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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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