Van Horstmann

by Ben Counter

  An Empire without an emperor was a dangerous thing. Sigmar had not founded a hereditary monarchy, and instead had created the tradition that an emperor should be the one man most uniquely suited to the task, as Sigmar himself was. Lacking the presence of any god-kings who might fit the role, the Empire had, after various civil wars and lesser squabbles, instituted the twelve hereditary posts of elector count who would choose the next emperor. In times of great strife their decision would mean nothing but, without any warring claimants to the throne, they decided who should succeed Wilhelm II.

  It was without bloodshed or threats that the elector counts decided the least offensive choice was Count Vitek of Stirland, a middle-aged, middle-browed man who had achieved the feat of not making any mortal enemies outside his immediate family. The Church of Sigmar had no objections, and neither was the choice likely to create a major rift with a neighbouring power. Within the week Vitek was Emperor pending his coronation at Altdorf.

  It was the second time van Horstmann had entered the Imperial Palace and this time he entered through the main gates instead of a hidden entrance to the dungeons. The palace was much more handsome from this angle, with the great frowning gateway proportioned to intimidate anyone crossing the Imperial threshold. For all it might serve as a palace it was still a fortress, the walls still thick and sheer and studded with firing slits behind the banners of the elector counts.

  The representatives from the Colleges of Magic included magisters from every college, resplendent in the dress robes that best represented them to the Altdorfers gathered to watch the occasion. Their numbers had been limited by Imperial decree, since at coronations past the colleges had competed to have the most spectacular sight, with Gold wizards firing off alchemical fireworks and the Amber College summoning a menagerie of decorative beasts. Now they were a little more sombre, although the crowds still gasped and murmured at the sight as they were held back by the men of the Reiksguard.

  It was the first time van Horstmann had encountered the wizards of the other orders. The Bright wizards smelt of ash and wore red and yellow – even their hair tended towards red, and faint wisps of smoke issued from them as they passed. The Amber wizards, who studied the Lore of Beasts, were perhaps the opposite of the ordered and monastic Light wizards – they wore a patchwork of neutral colours, their staffs were styled like scythes or carved with images of birds and animals, and wildflowers sprung up where they stepped.

  Van Horstmann wondered for a moment what the other colleges’ magisters must think of the Light Order. He himself carried his new staff, made to his specifications with the female mask and single diamond eye. He wore the Skull of Katam at his waist, and was sure it got some odd glances from the other magisters as they entered the palace. But even so he was not out of place and many other Light magisters surpassed him in their stern, monastic airs, the richness of their gold-embroidered robes and the diamonds studding their staffs. Among any other company van Horstmann stood out – studious, intense, quiet but with the authority of intelligence. Among fellow magisters, he was one among many.

  The audience chamber was already almost full when the wizards filed in. Burghers from Altdorf’s mercantile classes, priests from the various faiths, notable members of the aristocracy, ambassadors from distant realms and countless more important people were already standing awaiting the entrance of the new Emperor. Van Horstmann took his place and noticed that among the acolytes the Light magisters had brought with them was Kant, the acolyte who was among the survivors of his last visit. Kant looked nervous – perhaps it was the occasion, perhaps it was the memory of what had happened in a spot right beneath his feet.

  The Supreme Patriarch was the last to enter – Maximilian van der Kalibos, Grand Magister of the Amethyst College, the train of his purple-black robes carried by a host of trained ravens, his staff a column of skulls.

  Van Horstmann found he was standing alongside Master Chanter Alric. ‘It has been some time since last we spoke, van Horstmann,’ said Alric.

  ‘Much to my regret,’ replied van Horstmann. ‘The first lesson I learned is that no magister can be immersed in every aspect of his order, however he might wish it. Sadly, the education of the acolytes is not my calling, and so our paths have not crossed since I left the Chanting Hall.’

  ‘And what path do you walk?’ asked Alric.

  ‘Study,’ said van Horstmann. ‘The words of our past greats require interpretation if our lesser minds are to comprehend them. And there are secrets hidden there awaiting the time we have learned enough to decipher them.’

  ‘A life of dusty introversion, then?’ said Alric. ‘We all have our strengths and our weaknesses, van Horstmann. Your strength is a certain orderliness of mind, a factor which makes it resistant to the chaotic world beyond the colleges. The way of the wanderer, of the battle wizard even, would suit you best.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said van Horstmann. ‘And I desire to see all the world’s corners inked on some explorer’s parchment. But I see no need to venture there in person when the choicest of knowledge from those places flows instead to us. The secrets just need to be unravelled.’

  A babble of conversation near the front of the assembled notables rose up. Perhaps the Emperor was near.

  ‘You spoke,’ continued van Horstmann, ‘of my strengths. What did you perceive as my weaknesses?’

  Alric smiled. ‘That same orderly mind,’ he said. ‘Not everything fits neatly into its nook. I fear for the day when you try to force something into the plan in your head, and it refuses to be so constrained.’

  ‘Perhaps, Master Chanter,’ replied van Horstmann, ‘you would be surprised.’

  The Emperor was ushered onto the throne podium by an honour guard of Reiksguard knights. He was an unspectacular man, with a doughy and indistinct face, and at this distance seemed swamped by his ceremonial golden armour and ermine-trimmed cloak. His guard was led by the Imperial Champion, Reinhardt Blutaugen, a giant who was easily a head taller than any man there and who carried a two-handed blade broad and heavy enough to cut down a tree. His armour, they said, had been ill-made when it was first delivered, because the smiths of Nuln had assumed the measurements they had been given must be wrong. He carried along with his own blade the Runefang of Stirland, the emblem of the new Emperor’s rulership over his home province, in a scabbard on his back. It was one of a dozen trappings of power – the Silver Seal that clasped the Emperor’s purple cloak, the ceremonial Chain of Justice about his neck that made him the Lord Judge of Altdorf’s courts, the griffons and comets on his regalia.

  One such emblem of authority was missing. A band of ambassadors from the dwarfn holds stood at the back of the podium, flanked by a regiment of scribes and ministers. The dwarfs were powerful, squat, brutal-looking creatures, their own trappings the pragmatic gear of war. They wore armour of bronze and iron and wore their voluminous beards in elaborate braids hung with talismans. Everything about them spoke of strength, not least the traditional war-axes each one carried. One of them, with a beard that would have dragged along the floor had it not been tied in a dramatic loop of braids, stepped forwards and bowed his head. It was about as submissive a gesture as a dwarf could be expected to make.

  ‘The dwarfs of the Worlds Edge bid you all honour, inheritor of Sigmar,’ said the longbeard. ‘In the name of the pacts and debts between our peoples, wield this our finest work wherever the Empire of men does war.’

  Two more dwarfs joined the longbeard, bearing between them a long-hafted warhammer with a head of glowing bronze. Power radiated off the weapon, and even without the experience and sharpened senses of a wizard, van Horstmann could have identified it as a magical weapon. It was more than that, of course. It was the Hammer of Sigmar, wound about with the most powerful magics of the dwarf runesmiths and presented to Sigmar himself when the two races first went to war against the greenskins. It would have been a magnificent enough badge of Sigmar’s authority had it been a mundane weapon, so fine was its workmanship and th
e balance which allowed the new Emperor to take it easily with one hand. Its magic was such that it had smashed aside daemons and princes of undeath, dragons and champions of the Dark Gods alike.

  ‘May your grudges go unforgotten,’ said the longbeard, and retreated with another bow.

  Reinhardt Blutaugen stood over the Emperor and placed the Imperial crown on his head. The crown was styled like a hoop of laurels wrought in gold and silver, and sat perfectly on the new monarch’s brow.

  ‘All hail,’ shouted a cryer from the podium, ‘His Imperial Majesty Eckhardt III!’

  The dignitaries knelt. Van Horstmann joined them, looking up towards the man styling himself Eckhardt III as he did so. The mind that lurked behind that uninteresting face might decide the fate of the Empire. He might be a religious bigot, a crusading warrior, a poet and aesthete, or a madman. The Imperial crown had been worn by examples of every one in the past. He might be a great man. He might be an incompetent whose rule was marked by catastrophe and whose death was celebrated in the streets. He might leave no mark on history at all, save the record of his name.

  It was entirely up to chance. That was how the world worked, if it was permitted. Chance.

  ‘I will not permit it,’ whispered van Horstmann to himself. ‘Chance will not rule me.’

  If Master Chanter Alric heard him, he made no indication of it.

  ‘I swear to obey the Imperial throne,’ began the cryer.

  ‘I swear to obey the Imperial throne,’ said the assembled dignitaries in unison.

  ‘I will heed its call to arms.’

  ‘I will heed its call to arms.’

  ‘I will adhere to its laws.’

  ‘I will adhere to its laws.’

  The words reverberated around the cross-vaulted beams of the ceiling. They seemed as inconsequential as the handful of pigeons roosting up there. Van Horstmann barely heard the words as they escaped his own lips. His mind was twisting them into a vow of his own.

  I swear to take what I can from the Throne of Change. I swear to adhere to my own laws.

  After the oath of allegiance was made, Emperor Eckhardt III stood and made a speech. His voice was not strong enough so the cryer took up his words. He spoke of a new era of peace and shared prosperity, of an end to petty wars through strong leadership and a greater voice for the Empire’s people.

  Quite probably the last Emperor had said much the same thing at his coronation. This one was eloquent and diplomatic enough. True to form, he sent no one home overly offended.

  Van Horstmann felt neither offence nor admiration. His mind was elsewhere.

  The Gold College was a great steam-powered laboratory, half of it built by dwarfen master smiths, the other half grown from living metal by the wizards of the Gold Order. At their command, beaten iron coiled into springs or curled into the pipes that funnelled alchemical materials around the college’s many experimental chambers. It looked like nothing so much as an enormous pipe organ turned inside out, spurting columns of steam and smoke, hissing and gurgling and crowned by galleries of clockwork automata locked in an endless dance.

  ‘Our politics,’ said Grand Magister Elrisse as he led the Light Order delegation up the Gold College’s main steps, ‘are every bit as complicated as those of the Imperial Court.’

  ‘Politics is not what I joined the Light Order to pursue,’ said van Horstmann. He had found himself more and more often at Elrisse’s side, whether it be researching new rituals from the encoded journals of past magisters or, as now, making the rounds of Altdorf’s other colleges to cement relations in the light of the new Imperial reign.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Elrisse. ‘But we must remember, the life of a magister is not one of leisure. We must sometimes partake in that which we find distasteful, so we might fulfil our calling. This will be an education for you, so pay close attention. In magic you are as learned as a man many decades your senior already, but in politics, you are a newborn.’

  ‘Of course,’ said van Horstmann. ‘I see already the Gold Order does things very differently.’

  While the Light College was a monastery, the Gold College was a workshop. The grand doors swung open revealing an enormous hemispherical hall hung with mobiles and musical automata, playing an endless loop of intermeshing tunes. Gold and brass plated everything, bathing the entire college in an orange-yellow glow. The Gold magisters had sent a delegation to meet the Light magisters, led by their Grand Magister, a man with a ruddy mane of hair, powerful blacksmith’s forearms and bronze-coloured skin. Not just tanned but bronze, metallic and reflective, and his eyes had pupils of gold.

  Elrisse spread his arms and gave his best beaming smile, which still had a little too much of a cold rictus in it. ‘Zhaan!’ he exclaimed.

  Grand Magister Zhaan embraced Elrisse in his great muscular arms. ‘Brother Elrisse! What an honour! For too many years one of yours has not set foot in our home. There is much to discuss, for times are fast. And we have prepared a feast, of course! Any excuse!’

  ‘Such indeed are the times,’ said Elrisse as he emerged from Zhaan’s grasp. ‘All the colleges have had to turn inwards. Still we have not rebuilt to the strength of Magnus’s time, and we only just replaced one of ours who fell in the northern rebellion.’

  ‘I hear your sadness, Grand Magister,’ replied Zhaan, his brow furrowing, or rather buckling, the bronze creaking as it folded up. ‘A fleet of elven pirates plagued the Sea of Claws and two of our mage-wrights were despatched to assist the Tsar’s fleets off Kislev. Alas, they did not return. Will we never see an age untarnished by woe?’

  ‘It is our duty to suffer such woes, and yet fight on regardless,’ said Elrisse. ‘These magisters who accompany me you will remember, of course, save for van Horstmann. He is the latest to ascend to the Second Circle.’

  ‘A protégé, no doubt,’ said Zhaan, and grabbed van Horstmann’s hand. He had the strongest handshake van Horstmann had ever felt. ‘Elrisse is wise. Too stuffy! Too hidebound! But he is wise, indeed. Listen close to him, van Horstmann!’

  ‘I see already there is more than one way to study the winds of magic,’ replied van Horstmann. ‘Just being here opens my eyes.’

  ‘Ah, of course. The Gold Order revels in innovation and experimentation. Your order values learning by rote and the slavish repetition of ritual. Is one better than the other? It is not for any of us to say. We create, yes, but your way is safer. We have vaults of mighty magical weapons and artefacts crafted in our smithies, but you have tomes of banishment and exorcism. Without either commodity, many crises would have befallen the Empire that were instead averted.’

  As the Gold and Light wizards made their way further into the Gold College, van Horstmann saw rows of furnaces and forges at which Gold wizards worked like blacksmiths. Many of them looked more like skilled labourers than wizards – stripped to the waist and bent over anvils, they hammered at swords or segments of armour, or worked leather and metal with tools of glowing silver. A couple of dwarfs worked among them, probably sent from the Worlds Edge holds as part of some long-standing agreement with the Gold Order to lend their smithing expertise. The air smelled of burning fuel and smoke, and here and there something more exotic from the alchemical labs which bubbled with benches full of tangled glassware.

  The feasting hall was something new. The Light Order did not have one. Perhaps the Light wizards placed less value on hospitality than their Gold brothers. Three long tables, heaped high with plates of food, were attended by a small fleet of waist-high automata that scuttled about busying themselves with setting places and filling wine glasses. They were marvels created by Gold wizards past, filled with dwarfen-made clockwork and enchanted with secrets of animation that were already forgotten.

  ‘Sit!’ exclaimed Grand Magister Zhaan. ‘Eat! Celebrate!’

  The Light wizards took their places. The Gold wizards clinked glasses and looked eager to start. Van Horstmann found himself a place near the head of the table, beside Zhaan.

  ‘A toas
t!’ said Zhaan, standing with a glass in his hand. ‘To magic! To us sons of the aethyr! And to the Emperor!’

  The magisters echoed the toast and drank. Van Horstmann, who was not one for drink, limited himself to a sip. An automaton was loading slices of meat and piles of roast vegetables onto his plate.

  ‘So,’ said Zhaal. ‘What manner of studies does the Light Order force on its newest magisters?’

  ‘The lost ceremonies of Egelbert Vries,’ replied van Horstmann.

  ‘Not much point,’ said another Gold magister sat across from van Horstmann, ‘if they are lost.’

  ‘Forgive Daegal here,’ said Zhaan. ‘He is a practical sort, and does not sympathise with the more academically minded of us.’

  ‘I seek through the work of my own hands,’ said Daegal, ‘rather than the words of another.’ He was probably young for a magister but hid the fact with a beard. His eyes were small and blue and he had a charred, smoky look, no doubt cultivated to give the impression he was always kneeling by a forge.

  ‘They are only lost in so much as we have yet to find them,’ replied van Horstmann. ‘We know very certainly they are there. Specifically, they are in a long description of the herbs and flora of the Troll Country, hidden in a multi-part cipher. They key is woven into the illustrations, you see. Vries was a wayward soul. He thought that knowledge had to be earned, and so would only pass it on to those who could solve the riddles he used to hide it.’

  ‘Knowledge is a tool,’ said Daegal, ‘to be used.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said van Horstmann. He turned to Zhaal. ‘Is that true?’

  Zhaal winked. ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘So we believe. That is why the first of us took up the hammer and the tongs, just as we took up the staff and tome. They are all symbols of what magic is to us.’

  ‘And to us,’ said van Horstmann, ‘it is different. Magic is a force, a realm above us, and only through achieving a higher state of mind can we perceive it. Only through ritual can we connect with it, in a pure form.’