Van Horstmann

by Ben Counter

  It was rare that the whole body of the Light Order’s magisters were moved to act as one. It was easy to forget, with so many of them meditating or studying alone at any one time, the number of them that lived and worked in the pyramid. White-robed figures streamed down the main staircase that lead into the Chanter’s Hall, where the acolytes stood in confusion. They joined the general motion out of the pyramid, for whatever had happened its full effects could probably only be appreciated from outside.

  Van Horstmann saw Elrisse and Alric among the magisters, fending off questions about what had just happened. The chatter indicated that the magisters engaged in divination magic at the time had felt a great surge of magic, something malevolent and powerful, and had barely had time to wonder what it was when the tremor occurred. A few said the upper floors were damaged, and stewards were heading upwards to prevent what further damage they could.

  Outside, on the square surrounding the pyramid, the magisters and acolytes gathered to stare up at the pyramid’s pinnacle. Every neck was craned to see it. Even seasoned magisters pointed up in confusion. Van Horstmann joined them, peering up towards the pyramid’s upper floors.

  ‘By Manann’s bones,’ said Kant. ‘What is it?’

  It was a lightning bolt. Not an actual bolt from the heavens, but a jagged symbol that could only represent lightning. It was gold, and perhaps fifty feet long. It speared the pyramid through its pinnacle, and the smouldering rubble that had spilled down the pyramid’s sides showed the force with which it must have hit.

  Van Horstmann moved through the crowd to find Elrisse. The Grand Magister was surrounded by the senior wizards of the order, as if they were seeking protection from the aura of his authority.

  ‘Grand Magister,’ said van Horstmann. ‘What can this mean?’

  ‘I fear to say it,’ said Elrisse.

  ‘Can it be anyone else?’ said van Horstmann. ‘Who else would do this, and in this way? Who else wants the Light Order humiliated?’

  ‘It is too early to say that, comprehender,’ said Elrisse.

  ‘Out loud, perhaps. But you are as certain as I. The Gold Order–’

  ‘The Gold Order are no more suspects than anyone else,’ said Elrisse. ‘I will not have our diplomatic status jeopardised by jumping to conclusions. We are not children. We must investigate.’

  ‘Word will get out.’

  ‘Then it will get out via us, the senior magisters of this order.’ said Elrisse.

  Burning ash floated down to the square. The crowd was buzzing now, each voice murmuring suspicions about who could have brought the enormous metal lightning bolt down from the heavens in such a spectacular insult. A fire had started in the pinnacle somewhere. There could be found the chambers of the most esteemed magisters, including those of Elrisse himself. Perhaps that, too, had been a deliberate consequence of the attack, another barb to the insult.

  ‘We must move quickly,’ continued Elrisse. ‘Van Horstmann, Kardiggian, Vranas. When it is safe, examine that… that thing and find out what you can. Assume nothing. Alric and I will answer the questions of our fellow colleges, for they will surely come. They will have felt this happen.’

  ‘It must be an enemy from within the colleges,’ said another of the senior magisters. Van Horstmann knew the man, Horst, by reputation, as a fastidious leader of the most complicated Light Order ceremonies. ‘It has to be. There are few enough who even know we are here.’

  ‘Then that,’ said Elrisse, raising a cautioning hand, ‘is what you will find, if it is the truth. If it is not, then you cannot let your prejudices determine your conclusions. Unfounded speculation is ill-fitting for magisters of our order. Let the shadowmages chatter and the Bright wizards fly to anger, we do not.’

  Van Horstmann looked up again at the lightning bolt. It could scarcely have been a more carefully calculated insult: striking from above, a position of superiority, penetrating the pyramid in a show of symbolic violation, bringing confusion and chaos to the serenity the Light Order cultivated.

  ‘You have my word,’ said van Horstmann. ‘You will know the truth.’

  The qualities of Elrisse as Grand Magister had been the subject of some debate at his first appointment, almost thirty years before, and in truth the debate had never died. He was not a mighty battle magister who could hurl bolts of fiery death down at the Emperor’s enemies, as had at one time been a prerequisite for heading a college of Altdorf. Few denied, however, that he was a more than competent diplomat, and at times like these there were few more precious skills than the ability to speak with those who did not want to speak with him.

  A mission was arranged. Grand Magister Zhaan agreed that the whole distasteful business should be put aside and

  brotherhood between the Light and Gold Orders should blossom again. Zhaan maintained that the lightning bolt could not have been sent by a Gold wizard, and was surely the result of some accident in the experiments and studies of the Light Order, but it was clear he said this solely to be seen backing up his own order. Van Horstmann lead the investigation into the attack itself and concluded that the bolt showed every sign of having been created in the forges of the Gold College, animated with the Lore of Metal and cast down in such a way as to present the maximum injury to the pride of the Light Order and the maximum glee of the Gold.

  The two colleges were isolated from one another. At informal gatherings of wizards in Altdorf, such as those to present advice and soothsaying to the Imperial Court, either Light or Gold, or both, were absent. Groups of newly-appointed magisters in both colleges spoke of retribution or escalation, to protect the honour and reputation of their order. The more experienced wizards spoke darkly of the Great Fire of Altdorf, widely blamed on the Bright Order’s fire magic, which might equally have been a ploy by some enemy in another college to blacken the Bright Order’s reputation. If it was not stopped, the conflict could grow to just such a scale where Altdorf itself was at peril.

  And then there was the Emperor. If the Imperial Court had to step in to quell a dispute between the colleges, which always presented themselves as unified, then Altdorf’s wizards would lose all the trust they had so far built up with Eckhardt III. And Eckhardt III was proving a petty and capricious ruler. If he decided the Colleges of Magic could not be trusted, he might cast them out, strip them of their properties and prohibit their studies entirely. Eckhardt III might just be stupid enough to make such a decision. The conflict had to end.

  And so Grand Magister Elrisse led a delegation of his most trusted magisters to the Temple of Shallya, nestled near the northern edge of Altdorf. Once it had stood apart from the city, a building of pale marble and slender columns, imparted with a feminine grace to match that of the goddess herself. She was the patron of healers, childbirth, mercy and grief, and always argued for peace and harmony. She had been perhaps the god most worshipped in the lands of men before Sigmar’s deification, and even now there were plenty of places in the Empire where her temples and shrines saw more traffic than those of Sigmar.

  Van Horstmann had never seen the place before. It was clear the temple had once been beautiful. Even when the cramped streets and haphazard buildings of Altdorf had crowded around the temple, it had stayed beautiful. But it had suffered greatly since then. Columns were toppled and a good third of the roof was still missing, patched up with wood where it had fallen in. Parts of it were scorched, including the pediment sculpture of Shallya herself. She was a matronly figure with long hair, her face turned away, children and the sorrowful kneeling around her.

  ‘I do not believe,’ Elrisse was saying as the delegation turned onto the street on which the temple stood, ‘that the temple will ever be fully repaired. It is a testament, I think, to intolerance and its dangers. That message would be lost if it were to be pristine again.’

  ‘Grand Theogonist Thoss certainly left his mark,’ said van Horstmann.

  ‘Not the one he would have desired,’ said Elrisse. ‘He wanted all gods but Sigmar obliterated. For some m
agisters that was in living memory. A terrible time, by what they say of it. But now the temple affects those who see her more than it ever did when it was pristine. Shallya has received many more feet through the doors of her temple now it echoes the sorrows she heals.’

  ‘So when we act in anger, we are as likely to help those we hate as destroy them.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Elrisse.

  The delegation was a dozen strong. Elrisse, van Horstmann, Alric and a handful of others had been selected to represent the Light Order. A similar number of Gold wizards would be waiting for them in the temple, which had been chosen as both neutral ground and a holy place where peace was supposed to reign. The Light wizards passed through the grand silver doors, depicting the goddess with her head in her hands, weeping over a host of graves and battlefields.

  Altdorf’s priestess of Shallya was named Mother Heloise, and van Horstmann knew of her reputation. She ministered to the mad, using the blessings of Shallya to cure their minds, and was thought to be the most successful priestess at such ministrations in all the Empire. She echoed the image of Shallya herself, well-built and stout, with the long hair her priestesses all wore. She wore the white and green of her church, was ritually blindfolded and stood at the altar at one end of the temple.

  The Gold wizards were already in place, sitting in the pews along one side of the nave. Grand Magister Zhaan sat at the front, his mane of bronze-coloured hair catching the shafts of light that fell through the temple’s damaged roof. Van Horstmann recognised another among their number – Daegal, the young Gold wizard he had held a heated discussion with at the Gold College. That was the moment van Horstmann had learned of the philosophical differences between the colleges, which had led, one way or another, to this meeting.

  The Light wizards filed in and took their pews. Van Horstmann sat a couple of rows behind Elrisse, who naturally took the frontmost pew.

  ‘Brothers in sorrow,’ began Mother Heloise, ‘our hearts have been cleft by the cruelty that is anger. Peace has fled, driven away by hate. It is the wish of Shallya that peace should return, and the wish of her church that I assist you in ending your quarrel. Though there may be differences between you, let them be celebrated, and not used as the foundation of anger. For anger has no foundation, it will crumble and bring us down with it as it falls, and all will be ruin and misery. Only on peace can we build. Grand Magister Elrisse, Shallya bids you speak.’

  Elrisse stood before the altar. He looked at home in this place, for both he and the church had a similar air of age and respectability. He steadied himself on his staff and cleared his throat.

  ‘This is not the first time,’ he said, ‘that two Colleges of Magic have come into conflict. Loremaster Teclis himself knew that such things would come to pass, and he left instructions that we arbitrate our differences not as men, nor even as high citizens of the Empire, but as beings of learning. We are scholars, and if wealth is our knowledge we are wealthy indeed. Every line of that knowledge teaches us that no good will come of our current conflict, only destruction. We both have much to lose and nothing to gain. The Light Order extends its hand to the Gold. Let hostilities end.’

  Zhaal stood now. Compared to Elrisse he was a mighty figure of a man. If anything he looked more powerful and muscular than when van Horstmann had encountered him in the halls of the Gold College. ‘The Gold Order, too, desires peace,’ he said. ‘But it cannot merely be spoken into existence. To take the extended hand, without condition or question, would be to deny that there is any source of quarrel between us. And there is, Grand Magister Elrisse. You and everyone here know well there is legitimate cause.’

  ‘A cause?’ said Elrisse. ‘That can be put behind us, can it not?’

  ‘No, it cannot,’ replied Zhaal. ‘Not when accusations fly between all the colleges. We are the subject of foul and unfounded rumours. They say that we orchestrated an attack on the Light Pyramid. That we are petty and scornful enough to place our mark on it through violence! If we simply cease hostilities then that accusation will always hang over us. We must have confirmation in the firmest terms that the Gold Order did no ill, before this can end.’

  ‘And yes,’ said Elrisse, ‘some ill was done, by someone. And we know not by whom. Nor can we rule anyone out as guilty, including the Gold Order. We are willing to let all of this flow by like the waters of the Reik, into and beyond memory.’

  ‘On your terms,’ said Zhaal. ‘With the Light Order having painted themselves as forgiving and pure, and the Gold Order as the villains with their crime unpunished. No, Grand Master Elrisse. The Gold Order did not commit the outrage that you say began this feud. Our innocence will be acknowledged. Anything less and we will not leave this place with any agreement.’

  His words were underscored with murmurs of agreement from the Gold magisters. Grand Master Elrisse did not show any concern outwardly, but van Horstmann knew he was good at hiding it. This was supposed to be a mere formality, with both sides in agreement.

  The Gold Order were insulted too. Because they were accused, and yet they were innocent. They felt themselves as wronged as any of the Light magisters who had witnessed the golden lightning bolt spearing the pyramid.

  ‘We come here with arms open!’ said Magister Kardiggian, standing up from his pew. ‘We were insulted – no, I say we were attacked! You should be begging us for forgiveness, Zhaal!’

  ‘Forgiveness for what?’ demanded Zhaal.

  ‘For the act of shameless aggression of which everyone here knows you are guilty!’

  Voices were raised and magisters on both sides stood in anger. Daegal was among them, pointing a finger at Kardiggian. ‘You would not say that,’ he barked, ‘were you not with a dozen of your fellows!’

  ‘Brethren!’ called out Mother Heloise. ‘Anger corrodes and destroys. This is a place sacred to the goddess of peace. She weeps to hear your sorrow.’

  ‘And Sigmar weeps to hear the men of His Empire acting like whipped curs, when we are innocent!’ came the reply from a Gold wizard.

  Van Horstmann carried with him, as he usually did outside the pyramid, his mask-topped staff and the Skull of Katam. These were both powerful symbols of a magister’s rank, artefacts entrusted to him by his order. But he carried one artefact which he did not display so openly – Magister Vek’s puzzle box, nestled safely in the sleeve of his robe. He had practised opening and closing it swiftly and invisibly, earning much vitriol from Hiskernaath in the process.

  His fingers danced across its mechanisms now. He felt the box opening up in his hand.

  ‘You have your orders,’ said van Horstmann softly, knowing his words would not be heard over the shouting match gaining momentum around him. ‘Remember who rules you. Remember who owns you. Do not let me down.’

  Hiskernaath slithered out of its prison. Its rippled along the floor, unseen, feeling like a chill draught at shin level.

  Van Horstmann knew the path that Hiskernaath would take. He had prepared exhaustively for this moment, formulating his orders to the daemon to ensure there were no loopholes it could exploit. He knew that it would scuttle unseen along the floor of the Temple of Shallya, straight towards Magister Daegal.

  Van Horstmann had chosen Daegal for a number of reasons. Possession was most potent when it amplified the natural tendencies of the subject, and Daegal’s aggression and quickness to anger would serve van Horstmann well. Given his character, he would be a logical culprit to spark what followed. And then there was the fact that van Horstmann simply did not like Magister Daegal.

  Daegal’s expression changed when the daemon forced its way into his soul. Hiskernaath craved the wearing of flesh, denied to it for years since he had been driven out of Princess Astrid. It hungrily shredded Daegal’s defences, already lowered by anger and frustration. The daemon’s pent-up strength blasted a channel through Daegal’s soul and opened up the vulnerable heartlands of his mind for invasion.

  Daegal raised a hand. Molten gold dripped off it, as if Daegal’s h
and was melting in one of the Gold Order’s forges. It hissed and spat where it hit the stone floor, and only a few of the magisters around him realised what he was about to do. They were too slow to stop him.

  Bolts of molten gold spat from Daegal’s fingers, as swift and deadly as bullets from a musket. They slammed into one of the Light magisters – van Horstmann knew him as Magister Parsifal, an elderly wizard who had once sought training as a battle magister but ended up a researcher and ritualist.

  The bolts punched into his chest and out through his back. Gobbets of molten metal spiralled through him and tore his chest open. Sizzling blood spattered the magisters beside him. Parsifal cried out, a long, rattling wail, and fell backwards over the pew.

  ‘Murder! Murder!’ someone yelled.

  Daegal swung both hands in an arc. Gobbets of molten metal sprayed in every direction, burning and boring into flesh. Mother Heloise screamed as a bolt burned through her shoulder, and she fell back against Shallya’s altar.

  Confusion was everywhere. ‘Protect Elrisse!’ yelled van Horstmann, jumping the pew in front of him.

  Already lances of white fire were spitting across the temple nave, met by burning sprays of molten gold. Grand Magister Zhaal conjured a golden shield in front of him and Magister Kardiggian, hands raised, was bathed in a column of white light as pale flames wreathed his arms.

  Van Horstmann’s words forced the Light magisters into action. Gold magisters rallied around Daegal, assuming he had began casting in response to an aggressive move from the Light wizards. Some yelled for peace, but they were drowned out.

  A circle of white fire burst up from the floor. Golden bolts shattered against it. Zhaal turned a white fireball aside with his shield and in response, drew the outline of a golden

  scimitar in the air with his free hand. The weapon solidified and he grabbed its hilt, blue-hot flame rippling up and down its blade.

  Kardiggian hurled balls of fire in every direction. Gold wizards were thrown to the floor or sent stumbling, their robes on fire. A spike of gold shot up from the floor, impaling a Light wizard through the thigh. One of the Gold wizards bundled Mother Heloise to the floor, trying to drag her to safety behind the altar. Another stood screaming, alight from head to toe, his beard coiling up into black ash.