Masters of Magic Read online

  Marius remained unmoved, uncharacteristically reluctant to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Marius snorted with disdain.

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

  Karsten shrugged.

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

  Marius laughed coldly.

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

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

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

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

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

  Karsten gave a rueful smile.

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

  The scout looked
back at him, amazed.

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

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

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

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

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

  Marius shrugged.

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

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

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

  As he trudged, Karsten felt even his reserves of strength wane. At the end of each of the many marches, the company slept or rested fitfully in brief shifts, ever watchful for enemies. It took until the end of the following day before they arrived at Schwarzhelm’s camp, battered and aching. Lines of tents had been arranged on high ground overlooking a long, sloping area of grassland. In every direction, the few remaining trees had been felled, giving the sentries a commanding view of the area. Imperial standards, their rich tapestry showing the devices and emblems of many regiments and noblemen, rippled over the rows of canvas. As they limped towards the sentries standing guard, Karsten gave a grunt of approval.

  “There are hundreds here, many hundreds,” he murmured, looking around, “all in good order, too. This Schwarzhelm may even be as good as they say he is.”

  Neither Lothar nor Marius replied, looking as if they wished to keep their thoughts to themselves. Some food, drink and a sheltered patch of earth to sleep on would no doubt restore some life to them, but such a hope was in vain. They barely had time to find a spare plot of ground to sit on before the order came to brief the commander on their progress. Wearily, Karsten, Lothar and Marius made their way to Schwarzhelm’s tent, a large but spartan expanse of heavy canvas at the centre of the sprawling encampment. Waved through by the guards, cold eyes gazing at them impassively, they ducked under the low entrance, and entered the presence of the Emperor’s Champion.

  The commander sat on a simple seat at the end of a crude wooden table, his mammoth figure enclosed in a heavy cloak. Even without his heavy armour he was an imposing figure. His thick, grey beard rested grandly over a barrel chest. His arms, as wide and thick as most men’s thighs, rested on the wooden surface. There was a calm solidity to his presence. He seemed to be the centre, not just of the tent, but of the entire camp. Under protruding eyebrows, he watched the party enter, his pupils glittering with a silent, perceptive intelligence. He gestured for the guests to sit, and Karsten, Lothar and Marius took empty stools at the near end of the table. Cups of reasonably drinkable beer were passed to them, which seemed to be the extent of the hospitality. In the shadows, only barely illuminated by the few flickering candles in the tent, Schwarzhelm’s captains, a bunch of scarred, cold-eyed veterans, sat looking over the newcomers with a cool, professional interest.

  “Welcome,” Schwarzhelm said, his deep, heavily accented voice rumbling around the enclosed space. “My men have told me who you are, and the information you bring. You’ll be tired, so I’ll keep this brief, but the orcs are near, and we need all the tidings we can muster. Introduce yourselves, and tell us all you know of the greenskins.”

  The formalities were brief. Karsten told the tale of their encounters with the horde as quickly as he was able, banishing his exhaustion. When he had finished, Schwarzhelm fixed the newcomers with a steady, unchanging look.

  “If what you tell me is true,” he said, “you’ve achieved much. You have my thanks, and the gratitude of the Empire.”

  Karsten nodded politely, too weary to offer more acknowledgement. He stole a glance at Lothar, sitting beside him, guessing he would be the most exhausted of all. The mage was quiet, to be sure, but remained upright and alert. Karsten was beginning to have respect for his resilience, especially after the impressive spell of concealment at Grauenburg. Having been in such close proximity to wizards for an extended period, he felt as if he half understood the mixed blessing of magical ability. If it gave awesome powers with one hand, it delivered terrible penalties with the other.

  “For my part, I can let you know what has happened since your report left Helmgart,” said the Emperor’s Champion, his enormous hands resting lightly on the pommel of his sheathed sword. His vast form loomed over even Marius. “For reasons that I need not go into, there was some confusion over the response to your message, and two armies were dispatched south to meet the incursion before it got near Altdorf. The situation has been resolved, and I’m commanding both forces. Many of my own knights are here, as well as two regiments of battle-hardened troops fresh from the scouring of Arenshausen. With the addition of General Erhardt’s soldiers, several hundred drafted men and our mercenary corps, the numbers we have are as many as we could have reasonably expected. Your actions at Grauenburg have been of great value. I’ve no doubt that, were it not for you, we would have been engaged by the enemy already, certainly to our disadvantage. This very afternoon, I’ve taken possession of five artillery pieces, commandeered from the Nuln armouries. Used right, they may well turn the tide of battle. I also have the services of two battle wizards, which will come in handy against this shaman.”

  “With respect, sir,” interjected Lothar, looking extremely unsure of himself, “this shaman is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. My master, who was a battle wizard of many years’ service, was killed by it, and it destroyed the citadel at Helmgart almost by itself. I wouldn’t presume to offer you advice on the arts of war, but I believe the incursion cannot be defeated while it lives. Even after the destruction of Grauenburg, the horde is so massive that its power is all but unstoppable. Only by magic can we hope to halt the invasion.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. Schwarzhelm looked at the young wizard with disapproval. Lothar did his best to hold his ground, but his reddening cheeks gave his discomfort away.

  “You’re right, master wizard, not to lecture me on the ways of war,” said Schwarzhelm slowly, the threat evident in his voice. “I’ve had enough dealings with your kind to know of your desire to direct every aspect of the battle so it suits your peculiar talents. Never forget that you operate under the sufferance of the Emperor, and that if it were not for the honest swords of normal men, you would all have been consumed by the Dark Gods long ago.”

  Karsten could feel Marius begin to bristle, and moved quickly to dampen the situation. After coming so far, a fight with the Emperor’s Champion was the last thing they needed.

  “Indeed, sir,” he said hurriedly, “I’m sure young Auerbach meant no offence. He’s served us in the garrison with distinction at Helmgart and since. Were it not for his skills, we’d never have escaped the castle at Grauenburg. I’m sure he wished merely to be helpful.”

  Schwarzhelm looked d
arkly for a moment at the two wizards, and then nodded.

  “Very well, castellan,” he said eventually. “I’ll take your word for it, if only out of respect for the work you’ve done as a soldier. Don’t presume that I take the threat of the shaman lightly. My battle wizards are already included in my councils. The three of you will join them. In the little time we have left, we must come up with a means of defeating the horde, knowing what has failed before. The orcs have been following you, but my scouts tell me we have at least a day before they reach us here. I’ve called for a council of war at dawn to agree our tactics. I’ll expect you to attend. In the meantime, night has fallen, and you must be tired from your journey. Rest now, and be ready for the morning. I sense this will be the last chance you will have to sleep before battle is joined.”

  At that, it became obvious that the Emperor’s Champion was eager to have the tent to himself. Seeing that they were no longer required, Karsten and the other men rose, bowed and made their exit.

  “Pompous bastard,” mumbled Marius as he left the tent with Karsten and Lothar.

  “That’s the Emperor’s pompous bastard,” said Karsten wryly. “I’ll leave you here. I need to see that my men have somewhere to sleep. Then I’m going to rest. While I’m gone, try and stay out of trouble, eh?”

  Erhardt awoke from a heavy slumber into the kind of throbbing, blinding pain that only expert drunks know. Something was shaking his shoulder. With agonising slowness, the something coalesced into the form of a someone. Huppelstadt had come back. With a lurch of nausea, Erhardt willed his eyelids to peel open properly. When they did, he found he preferred it when they were closed.

  “What d’you want?” he grunted, still swimming with effort up from the depths of a wine-induced coma.

  “Your breath stinks,” said the witch hunter with distaste. “Have you no sense of shame?”