The swordsmen who had waited buried beneath the leaves were his next victims. They stabbed at him, their blades slashing through his form as if it was no more than shadow. More arrows came, a panicky flight that cut down two of the bandits even before Titus had reached them.
Eight men were already down before he even touched the first of his opponents. It was more caress than blow. The magician merely turned the man’s head so that the two were looking eye to eye.
The bandit’s mouth fell open, although it wasn’t to scream. He didn’t look particularly frightened. In fact, he didn’t look particularly anything. Every hint of emotion drained out of his face, and he swayed as his sword dropped from nerveless fingers.
It was too much for the surviving ambushers. Before Titus could turn that hellish gaze on them, they were fleeing, falling from trees like overripe apples and racing away into the trackless wastes of the forest.
Kerr watched them go, and fought back the urge to follow them. Suddenly his master didn’t seem like such a pleasant old duffer anymore. Far from it.
Kerr waited until the sound of the bandits’ retreat had faded. When it was clear that Titus had no intention of following them, he forced himself to walk over to him. Uneasy or not, fear would do him no good here.
To his relief, whatever terrible energy had possessed the magician was gone. He looked exhausted. His usually florid cheeks were pale, and shadows, as dark as those that sickled Mannslieb, lay beneath his eyes.
“They’ve all run off,” Kerr said, although only because he wanted to say something.
“That they have,” Titus nodded, and rubbed his face with two podgy hands. Kerr looked at the bandit whom the wizard had touched. The man remained standing. He was drooling, his chin glistening as he stared blankly into space.
“His hair…” Kerr began, and then stopped. He didn’t want to know. He really didn’t want to know.
Somehow he found himself asking the question anyway.
“Was his hair white before you looked at him?”
Titus shook his head.
“No. I’m going to rest. Clear the way and get going as soon as you can. I want to find a village before nightfall.”
“And what about him?” Kerr gestured towards the man. Blank faced and slack jawed, he looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Titus shrugged as if the question was of no consequence.
“Leave him. Sigmar will see to him, if he deserves it.”
Kerr swallowed.
“What about that one?” Another of the highwaymen lay writhing around the agony of the arrow that had found his stomach. “Will Sigmar see to him too?”
“No,” the wizard said, already returning to the pillows of the carriage, “the wolves will.”
Kerr shivered. Then, taking a last frightened glance at the victims, he hurried over to start rolling the tree clear of the road. The shadows were lengthening, and he had discovered a sudden reluctance to be alone with his master in the dark.
“What do you think happened to him, captain?”
Vaught turned from the living meat of the petrified man and back to his comrades. There were a dozen, their bald pates covered in identical black felt hats and their armour swaddled in riding cloaks. The horses they rode were thickset beasts, and although mud splattered, they were not winded.
Captain Vaught was too capable a campaigner to force a gallop before he needed to, especially in the midst of this tangled forest.
“I don’t know what happened to him,” Vaught shrugged, “although I’ll warrant that it’s some sort of foul sorcery.”
Although unwilling to lose any more time, the witch hunter passed his reins to a comrade and swung down out of the saddle. They had found this frozen man standing beside the road, his eyes as dead as a scarecrow’s, despite the pulse that beat within his wrist.
Vaught snapped his fingers in front of his face. Then he twisted his ear. He might as well have been trying to wake up stone.
“Do you think that it was the necromancer?” Peik asked eagerly. Vaught smiled. He had done well in his choice of apprentice. The lad had the instinctive enthusiasm of a terrier for a rat.
“It could well have been the necromancer. We are sure he was travelling this road, and there has been some sort of battle here. See the arrows that lay about? And that furrow over there? It looks like a body was dragged away. Maybe some footpads found our quarry before we did.”
“Then perhaps he is dead already.” Peik sounded disappointed.
“Perhaps, but unlikely. Why would his assailants have left one of their comrades behind if they had won?”
Peik looked at the frozen man. For the first time, he noticed the way that he swayed gently back and forth, a white haired metronome keeping time with some invisible melody.
“Maybe he was one of the necromancer’s followers.”
Vaught frowned.
“Doubtful. It is unlikely that footpads would have been able to work such magic, and I doubt whether two sorcerers would have passed this way. Magic users are like cockroaches, they prefer to skulk around cities rather than the wilderness.”
Peik seemed satisfied.
“I’m sure you’re right, captain,” he said. “I wonder what we should do with this one?”
Vaught shook his head.
“We have no time to tend to him. Perhaps when we slay the necromancer the enchantment will break.”
Peik looked at the swaying figure. Then he slapped him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he told the man, whose drooling face remained as slack as ever, “we’ll set you free.”
The witch hunters murmured approvingly, and when Vaught and his apprentice had swung themselves back into the saddle, the captain had come to a decision. He’d spared the horses enough. It was time to gallop.
It was nearing dusk when Kerr first heard the thunder of approaching hooves. They came just as the dying sun was casting a last few golden bars through the darkness of the forest, and it was the lateness of the hour that made him so glad to hear approaching riders.
He had spent the afternoon wondering whether or not to suggest that they stop and make camp tonight. On the one hand, the horses were tired, the road grew ever worse, and even the brightest moon left the track beneath the forest canopy as black as pitch.
But on the other hand… Well, on the other hand, he didn’t want to spend the night alone with Titus. That was the truth of the matter.
Ever since the battle against the highwaymen, he had been trying to convince himself that what the magician had done wasn’t so bad. If you killed a man, you killed him. It didn’t really matter how it was done.
However, it wasn’t the men that the magician had killed that preyed upon Kerr’s mind. It was the man he hadn’t killed. All it had taken had been a look, and the poor bastard’s soul had snapped, evaporated like a drop of water cast into a furnace.
Kerr found himself wondering how many other men Titus had left as empty shells, condemned to stand in their own drooling hell until something hungry found them.
He had told himself that his master had had no choice. He also told himself that he had seen regret in his eyes afterwards. Eventually, after he had told himself that enough times, he began to believe it.
Even so, the sound of riders rolled a great weight off his shoulders. It would be good to have company, if only for a while.
“Ho there!” he called out as the cavalcade appeared behind him. They were solidly built men on solidly built horses, and the last flashes of sunlight glittered on the armour they wore beneath their riding cloaks.
Kerr waved both his arms in greeting as they drew nearer.
“Well met, menheers,” he called out, a grin splitting his face. He’d just noticed that the riders wore the tall hats of witch hunters. In the past, he would have instinctively hidden from them, but now… Well, now things were different.
Despite his greeting, none of them made any reply as they approached, nor even when th
ey drew level.
“Where do you come from?” Kerr called to their leader. He sat tall in the saddle, his features as stern as a hawk’s. Without even bothering to glance at Kerr, he rode by.
“Where are you going?” Kerr tried again, gesturing to the younger man who rode behind him. Again there was no reply, or any response.
The last of the riders galloped past, their horses ignoring the friendly whinnies of those harnessed to the carriage.
“Do you want some wine?” Kerr asked the last of them as he disappeared into the forest ahead.
“They can’t see us.”
Kerr looked down to see that Titus was leaning out of the carriage window. His face was a pale moon against the shadows, his eyes two dark hollows.
“Why can’t they see us?” Kerr asked. “The sun hasn’t even set yet. What… Oh. I see.”
Braha nodded, and opened the door of the carriage. The vehicle shifted as he stepped out and stretched, his bulk wobbling as he rolled his head.
“Yes, it is a minor conjuration. It makes people see past us, or around us. After what happened today, I thought it a wise precaution.”
Kerr looked at the horses, the harness, and the solid wood.
“You won’t see anything odd from there,” Titus told him. “As long as you’re sitting on the carriage you’re part of the spell.”
Kerr vaulted down from his seat. His master, obviously back to his old self, laughed uproariously.
“Don’t worry,” he boomed. “You won’t turn into a frog.”
Kerr laughed too, although without his master’s enthusiasm. Then he turned back to collect his cloak, and saw that the carriage was gone.
Alone in the blossoming darkness of the night, standing between the wizard and his works, Kerr came to a decision: there was no point in being afraid, not now.
After all, what could he do but hope for the best?
With that thought, he took a deep breath and turned to start collecting firewood. He stumbled through the gathering darkness, rooting around through the detritus that covered the forest floor, whilst behind him Titus gazed up at the first stars and thought about the gods alone knew what.
CHAPTER SIX
“Tollmuller,” Vaught called out from the taproom. Tollmuller, who had been trying to sneak past the room unobserved, cursed inwardly. Then, with a sigh, he went to attend his guests.
“Good afternoon, menheer,” he said. He wiped his meaty hands on his apron and nodded to the witch hunters who had gathered here. There were only three of them. Tollmuller, ever the optimist, wondered if that meant that the others had left.
“You gentlemen are looking very well rested,” he said. “I suppose you’ll be leaving with your friends today. We’ll certainly miss such illustrious company.”
Vaught shook his head.
“Our comrades will be back tonight. None of us will leave until we find out where our quarry has gone.”
“Oh.” The innkeeper tried to keep the disappointment off his face.
“In fact, that is why I want to speak to you, Tollmuller. Here, come and sit down by the fire.”
Once more, the innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron. Then he swallowed and took a seat, although not the one that Vaught had indicated. In the past, the fireplace had been the cheery heart of the inn. Now, though, with the witch hunters’ implements glowing within it, cheery was the last thing it was.
No wonder he was losing all of his custom.
“Well, Menheer Vaught, I can see your problem. The crossroads here mean that he could be anywhere by now, and if you don’t leave soon the snows will keep you here all winter.”
It was a horrible thought, and for a moment, it made Tollmuller even more miserable than the sight of the figure that was tending the fire, but only for a moment.
One of the witch hunters’ irons, he noted, ended in a spiral. He tried to tell himself that it had been designed as a corkscrew.
“Don’t worry,” Vaught said, seeing the expression on his face. “We have enough coin to pay our way. Our only problem is that you aren’t being as cooperative as you might be.”
Another of the witch hunters shifted, strolling over to casually block the door. The man by the fire lifted an iron, checked the dull red of the tip, and then returned it to the flames and started working a bellows.
Tollmuller started to sweat.
“Not cooperative?” he whined, and tore his eyes away from the fire. “I don’t know what you mean, menheer. I’m sure that if there’s anything you need we’ll find it for you. More blankets, perhaps?”
Vaught glared at him.
“Last night, you told a group of muleteers that we were staying here.”
Tollmuller tried to look innocent. It wasn’t easy.
“Well, yes, I might have mentioned it.” He shifted uneasily. “But what of it?”
“After you told them, they rode on. They didn’t come into the inn, which meant that we couldn’t question them.”
Tollmuller twisted his apron into a tight little ball.
“They… I… They were in a hurry. That’s why they didn’t come in.”
“One of my men heard you tell them that witch hunters were staying in the inn, and you aren’t a fool. You know how superstitious people are about our profession, especially those with something to hide.”
“One of your men heard me? But I didn’t see…”
“I know,” Vaught snapped. He leapt to his feet and stalked over to where the innkeeper sat.
“Menheer Tollmuller,” Vaught said, looming over him, “from now on you will tell nobody that we are here. Your guests will come. We will question them. You will not interfere. Is that understood?”
Despite the fact that he was surrounded by professional killers, Tollmuller’s fear was suddenly overcome by wounded pride. This really was too much. After all, he was the innkeeper, as his father and his father’s father had been before him, and to be an innkeeper in the depths of this vast forest was a position worthy of respect. His high stone walls and thick oak gates made him castellan as much as merchant, and he had fought his own share of battles over the years.
“If you don’t like the service, gentlemen, then you are welcome to leave.”
In the sudden silence that followed his challenge, Tollmuller couldn’t quite believe what he had said.
Nor could he believe it when the witch hunters burst into laughter. Even their captain, a man who seemed incapable of joy, managed a painful smile.
“You have the heart of an honest man, innkeeper.” He slapped Tollmuller’s shoulder, “Although you talk too much. It would pain me to have to treat you as a traitor to the Emperor, but if you warn travellers of our presence again,” the humour left his eyes as suddenly as it had come, “I will have no choice. Do you understand this?”
“Yes,” Tollmuller nodded.
“Good. Now then, we’ll say no more about it.”
The innkeeper realised he had been dismissed. He got to his feet and stomped out of the room.
Curse all witch hunters, he thought as he made his way down to the cellar. No wonder he was losing so much trade. They had been here for three days; long enough for news of their unwelcome presence to have spread along the four roads that met beneath his gates, and long enough to have lost him a week’s worth of custom.
Now if they’d been road wardens, that would have been different. In fact, road wardens stayed for free. They gave the clientele a sense of security. But who wanted to stay in an inn full of professional torturers?
Tollmuller grunted with disgust as he realised that the barrel of wine he’d meant to change was still half full. If old Heffner and his muleteers had stayed last night they would have finished it already.
“Curse ’em all,” Tollmuller muttered.
In fact, he decided as he stomped back upstairs, the only things worse than witch hunters were wizards.
He was still muttering under his breath when the bell that hung over the gates started clanging. Cheer
ed by the thought of some custom, he hurried to welcome his new guests.
Titus sat in the darkness of his room. His bulky frame dwarfed the chair he had chosen, and his falling robes hung down to the floor beneath it. When he had first sat down, the joints had squeaked most alarmingly. Now, though, he was sitting as still as water turned to ice, as immobile as a gargoyle’s grin; as patiently as a spider in a web.
Even his breath had slowed. He was inhaling no more than once a minute, and the rise and fall of his chest had become as imperceptible as the movement of tectonic plates. The only sign of life was the movement of his hands. They flitted like albino bats in the darkness, flexing and tapping with a mute eloquence.
Still, Titus was not inactive, far from it. The concentration this effort had cost him dampened the cloth of his robes, and sent rivulets of sweat trickling down his back. No trapeze artist could have matched his iron composure as, lips moving in silent incantation, Titus wove the spell.
There it was, finally, that first tug on his consciousness. It was as insistent and as fleeting as the wind beneath a kite, and it held the same promise of borrowed power.
Ignoring the surge of elation he felt, Titus concentrated on his art. His fingers maintained their pace, and his lips continued to form the same unspoken words. For a while, it seemed that his moment had past, and that these hours of effort had all been in vain, but as soon as the thought left him the conjuration flared into life.
With a feeling of impossible lightness, he opened his eyes to find the darkness gone and the world lit from within. The floorboards glowed as gorgeously as if they’d been polished with honey, and the walls were warm with the kiln spirit of the bricks.
Titus ascended towards the ceiling, marvelling as always at the beauty of this other world. He looked down to where his physical form remained, the beat of its heart and the pulse of its blood a symphony of life.
Then, tearing himself away from this contemplation, he drifted through the dozen tiny panes of the window. The brush of them against his new form was as bracing as a dash of ice cold water, and he felt even more invigorated as he hovered above the world outside.
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