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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I see,” he said uncertainly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gelt nodded, slightly uncertainly.

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

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

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

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

  Ambrosius nodded, slightly wearily.

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

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

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

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

  Ambrosius felt his throat constrict slightly.

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

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

  CHAPTER SIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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