Masters of Magic Read online

  Schwarzhelm gave her a warning frown, but he looked amused.

  “Maybe,” he said, his deep voice rumbling under the covers. “It is damned odd, all the same. If you’d followed orders and stayed at the rear, none of it would have happened.”

  It was Katerina’s turn to look serious. The memory of Ambrosius, flailing around in his death agony, came to mind again. She gave an involuntary shudder, and pulled the blanket tight up to her neck.

  “Perhaps it was foolish,” she said, “but it’s hard to stay away from the action. The apparition was very powerful, as was the spell used by the shaman to drag it into being. When I think about what that Grey wizard must have done to defeat it, I’m at a loss. To be honest, I thought he was just a boy when I first saw him. I was amazed when Kalliston let him lead the raid, but he did it. I’d never have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  She lay back against the bed, remembering the final charge down the hill, her head bandaged and aching. Schwarzhelm had revived her after riding hard to her rescue, and it had turned out her head wound was not as grave as it first appeared. By then, even he could see that some enormous magical forces were being unleashed, and the whole battlefield was in disarray. The knights had rallied, and she had been given a hasty bandage and a fresh mount, and told to get clear of danger. Then came the explosion, the furious discharge of magic, and it felt as if the Earth was being knocked off its axis. The knights had ridden towards the disturbance, passing almost unopposed through the suddenly confused masses of orcs. Disregarding everything she had been told, she had gone with them. The greenskins seemed suddenly weak and directionless. Lothar had looked half dead when she had found him, his hands and face burned horribly by the fire, but his heart still beat. Whatever he had done to kill the shaman, he had survived it.

  “My impressions of him were as poor as yours, to start with,” said Schwarzhelm, thoughtfully, “but I’d like to see him when he’s recovered. He was brave, that lad. After the shaman was killed, the fight seemed to go out of the greenskins. He was right, that monster was the key to it all. Did he speak to you much, on the way back?”

  Katerina shook her head.

  “While you were organising the remaining fighting, driving the orcs back into the woods, he hardly spoke to me. I’m no healer, but I could help with some of his pain. Even when we started the journey home, he barely uttered a word. He’s been horribly wounded, of course, but even so. It seemed as if he was somehow ashamed. I told him that he was a hero, the slayer of the shaman, and he should be proud. That seemed to make it worse. He’s been taken in by his college, and I haven’t seen him since.”

  Schwarzhelm shrugged.

  “War affects men in different ways,” he said. “He did well, though, not like that ragged beggar who deserted the night before the battle. You know, the smelly one with the beard.”

  Katerina looked thoughtful.

  “The Amber wizard? I didn’t meet him, but I knew the castellan had come to the camp with two wizards in tow. Strange, that he should disappear like that. You know, I think Kalliston was terrified of him for some reason. I wouldn’t like to guess what was going on there. Some things are best left uncovered.”

  Schwarzhelm snorted derisively.

  “Well, if I ever see him again, he’s for the scaffold,” he said dismissively. “I don’t care how powerful or valuable he might be, a deserter is still a deserter.”

  He shifted awkwardly against the sheets, his body laced with wounds.

  “Anyway,” he said, “that’s in the past. What are you going to do now? You’re quite the heroine, as I’m sure you know.”

  Katerina smiled sweetly, always enjoying a compliment.

  “Of course I am,” she said, “and I intend to make the most of it, but enough of this talk. Why did we come up here in the first place? Ah, I remember now.”

  She gave Schwarzhelm a wicked grin, and took his flagon quietly from his hand.

  “Well, if you insist,” said the Emperor’s Champion, smiling beneath his grey-flecked beard. “At any rate, that knock on the head certainly doesn’t seem to have affected your enthusiasm.”

  They reached for one another once again, and within a few moments all talk of wizardry was forgotten.

  The Jolly Ploughman alehouse nestled between two grime-splattered houses of ill repute, in a rundown, decrepit part of the city. How it had acquired its excessively cheerful name was a mystery, its few patrons being neither jolly nor agricultural. For the most part they looked pale, tired and diseased, just like most of the poorer inhabitants of the Imperial capital. The building suited them. The cheap stools and tables in the main room were flimsy and stained with use, while the uneven floor was strewn with old, mouldering straw. The stench of stale beer sat heavily in the air, as well as unsavoury aromas more hard to place. It had a slumped, weary air, just like the listless figures sitting in the darkness of tallow candles, cradling their drinks as if they were sick children.

  Balthasar Gelt brooded as he sat in a cramped side room. His golden fingers drummed absently on the cracked tabletop, his tasteless glass of cheap wine untouched. He was robed and hooded, but this was not nearly enough to conceal his unusual features. The innkeeper had visibly trembled when serving him. Around the dark room, the few other drinkers kept to themselves. A sour aroma of beer and sweat pervaded the place.

  After a few moments of waiting, another figure entered the inn. He was slightly built, and wore a long leather coat. Catching sight of the wizard, he came over to the table and sat opposite him.

  “I suppose you’re going to explain why we should meet at this Sigmar-forsaken hole?” rasped Gelt crossly in a low voice. “It’s not as if I don’t attract attention even in more exalted circles.”

  The stranger bowed in apology.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but my sort isn’t usually welcome inside colleges, even by invitation, and I’d like to keep my face out of the way. I’m sure you understand. I often use this place. I have an understanding with the owner, who’s very discreet.”

  Gelt sighed irritably.

  “He’d better be,” he snapped. “It’s bad enough you asking for a meeting in the first place. Do you realise how busy I am? This had better be worth my while.”

  The weasel-faced man bowed again.

  “I understand, Supreme Patriarch,” he said smoothly. “I’m grateful that you came, and I appreciate your position. It won’t take long, but I wanted to give you the information personally. It’s a delicate business, after all.”

  He looked around casually, but they were out of earshot of the few gloomy-looking souls lingering in the shadows.

  “I know about your little feud with the Amethyst College,” the man said, “and I know why you’re worried about them. My people are too. I was close to catching one of Klaus’ agents at work. Regrettably, she proved a slippery quarry, and she’s currently very well protected. Right now, we can’t touch her, but I’m sure that will change with time. Lust is such a fickle thing, don’t you think?”

  His thin smile made Gelt feel nauseous.

  “You mean the Lautermann woman,” he said distastefully. “I know of her. She would die for Klaus, of course. He rescued her from a life of poverty and disgrace, but what of it?”

  “If you wish to catch the spider, first examine his web. A reliable source told me she was involved in necromancy and witchcraft. I would very much like to speak to her. I’m sure the two of us would have much of interest to discuss.”

  Gelt gave him a look of contempt, hidden, as ever, under his serene gold mask.

  “No doubt,” he said. “I’m sure you have your reasons, but why are you telling me this?”

  The man smiled again.

  “I could be wrong, Supreme Patriarch,” he said carefully, “but it seems to me that our interests in this matter coincide rather nicely. Klaus is powerful. His protégée has returned to Altdorf at the head of a heroic army. What’s more, she’s hanging around with the Em
peror’s most trusted commander. For the first time I can remember, people are saying nice things about Amethyst wizards: unusual, and unnerving. By contrast, your senior wizard was killed. There are whispers going around that the Gold College is not what it used to be. Things appear to have slipped. It doesn’t look that good.”

  The thin-faced man leaned forwards. His eyes were pools of darkness in the gloom.

  “I need to go after Klaus, Supreme Patriarch,” he said. “You need to bring him down a notch or two. Lautermann is the first step along the road. With things so delicately poised, it’s always good for friends to stick together, is it not?”

  “You’re no friend of mine,” said Gelt with a sneer.

  The stranger shrugged.

  “As you wish,” he said, “but think on my offer. I’ll continue my quest to rid this city of the taint of corruption. It would be easier to have you on my side. No one need ever know, not even your colleagues in the Gold College. Believe me, my organisation is very good at keeping secrets.”

  Gelt gave a snort, pushed his untouched wine away and stood up.

  “I know you are,” he said, his voice rasping even more than usual. “It’s not something necessarily to be proud of. I’ll ponder what you say. When I’ve made up my mind, I’ll get a message to you. Until then, stay out of my way. Your presence sickens me.”

  With a rustle of his long, rich cloak, Gelt strode out of the inn and into the night. After his departure, the innkeeper standing at the bar gave an audible sigh of relief.

  Ernst von Huppelstadt turned back to the table, helping himself to the wine. The meeting had gone about as well as he could have expected. His features were cool and impassive. Deep within, however, the fire of his humiliation still burned, gnawing away at him. Dealing with wizards of any sort was a trial, but it was necessary. He would go to any lengths to see that witch burn at the stake. If that meant dealing with a bastard like Gelt, then so be it.

  He drank deeply, feeling the thin liquid warm his stomach. He had time, and plenty of it. The zeal of the witch hunter never died and never tired. Sooner or later he would meet her again. His lips pursed slightly at the thought. He could wait.

  The breeze outside the open window was cool. Lothar let the night air waft across his face. He lay in a long, low bed, the burns on his arms and body swathed in white dressings. The day before, attendants had removed the linen bandages from his face. He had no mirror in his room, but he could feel the charred flesh of his cheeks with his fingers if he wanted to. When the fiery scars healed, he knew he would be left disfigured forever. It would be his mark, the sign of failure.

  He looked dispassionately out over the inner courtyard of the Grey College. The wide lawns, surrounded by arched stone cloisters, glowed darkly under the moonlight. Paved pathways crisscrossed the clipped grass. Their ancient stones were rimmed with moss, and crusted with pale lichen. The narrow windows high in the walls were empty and black. The sound of running water from the fountain in the centre of the courtyard was soothing, but empty. The whole place looked forsaken, as if men had departed years ago and had never come back. But it was not entirely without life, and even in the dark, a few ravens hopped lazily around the edges of the lawn. They were always there. If all the Grey wizards were driven away, all their accomplishments forgotten, he had no doubt that there would still be ravens in the place, keeping watch over the crumbling buildings with their shining eyes. He sighed deeply. For a moment, he found himself envying their simple, untroubled lives. They stared back at him, their long black beaks glinting in the starlight.

  From the corridor outside the room there came a low knock. Lothar knew who it was.

  “Come,” he said, his voice reduced to a dry croak.

  The door swung open and the master of the Grey College entered soundlessly. His long, white beard seemed to shimmer in the dim light. He closed the door quietly and pulled a wooden chair up to Lothar’s bed.

  “It’s late, but I thought you’d be awake,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  Lothar gave a wry grin.

  “Not as bad as yesterday, and twice as good as the day before,” he said. “So I suppose that’s progress.”

  “Good,” said Master Starke, casting his ancient eyes over the livid welts on Lothar’s cheek. “You’re young and strong. When they first brought you here, I confess I worried that we might see the end of you, but you never stopped fighting. That’s good. I’d hate to lose you too, like I lost Helmut.”

  At the mention of his old master, sharp tears sprang to Lothar’s eyes. In his weakened state, his grief occasionally got the better of him. Turning his face towards the window, he blinked away the evidence of his sorrow.

  “Maybe it would have been better if I had followed him,” he said, bitterly.

  Starke sighed.

  “You may think so now. Things will seem different in time. At any rate, there are many in the Empire who will be glad to know you’re set for recovery. I have a long list of names in my chamber, all of whom want to pay their respects, some very important people. You’ve done a great thing, Lothar. The incursion has been turned back, and the remaining orcs have been chased back to the mountains. Without you, who knows what ruin that shaman would have accomplished? From what I gather, he was a stronger spellcaster than many of us have faced before. Such monsters only appear once in a generation. It was a mighty deed, to slay him.”

  Lothar felt sick. What could he say? That it hadn’t been him? But then he would have to explain where Marius’ body was, and if they started sniffing around, what then? He was already tainted by the rumour of Chaos. If anyone found out that Marius had turned too, had harnessed the power of the Dark Gods to defeat the shaman, what consequences would that have? Maybe Marius had indeed died. It was easier to imagine that he had, but the ways of Dark Magic were strange. At times, during his fevered dreams, he still saw him, laughing in the shadows, beckoning him onwards, inviting him to join him. Just dreams, but they were vivid, more vivid than any others. Damn them, they had no right to even ask what had happened. It was his business, his memory to live with.

  So he didn’t correct the master, but merely sighed, and nodded his head in tacit agreement. All those who knew Marius had returned were dead, save him. The knowledge would stay secret, unless the time became right to reveal it.

  “May I ask a question, master?” he said, feeling that an exhausted sleep was creeping up on him again, and wanting to change the subject.

  “Of course.”

  “When I arrived at Schwarzhelm’s camp, the Gold wizard Ambrosius Kalliston gave me a new staff. He said it came from you. I still have it. It was Malgar’s old one, retrieved from the battle after he turned traitor. Why did you send it?”

  Starke smiled.

  “A good question,” he said. “I wasn’t even sure myself. Call it a hunch. When news of the invasion came to me, I couldn’t be certain that you were even alive. But if you were, whether or not Helmut was with you, I knew the task would be a difficult and dangerous one. I felt it right that you should inherit Malgar’s old staff after so long. It was well made, and has a noble history, despite its owner’s fall from grace. To turn the weapon of a traitor into an instrument of valour has a nice irony, to my mind. I thought that, if it found its way to you, it might prove useful. Take it as a token of your maturity.”

  Lothar lay silently, digesting the words slowly. He remembered how easily the magic had come to him on the battlefield, how quickly the Wind of Ulgu seemed to flow around the dark wood.

  “Is there anything special about it?” he asked.

  Starke frowned.

  “Not that I know of; it is old, and has a long heritage. Other wizards wielded it before Malgar, but a mage’s power is within him, not in the tools he uses. If you’re interested, there are loremasters in the college who may know more.”

  Lothar nodded, feeling uneasy despite the master’s words. There was something odd about the staff, although nothing tangible enough to put into
words. In any case, he felt the pull of sleep begin to drag at him. His body was still weak, and the pain of his searing burns would not leave him. Starke looked at him with some concern.

  “Lothar,” he said, his face grave, “after all that’s happened, you’re no longer an acolyte. You’ve earned your place alongside the other mages of the college. If you fulfil your potential, I believe you’ll be as formidable as any Grey wizard has ever been, but a long road lies ahead of you. I’d like to keep you here for a while, away from the dangers of the world. Time will heal, and perhaps help you to appreciate the great good you’ve done.”

  Involuntarily, Lothar winced.

  “With respect, master,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the hard bed, “Altdorf is the last place I want to be. I’ll go where I’m ordered, of course, but if there’s anything for me to do elsewhere, somewhere far away, the further the better, I’d prefer that. I can’t say why exactly, but the thought of staying here for longer than I need to fills me with horror.”

  Starke frowned slightly.

  “You’re still young, Lothar. There are people here who can help you recover, teach you new things.”

  Lothar nodded resignedly.

  “I know, and if you command me to, I’ll stay. But if I had a say in it, I’d leave as soon as I could walk. I know it sounds stupid, but if I remain here for long, with all the people who want to see me and give me advice and congratulate me, I think I’ll go mad. A tour of duty somewhere else would suit me fine. Anywhere I can make myself useful, I don’t care where it is.”

  Starke gave him a hard look, as if trying to peer into his soul. His white eyebrows were knotted in concern, or disapproval, or both.