded. For the first time, Alexander saw real fear in his eyes.

‘Kalia!’ Malek gasped, edging backwards.

Alexander followed his gaze, and spied a second dark elf. A woman. She had a dagger in her left hand. He guessed the one in her right was now buried in Malek. Slowly, painfully, Alexander began to grope through the slime towards his staff. He was still shaken and nauseous from Malek’s sorcery.

‘You really didn’t think I’d come after you?’ asked Kalia, speaking to Malek. ‘How little you know of the ways of the Disciples. We never forget.’

Malek stooped further, reaching for his staff. A second dagger went spinning through the air. With incredible accuracy, it sliced off his outstretched hand. Blood pumped vigorously into the air, and Malek screamed, crumpling to the earth in agony.

Kalia strode over to the prone sorcerer, ignoring Alexander entirely. She pulled his head up by his hair. Drawing a third dagger, she placed it against his pale neck.

‘Do not do this!’ gasped the sorcerer, his scorn and arrogance forgotten. ‘I have protectors! You’ll never be able to return to Naggaroth again. You need me!’

Kalia gave him a look of such concentrated scorn that Alexander winced. She pressed the knife closer against his windpipe, drawing a thin line of blood.

‘You understand nothing,’ she hissed, her voice cutting like acid through the air. ‘It wouldn’t matter if your death condemned my soul to a thousand years of torment. Thank the fates that we have met in battle. If things were otherwise, your end would be an exercise in agony.’

Malek grappled wildly with his left hand, desperately trying to push the knife from his neck. It was no good. With a single, swift movement, Kalia cut his throat. The hot blood welled up and sluiced down his chest, drenching the exquisite purple robes a deep crimson.

Kalia wiped her knife on his body, and stood up. Alexander finally managed to grab hold of his staff, and rose shakily. With Malek’s sorcery removed, other warriors on both sides had begun to press towards them. The circle which had been formed by the flailing streams of magic had been broken, and the brief lull in the battle was closing.

Rousing herself, the Disciple looked around her. She caught sight of Alexander brandishing his staff. She looked him up and down, and a curl of fresh disdain flickered across her lips. She seemed to consider engaging him, but a State trooper, covered in blood and fleeing from combat, careered between them. His face was lined with fear. Alexander pushed the man aside roughly, but by then the tide of battle had closed in again. The dark elf melted into the closing mass of soldiers. A cultist, his face covered in tattoos and metal studs, leapt into Alexander’s path. The man screamed and brandished a rough cudgel. Others advanced in his wake, wary of Alexander’s staff but eager to spill his blood. With a sigh, the Bright wizard began to muster his strength once more. The battle was far from being over.

‘Taal’s teeth,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I hate dark elves.’

Schulmann roared in defiance, trying to rally the soldiers around him. His men were falling in droves, weakened by exhaustion and terror. The truly massive Chaos warriors, the ones encased in thick plate armour, had been tied up by the elven Swordmasters and Reiksguard. But there were plenty of lesser fighters left to cause them problems, including a ferocious pack of fur-clad marauders wielding heavy cleavers and axes. Schulmann and Fassbinder’s men were being pushed hard. Even the reinforcements from Artheris’s army hadn’t stemmed the losses entirely. They were being pushed back.

The Chaos warriors bellowed with unfettered aggression, and charged the lines again. Though his bones ached to their core, Schulmann rose to meet the challenge. On either side of him, his troops furiously hacked and slashed, desperate to hold the fragile front against the marauders. Schulmann found himself faced by a huge bearded norseman wielding a cleaver. He strode forward, slashing wildly with his sword. Schulmann aimed for the midriff, but the blow clanged harmlessly off the norseman’s metal-studded shield. He was quicker than he looked, this one.

The warrior bellowed an incoherent oath, and charged again. Schulmann leapt backward, attempting to make the marauder overrun. But his feet caught in one of the many bodies sunk into the earth, and he went sprawling on his back. Something hit the back of his head, and black stars spun in front of his eyes. He raised his sword, half-blindly. It was knocked aside. The warrior stood triumphantly over him, roaring with pleasure. The cleaver was raised.

The blow never fell. Someone barrelled into the warrior and sent them both tumbling in the mud. Shaking his head, Schulmann rose to his feet. The norseman was grappling with one of Heinrich’s men. Schulmann raised his sword high, and brought it down on the marauder’s neck with a crushing finality. The warrior’s neck was severed, and his rage was stilled.

The soldier who had saved him lay immobile. Hoping against hope that he might still be alive, Schulmann dragged him out from under the corpse of the norseman and away from the fighting. The two of them withdrew a few yards from the struggling combatants. As Schulmann helped him roll over, he realised with a pang of horror that the soldier was Fassbinder.

The captain’s face was drawn. His tunic was drenched in red. A gaping wound opened just below his chest, and blood drained from it freely.

‘S-Schulmann,’ Fassbinder gasped with effort, his last breath leaving him. ‘You were right about Heinrich. I’m sorry.’

The captain coughed up a thick gout of blood, and his eyes glazed. Schulmann could only watch as his erstwhile enemy’s life gave out. He looked down at the lean, noble face for a few moments, aware of the danger but suddenly loathe to leave. The battle raged just yards away, but it seemed strangely insubstantial. A sick feeling gnawed at him. Though on opposite sides of a dirty, pointless war, there had never been a doubt in his mind that Fassbinder was a worthy adversary. Though many had died, including those as close as brothers to him, for some reason this affected him the most.

The futility of all he had done came crashing down on him. For a moment, he felt an overwhelming urge to give up, to sink to the earth and let the battle take its course. Everything had been for naught.

But then the clash of steel roused him. His men were being pushed back once more. Bitterly, Schulmann closed the captain’s eyelids. So their feud ended. He rose, turned from Fassbinder’s body, and strode back towards his men. His bloodstained blade was heavy in his hands. Lightning and fire streaked across the sky, and his face was black. There could be no consolation, but there was always vengeance. For men such as him, that was all there ever was.

Morrslieb had risen higher. The armies continued to fight at close quarters, locked in their deadly embrace. No decisive advantage had emerged for either side. The companies of Reiksguard and Swordmasters had contained most of the Chaos warriors in the valley, though they had been unable to break the heavily-armoured formations. Cultists and marauders swept in waves against the hastily-organised lines of Imperial and asur soldiers. Though men on both sides fell in droves, there were yet more to take their place. The narrow valley was choked with the stench of death. With the eventual arrival of the Imperial artillery on the south ridge, cannon fire had begun to crack across the battlefield, though the melee was so confused and brutal that no precision could be attempted with the shot. It was a bitter, close-set struggle for mastery, and the hatred and desperation was equal on both sides.

Fresh from his last kill, Morgil risked a brief glance into the heavens. The Lord of Change was swathed in a protective shield of distorted light and reflection. Beyond him, a fierce flame burned in the sky. The archmage had ascended into her true state. For a moment, Morgil allowed himself to recall her on the prow of the Asuryan’s Might, her hair lifting in the breeze. She had looked so slender then, so insubstantial. And yet now she was fighting with the living essence of Chaos. None could hope to aid her. All their lives depended on her efforts. He uttered a whispered prayer on her behalf.

The White Lion turned his attention to the battle around him. His hands and axe were stained with blood, and yet no wound marked his pale skin. The Disciple was close. He had lost her earlier after a troupe of cultists had foolishly waylaid him. Now the sheer number of deaths had thinned the scores of bodies all around. If she knew he was looking for her, she wouldn’t hide. The Disciples had a warped creed of their own, one which he might have respected if any sinew in his body didn’t hate them so much.

And then, as if ordained by a higher power, Morgil saw her at last. She was locked in combat with an Imperial knight. Despite his broadsword and heavy armour, the human was suffering. She danced around him like a spectre, toying with him, provoking the rash blows that exposed him to counter-attack. Morgil observed for a few moments, watching the way she fought, checking for any sign of fatigue. There was none. She was perfect, a complete harmony of mind and body. He took a deep breath. So the moment had come at last. He hefted his axe lightly, and sprinted towards her.

The Disciple launched into a series of blistering strokes, driving the knight back. The killing blow rose. Morgil pushed the knight aside roughly, sending the man skidding into the ground. The knight tried to clamber to he feet, but his armour and many wounds prevented him.

‘Go!’ Morgil hissed at him, his eyes fixed on the Disciple.

The knight, wounded and exhausted, needed no second invitation. He crawled from the scene, his breathing choked and heavy. All around him, the human lines were breaking. The Chaos warriors piled forward, driving the Imperial forces back towards the temple. Morgil, uncaring that he was being left behind by the tide of war, stood calmly before the object of his long quest. Kalia likewise made no effort to join her allies. Before long, the fighting had moved some distance away, and Morgil and the dark elf were left virtually alone.

Kalia looked at him with interest.

‘We’ve met before,’ she said.

Morgil brought his axe into position. The weight of it felt perfectly balanced with his body. Even after hours of fighting, he felt no fatigue. The goal for which he had striven was now at hand.

‘You fight well,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’ll have to again.’

He sprang towards her, his axe flashing in front of him. Kalia didn’t shrink from the move, but pounced forward herself, daggers glittering. The two bodies slammed into one another, blades locked, before springing away once more. They entered a strange, complex dance, each looking for the rare opening, the one chance to strike.

Morgil was the stronger, slashing his blade with heavy, powerful strokes. Kalia was marginally quicker, shrinking from lethal strokes like a shadow before rearing like a snake to strike on the counter-thrust. In all other respects they were perfectly matched. Graceful, deadly, and utterly self-absorbed. There were few on the field who could have come close to their martial perfection.

Morgil pressed forward, fuelled by his anger. His axe had become, as it always did, an extension of his arm. He swung the blade low, aiming at Kalia’s legs. At the last moment, he pulled the head upwards, striking at her torso. The feint was foreseen. Kalia sprung to her left, slipping her left foot out of the way at the last moment. The axe blade grazed her tunic as she melted away from the second thrust.

Her counterattack was subtle. A dagger flew at Morgil at eye-level. Carried forward by the momentum of the axe-swing, he ducked under the stabbing move. The second dagger was waiting below, primed to plunge into his arm as he turned. Twisting acrobatically, he curved his body away from the danger. He let his right boot flick out as he did so, aiming to catch Kalia off-balance. She was too good. The kick missed, and she replied with a fresh flurry of dagger strokes. The axe rose once more, and dark metal clashed with bright ithilmar. Sparks flew into the fevered air, lighting their faces with savage light.

Kalia’s knife-work increased in ferocity. Behind her steely facade, a flicker of anger burned. Morgil responded in kind. They recognised each other for what they were now. Just as in Altdorf, it became difficult to tell them apart. Though she was clad in darkness and he in light, they blended together. Their movements were so fast, so perfectly-judged, they seemed strangely interdependent. Though one was asur, one druchii, they were like two sides of the same killing blade, both driven by an ancient hatred, both powered by the commanding lust for vengeance.

Kalia feinted right, covering her flank with one dagger while stabbing the second towards Morgil’s face. The White Lion shifted weight, blocked the high blade and kicked out towards the low. The daggers shifted course at the last moment. Morgil knocked the lower one from her fingers with his boot. It flew into the air, glittering like starlight. But the other had been cunningly directed. Kalia plunged it downwards, avoiding the rising axe-blade and aiming for Morgil’s chest.

Morgil adjusted the axe in mid-move, warding the danger. But the move was anticipated. With an artful twist, she locked the blade under the head of the axe and wrenched upwards. With surprising strength, she prised the axe from the White Lion’s hands, and it slipped from his grip.

The axe tumbled in the air. Flashing a feral smile, Kalia leapt at him, her dagger aimed at his throat. Desperately, Morgil grabbed her wrist with his right hand, stopping the blade less than an inch from his neck. They came together like lovers, locked in a deadly embrace. The Disciple pushed the dagger on. The White Lion held it firm. Their eyes met, just as they had before.

‘So you die,’ she hissed.

Morgil glared back at her defiantly.

‘Look down,’ he said.

As soon as the word left his lips, she knew what had happened. The loss of the axe had been a desperate gamble. Her own dagger, the one which had been kicked away, was in his left hand. He had buried it into her flank, and the blood began to pump. The realisation dawned on her, and she struggled furiously against his lethal hold. Even wounded, she was strong. Morgil kept her close, twisting the dagger into her ribs, keeping the second blade from his own neck. Gradually, he felt her strength begin to subside.

‘You think you’ve won,’ she said spitefully, blood rising in her mouth. Their faces were close.

‘You are dying, Disciple,’ said Morgil. The fire of his bloodlust was ebbing. He felt her grip on the dagger weaken. ‘That is all that matters.’

Kalia went limp in his arms. The savage light in her eyes began to shift out of focus.

‘And will you feel so proud when you return home to find your land on fire?’ she said, gasping for breath. Even in death, a sarcastic smile played across her lips. ‘You’re fools, all of you. Even now, your doom lies across the seas. The land you abandoned. All for nothing!’

She gave a bitter, choking laugh, and then slumped. Morgil pushed her roughly away, withdrawing the dagger roughly. Kalia crumpled, her side pumping blood, her whole body twitching in a paroxysm of death. She seemed to shiver, her eyes fluttered weakly, and then she fell still.

Morgil looked down at her bloodstained body for a moment. His heartbeat gradually returned to normal.

He felt his fatigue, so long postponed, begin to creep up his limbs. Wearily, he retrieved his axe from its resting place. He took it up once more. Now the deed had been done, he felt nothing but emptiness. His place was back in the fighting. He swung the blade loosely, and prepared to follow the path the Chaos warriors had taken. But with the death of the Disciple, all satisfaction in the fight had left him. All that was left was duty, to keep going until the archmage’s duel was decided.

And yet, a seed of terrible doubt had entered his mind. As Morgil ran once more into the heart of the battle, his axe flying with deadly speed, he could only see the laughing face of the Disciple, her mouth dripping with blood, her eyes alive with malicious pleasure. Was what she had said true?

Dieter was at the end of his huge strength. His blond hair hung lank around his head. Two huge rents in his bronze-inlaid armour exposed his flesh, and he was streaked with blood. A lesser man would have given up hours ago. But still he pressed on, driving himself into the fray through sheer force of will.

Annika raised the icon in her hand. It blazed with a searing light, hot against her palm. Ahead of her, the gigantic Chosen warrior lumbered forward. His foul steed lay on its flanks some distance away. Since engaging the monster, the only thing they had achieved was the death of that grim mockery of a horse. In every other respect, they were doing very badly. Bodies lay on the ground in piles, seeping blood. The men around them roused themselves wearily for the final charge, though their limbs were heavy and spirits faltering. The Chosen’s retinue remained intact, locked in combat with the surviving Imperial forces. Only she and Dieter had been able to occupy the Chosen for more than a few moments, and even they were being soundly beaten.

Annika forced herself to face her enemy. The Chosen’s armour was a horror all of itself. With bewildering speed, its many surfaces warped and changed before her eyes. At times it glowed with an eerie blue light, at others it sunk into sable and seemed to merge with the night around. On every panel and plate, a hideous face screamed abuse and vitriol. Even where the Chosen had been wounded, the armour seemed to remain fused to the skin. It was as if the man and the metal had become one, a living shell of iron-hard terror.

Dieter ran at full tilt into the advancing Chosen. For a big man, he looked utterly dwarfed by the mighty warrior of Chaos. His broadsword swung in a vicious circle, looking to slice deep into the Chosen’s greaves. With a roar of contempt, Jhar’zadris swung his warhammer like a pendulum. It connected heavily with Dieter’s broadsword, shivering the metal and knocking the knight to his knees.

Annika leapt forward, holding the icon aloft, directing its holy light towards the warrior.

‘By Sigmar!’ she cried, her voice breaking, directing her last ounce of faith towards the creature in an effort to drain its overbearing power.

With a snarl of hatred, Jhar’zadris extended his left hand towards Annika. The gauntlet made a crushing movement. Annika immediately felt the grip of malign force over the icon. It began to melt in her hand, burning the flesh. She let slip a tortured scream. The icon’s flame guttered, and the silver began to disintegrate. She fed it more power, willing the burning faith in her soul to rekindle the icon’s power. But it was no good. The malice of the Chosen was infinite. With a cry of pain, she hurled the molten device away. Her hand smoked from the heat, the flesh cauterised and peeling.

‘Your faith in the boy-god is exposed,’ crowed the Chosen, brandishing the warhammer menacingly. ‘When will you learn to worship a power worthy of the name?’

He swung the hammer through the air, aiming for Annika’s head. A blast of fire shot from behind her, knocking the weapon from his grasp. Annika looked around with a sudden, wild hope.

Alexander stood beside her, his staff flaming. He looked terrible, and his skin was marked with streaks of dark stains. But he still stood defiantly. In a shaky voice, he summoned fresh power. Bolts of flame streaked towards the Chosen, knocking him backwards.

Jhar’zadris bellowed with frustration, driven from his prey by the hail of magic. Staggering from the impact, he somehow retrieved his warhammer and came forward once more.

Dieter limped over to Annika and Alexander. He lifted his sword a final time, though it looked like he could barely raise it. Annika took her short sword in her left hand, letting her burned and mangled palm dangle uselessly by her side. Alexander kept the bolts of fire coming, but they were beginning to diminish in power and number. The knights around them were being driven back by the huge Chaos warriors. The end would surely come soon.

The trio stood together, waiting for the inevitable advance. Jhar’zadris, flames streaming harmlessly from his armour, began to lumber into a run. The warhammer swung. Annika took a deep breath. This would be their last stand.

Then a clap of awesome power resounded across the battlefield. The sky lit from horizon to horizon with sudden light. All warriors, from the mightiest to the weakest, paused in the struggle to gaze into the heavens. A roaring wind swept across them. The duel of the mages had been completed.

Artheris screamed towards the Lord of Change, the air tearing past her as she plummeted. Her spear shone with the fire of Asuryan, clear and pure as diamonds. Her golden robes, wreathed with the crackling energy of her last spell, blazed with a powerful illumination of their own. Lost in her own titanic spells, she had become a living dimension of magic, her elvenhood drowned in a surging tide of mystical power.

The Lord of Change rose to the challenge, its staff streaming with corrupted light. It rose from the earth to meet her, its vast wings flapping lazily. Its beak opened wide, and a stream of hate and bile assailed her. The winds of magic were whipped up into a tempest, whirling and roaring with an elemental might.

The two forces came together, and colours exploded in all directions. Artheris plunged the spear towards the daemon’s heart. The Lord of Change blocked it with its staff, and sent rainbows of sapphire and emerald spinning towards her. She smashed them with the spear, replacing its warped spectrum with blinding white illumination. Wherever it raised up corruption, she smote it. Wherever she sent forth her power, it thwarted it. They circled around each other, unleashing wave after wave of magic.

Artheris’s hate grew with every blow of the spear. She knew the danger. Soon she would lose herself entirely. Even as her anger lent her strength, it sapped her soul like warpstone. She was becoming a creature of madness, a force of nature, locked into a magical state from which there could be no escape.

She cried spells aloud, no longer recognising her words. If she was ordained to die, her soul was content. The only goal was the destruction of the creature before her.

But the Lord of Change was strong, as strong as the bones of the world. It screamed its defiance, marshalling the vast forces of sorcery with a dreadful potency. Purple-tinged gales pushed Artheris back. Livid orange streaks whipped across her face. Wailing amethyst spectres dragged her down, biting at her neck and shoulders. It was as if the realm of Chaos had been dragged into reality. They fought both within the world of mortals and in the boiling domain of magic.

Artheris beat its attacks off furiously, swinging the shining spear with abandon. Points of light like diamonds showered from its tip, swarming at the daemon with deadly intent. They burst into life when they touched its sorcerous hide, cracking the scales and leaking a painful blaze of blinding light.

The Lord of Change lurched downwards, plagued by the biting, burning beads of magic. It took its staff in both hands and barked a single spell. A sheet of amber flame covered its entire body, immolating it in a wall of Chaotic fire. The diamonds dissolved, falling to earth as smoking embers.

The daemon directed the fire at Artheris. The amber energy swept towards her, tearing through the air, leaving a trail of thick poisonous smoke behind. She was engulfed, saturated in flame, covered in suffocating, choking fire. At last, she began to feel her powers ebb. She fought back desperately, fighting off the streaks of fire and magic, heedless of the lashing pain coursing through her body. The spear-tip flashed, slicing through the clouds of dark sorcery, rending it into tattered curtains of malign force.

At last, the flames were banished. With a howl of effort, feeling her self begin to slip away, Artheris flung the last of the clinging tongues of amber fire to earth. She raised her spear with effort. Its blade still shone with a vivid glow, but its blazing light had been dimmed.

Triumphantly, the Lord of Change rose up to confront her. Its own staff roared with sorcery, a cacophony of warped and mutating colours. It stretched its arms towards her, the fingers of its left hand clutching at her. Artheris beat it off, swiping desperately with the spear.

Her efforts were futile. Sensing victory, the Lord of Change dragged her into a bizarre embrace. It folded its arms around her struggling body, enclosing her in a cocoon of nauseating, draining magic. The spear fell to the earth, slipping from her exhausted hands.

Artheris felt her awareness begin to slip away. Dark magic crept beneath her wards of protection. A deadly weariness assailed her. The gleaming eyes of the daemon filled her vision. The beak opened with a smile of malice. The stench was overpowering, and her remaining vision blurred.

Broken, exhausted, Artheris resisted only weakly. The daemon folded her gently to its breast. She dimly felt her self begin to drain into its. With a final lurch of regret, her fragile awareness saw her soul wrenched from her body and pass into the feathered chest of the Lord of Change. Then she knew no more, and her body plunged downwards, drifting in the wind like ashes from a fire.

Morgil felt a sudden sense of loss. He looked up into the sky. With horror, he saw the Lord of Change hanging alone in the heavens. There was no sign of Artheris. The daemon let out a howl of triumph, and its vast wings stretched out over the battlefield. Its staff shimmered with vivid colour, and its flesh crawled with ever-changing hues. It was magnificent, terrible, awesome.

Despite all his training, all his long experience, Morgil felt hope ebb from him. The daemon would kill them all. None could hope to stand against such a monster. He let his axe fall by his side, stunned for a moment into hopelessness. The hosts of Chaos shouted with fresh vigour.

The daemon swooped to earth, landing heavily beside the crater where it had been summoned. It looked over the entire scene, its bird-like face lit with a self-satisfied malignance. All around, men and elves were breaking into retreat. Morgil waited for the onslaught. He would not run. To die facing such a foe was no dishonour.

But then, something happened. Instead of raising its staff, the daemon let it slip from his grasp. It bent nearly double, clutching its scrawny chest, scratching at the scaled surface. It rose into the air again, frantically flapping its huge many-coloured wings as if trying to escape some awful pain within itself. The dreadful eyes stared wildly. Gouts of crystal flame began to shoot from its body, blasting apart the glinting daemonic hide.

Its chest rippled and heaved. Something was trying to burst out from within. It opened its mouth wide, and a vast lolling tongue curled hopelessly into the night. Even Morgil could sense the raw magic leaking from its growing wounds. It was spilling into the world like water. The daemon writhed in agony. Its flight became erratic, and it fell earthwards once more. A strangled wail of pure anguish cut through the tumult of battle, echoing eerily from the hillside around.

The Lord of Change shuddered, and its limbs jerked wildly. Its chest burst open, and streams of pure magic sprung out, flickering, spitting and curling. The daemon raised its arms as if in supplication, its ravaged body rigid in a paroxysm of agony. For a few, heart-stopping moments, it remained rigid, straining every diabolical sinew against the force emerging from within.

Then came a cracking boom. The Lord of Change was ripped apart, its body blasted away like chaff in the wind. A blaze of blinding light lit the battlefield from hillside to hillside. A roaring wind followed, howling from where the creature of Tzeentch had hovered, knocking aside any who were in its path. The earth reeled, and fire surged from the cracked edges of the crater once more. An unearthly howl swirled around, gradually dying away into a lingering whine. The wind subsided. Only the night remained.

In the very centre of the inferno, the heart of where the storm had been, a light still hovered. Morgil gazed up at it, his breath shallow and heart pumping. Gradually, gracefully, the light transformed into a pearlescent orb. It glinted gently in the moonlight, and floated to the ground.

Morgil raced over to where it was landing, heedless of those around him, watching in wonder as the sphere continued to grow. Its surface was soft and diffuse. There was something enclosed within. As it gently came to rest on the pitted battlefield, Morgil came to meet it. Drawn by the same sense, Swordmasters had come too, surrounding the magical orb and defending it with a desperate ferocity. The pearly essence flickered and drifted into nothingness. Artheris lay within, looking as transparent and frail as an infant. Her robes were of purest white once more. She lifted her head weakly. When she saw Morgil, a faint smile broke across her delicate features.

‘White Lion,’ she said, with pleasure.

Morgil raced to her side, cradling her ethereal form in his arms. She felt as light as air.

‘You have banished the daemon,’ he said, gazing at her in wonder.

Artheris nodded.

‘The greater evil is gone,’ she whispered. ‘Tell the others to finish the task. There is much to do. Chaos must not have its victory this day.’

Morgil looked up. In the east, the horizon was turning grey. The faintest sliver of sunrise marked the distant peaks.

Dawn had come again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Alexander looked over the smoking battlefield. Dieter and Annika were with him, though the knight was barely conscious. The sun was high in the sky, and the last of the braziers had been extinguished. Blackened metal husks littered the landscape. Bodies lay in piles in every direction. The great crater over the altar chamber now looked cold, mournful and grey.

Sporadic fighting still raged on the lower slopes of the hillsides around. However, with the destruction of the Lord of Change, the heart had gone out of the Chaos forces. Against all hope, the Chosen and his warriors had withdrawn. The Swordmasters had been brutally efficient and still fought tirelessly. The Reiksguard knights had been similarly doughty. Despite all that, Alexander still couldn’t shake a feeling of dread. The Chosen had been unmatched on the field. It was not in the nature of a Chaos champion to retreat. What did it mean? Once again, Alexander was reminded of the reputation of Tzeentch. After so much bloodshed, such a dearly-fought victory, were they all being manipulated?

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. Surely not. The banishment of the Lord of Change was a great victory. That explained the Chosen’s withdrawal. The champion had seen that the tide of battle had turned. And yet, the ease with which the monster had bested them all, had flung them aside like dolls, nagged at the wizard. Alexander found the last contemptuous glance from the monster’s ruined, warped visor etched on his memory. Though the idea filled him with horror, he felt sure he would see it again. In the grey morning air, he shivered slightly.

Alexander looked back over the valley. A horseman was approaching. It was the Reiksguard commander. With Artheris’s removal from the battle, Stern had assumed command of the allied forces, and had been riding hard all morning to keep the exhausted army together and order the remaining tasks. Now he came towards Alexander. The Bright wizard rose to greet him painfully. His body felt prematurely aged, and he had a bad feeling the effects of that dark elf sorcerer would last for some time. Annika and Dieter did likewise. Stern dismounted and walked up to them. He saluted wearily, and motioned for them to sit.

‘Greetings,’ Stern said. ‘We didn’t expect to find any Imperial forces here. My men told me you fought well.’

Alexander grimaced. The battle had been a wretched slaughter, and he could take no pride in it. Annika nodded politely to the commander.

‘Your arrival was lucky, captain,’ she said. ‘How did you know where to come?’

Stern smiled wryly.

‘We didn’t,’ he said. ‘Or at least I didn’t. We were led by one of the elven kind. She sensed the monster, and brought us here.’

He looked across the scene of ruination thoughtfully.

‘And there is the providence of Sigmar, of course,’ he added. ‘We have been blessed.’

He turned back to the group.

‘But I didn’t ride to find you to pass the time of day,’ Stern said. ‘The commander of the Chaos army has escaped. I’m told you fought him. There’s no sign of him or his retinue. Though the men are tired, we must find him.’

Dieter looked to the ground, ashamed. Annika nodded.

‘Yes, we fought him,’ she said, though without much conviction. ‘All three of us were not enough to even wound him. We were staring at death when the daemon was destroyed. The light blinded all of us. When my senses returned, he was gone.’

Stern nodded sagely.

‘So it is with the corrupted. They have no stomach for the fight once their sorcery is dismissed. In the face of honest steel and faith, there is no answer.’

Alexander snorted derisively.

‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked. ‘This was a Chosen of Tzeentch, a master of fates. Even with the daemon gone, he could still have rallied his army. He was a foe beyond any of us, perhaps even the elves.’

Stern looked at him sceptically.

‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘But I can only report what I see. I shall tell Lord Heinrich that the foe has been driven into the wilds. When we can, a pursuit will be arranged. Once all is done, we’ll ride north. Heinrich’s lands are not far.’

‘We know,’ said Alexander, dryly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be glad of the reinforcements. He’s a welcoming sort.’

Stern ignored the sarcasm, and looked back along the hillside. His gaze rested on a man standing alone some distance away. He was resting on his sword grip, staring passively out at the horizon.

‘Who’s that?’ he said. ‘One of Heinrich’s men?’

Annika shook her head.

‘His name’s Schulmann,’ she said. ‘I’d leave him alone for the moment. He owes allegiance neither to Heinrich nor to us. I’m guessing he has a few decisions to make.’

Stern looked at her doubtfully, but did not protest. There was too much else to do to worry about a single warrior.

‘Very well,’ the commander said. ‘I’ll summon you when we’re due to ride.’

He saluted and returned to his horse. Alexander watched him leave dispassionately.

‘What do you plan to do now?’ the wizard asked Annika.

‘I’ll travel to Castle Heinrich with the army,’ she said, glancing at Dieter’s slumped body. The knight made no response. His pale face spoke of exhaustion and failure. ‘As will he. This is only the start of it. More invaders will come, and we need to be ready. Surely Heinrich will listen to us over Grauenburg now. He has to.’

Alexander shrugged.

‘Maybe. In any case, I should come with you. There’s no point in my heading back to Altdorf now. I’d only be assigned somewhere else on the front. Now that the war is upon us, I should perhaps try and live up to the Griffon badge I wear.’

Annika smiled wanly.

‘You’ve done that, Bright wizard.’

Alexander looked at his hands. They were scored with fresh wounds. He didn’t feel victorious.

‘Don’t flatter me,’ he said sourly. ‘We’ve only just begun.’

The wizard sighed, and gazed grimly over the battlefield once more.

‘Of course, what I really want to know is where that elf ended up,’ he said dryly. ‘I miss his sense of humour.’

Morgil sat in the low chair, feeling his body slowly recover its strength. Weak sunlight lit the walls of the tent. On her low bed, Artheris stirred fitfully. After a few moments, her eyes flickered open. With effort, she raised her head.

‘Morgil,’ she said, her voice unsteady.

The White Lion rose and knelt by her.

‘My lady,’ he said quietly, placing his hand on hers. ‘You need to rest. Please do not move.’

Artheris looked around the tent, seemingly confused. Then, as if her memory was returning, her face contorted with pain. Wincing, she let her head fall back.

‘I remember it now,’ she said, slowly. ‘My slumber has been deep, but not enough to forget.’

Morgil gazed down at her, brow furrowed with concern.

‘We do not have to speak of it,’ he said.

Artheris smiled weakly through her pain. A faint colour had returned to her cheeks, but she still looked fragile. Her hand was as light as air in his.

‘I will not,’ she said. ‘Suffice it to say that the Lord of Change succumbed to his own sorcery. He looked to absorb a force he could not contain. As I have ever found, the appearance of weakness is a powerful tool.’

She looked up at him.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asked.

Morgil nodded.

‘I did what I had to,’ he said flatly. ‘It brought no pleasure. I should have heeded your words.’

Artheris raised an eyebrow.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But you will always go your own way. Your spirit is wayward, and it is Asuryan’s gift to you. You cannot change, any more than I can.’

Morgil bowed his head. If he had ever been proud of his fiery nature, he was no longer.

‘When you’re stronger, we need to speak,’ he said. ‘The druchii assassin said things which have been preying on my mind. You should hear her words.’

Artheris nodded, but her eyelids were drooping. She was drifting back into sleep.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘We’ll discuss these things when we may. But now, take some consolation in this victory. It was not certain. In such things we may find hope.’

As she uttered the final words, she slipped smoothly into sleep once more. Morgil placed her hand lightly on the coverlet and withdrew to his chair once more. Hope was far from his mind. He gazed up at the pale fabric of the tent, hoping to find some solace in the archmage’s speech. None came. Instead, the image of burning fields returned to his mind’s eye. He saw ranks of dark warriors, marching across Chrace, bringing ruin in their wake. A bloodied mouth, laughing with scorn even in death, mocked him.

Morgil screwed his eyes shut, willing the visions to disappear. But they remained, persistent, dark and troubling.

Jhar’zadris stood on the ridge, watching the columns of smoke rise from the valley beyond. His armour was black. All life had left it, and he looked like a massive statue of adamant. Beside him, Lord Grauenburg stood looking at the same thing. Below them, the surviving Chaos warriors stood silently, waiting for fresh orders. For a long time, neither Grauenburg nor the Chosen spoke. Eventually, the lord sighed regretfully.

‘The elf witch was not foreseen,’ he said, sourly. ‘There are few in all the world who could have done what she did.’

Jhar’zadris regarded the human coldly.

‘Not foreseen by you, maybe,’ Jhar’zadris said, his voice rasping through his warped visor. ‘My master sees all things. The future is not closed to him as it is to us.’

Grauenburg gave him a scornful look.

‘Are you saying this was ordained?’ he sneered. ‘I didn’t expect excuses from you. Our plans lie in tatters. We’re both in danger.’

Jhar’zadris found himself tiring of the human’s insolence. The Chosen had killed subordinates for less. Only his explicit orders prevented him from slamming the warhammer into Grauenburg’s back. For some reason, Tchar’zanek wanted him alive.

‘Have more faith,’ Jhar’zadris said curtly. ‘It is the will of our master that I survive. The important task is that of the Raven Host. I am here, within the Empire. The foolish among our enemies will presume me dead. This is of far greater importance than the summoning of daemons. When all is accomplished, the entire Old World will be a haunt of Chaos, and Lords of Change will roost in every temple in the realm.’

Grauenburg looked at him suspiciously.

‘What’s more important than destroying Heinrich?’ he asked.

Jhar’zadris hissed with frustration.

‘Do not question me, mortal!’ he said. ‘My task is clear, and for me to know. I’ll stay here, hidden and under your protection. None must know of my presence. The time will come when I shall emerge again, but only when I receive the sign. In the meantime, you have angered your neighbours. What will you do?’

Grauenburg clapped his hands together. From below, where the Chaos warriors stood, two men in his livery pulled something up the ridge towards them.

‘I can’t hide for much longer,’ said the lord. ‘The Sigmarites suspect me, and my cabals have been uncovered. But even now they will be slow to accept I have turned.’

The two soldiers dragged a limp and battered body towards them. Their victim showed signs of torture, and his limbs were twisted and broken. Shallow, wretched gasps came from his throat. He was alive, but only barely. They threw him down on to the thin grass. He crawled painfully towards Grauenburg. What remained of his hands were raised in supplication.

Jhar’zadris looked down at him distastefully.

‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘Why doesn’t he speak?’

Grauenburg looked down at the trembling figure scornfully.

‘His name is Rachsdorf. He once worked for me. His tongue has been extracted. We can’t have him telling secrets to my esteemed peer Heinrich.’

The wretched man managed to lift himself on to his broken elbows, mewling weakly. Grauenburg gave Rachsdorf a sharp kick. The ruined sorcerer recoiled in agony, weeping brokenly.

‘He failed me,’ said Grauenburg simply. ‘Twice. Yet he may still play some role in all of this. He will be sent to Castle Heinrich in chains. I’ll tell Heinrich that I destroyed his cultist army, and lend him some of my uncorrupted troops as a gesture of goodwill. By handing Rachsdorf over for judgement, and blaming him for all that has happened, I will appear to be the loyal friend he supposes me to be. The charade won’t serve for long, but it’ll put doubt in his mind. That’s all we need. Tchar’zanek’s advance is nigh, and then the need for secrecy will disappear.’

Jhar’zadris shrugged.

‘As long as attention is diverted from me, you’re master of your own destiny.’

The warriors came forward once more, and dragged the unfortunate Rachsdorf back down the ridge. His wails echoed weakly as he went.

Jhar’zadris took up his warhammer.

‘We should go,’ he said. ‘Much as I would like to spill more mortal blood, there is work to do before Tchar’zanek arrives.’

‘It will not be long now,’ said Grauenburg. ‘The tide has turned, and the elves know it. The gathering storm has broken, and it will soon cover the lands in darkness. Whether victory comes in weeks, in months, or in years, it will come. The elder races are failing, and the younger ones are weak. We must merely be patient.’

Jhar’zadris scowled.

‘My patience will not last for ever,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve tasted blood, and the thirst will only grow.’

‘Your thirst will be sated,’ said Grauenburg, gazing with ill-concealed lust towards the valley where the Imperial survivors were making their preparations to march north. ‘They have no idea of the horror which awaits them. This is only a prelude. They will pray for death before it finds them. And then you and I will take our rightful places. Gods amongst men, ruling over a realm of sorcery and majesty. May it come quickly.’

Jhar’zadris looked over the hills to the south. The land itself looked tired, riven by plague and war. Grauenburg was right. Soon this whole place would be aflame.

‘Gods amongst men,’ the Chosen said, letting his warped tongue curl around the words, liking the feel of them. ‘So it shall be.’

The two figures, one mortal, one immortal, strode down the ridge towards the waiting warriors. In the west, the Chaos moon Morrslieb finally dipped below the horizon, freeing the world of its malignant aura. With its departure, the morning sky regained something of its normal lustre. But it was only temporary. The moon would rise again, just as the endless forces of Chaos could only ever be deferred, never defeated.

This time, the respite would only be fleeting. Tchar’zanek was near. The war had only just begun.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Wraight is a writer of fantasy and science fiction, whose first novel was published in 2008. Since then, he’s published books set in the Warhammer Fantasy, Warhammer 40K and Stargate: Atlantis universes. He doesn’t own a cat, dog, or augmented hamster (which technically disqualifies him from writing for Black Library), but would quite like to own a tortoise one day. He’s based in a leafy bit of south-west England, and when not struggling to meet deadlines enjoys running through scenic parts of it.

Read more about his upcoming projects at www.chriswraight.wordpress.com

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2009 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Andrea Uderzo.

Map by Nuala Kinrade.

© Games Workshop Limited 2009, 2011. All rights reserved.

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ISBN 978-0-85787-348-4

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