There, at the centre of a blackened patch of ground, which the rain had turned into ashy mud, was a blackened corpse, transfixed by a twisted and melted spear of metal.
“Is it him?” Gunther asked aghast. “Is it the astromancer?”
The burnt body was unrecognisable. No hair remained on its scorched skull and the clothes had either burned away completely or had been fused with the melted flesh. There was one identifying mark, however.
Around the withered and blistered neck of the corpse hung the liquefied remains of a chain bearing a medallion. The fire had been hot enough to begin to melt the symbol but it had not been enough to destroy it utterly To anyone else the markings on the talisman might have meant nothing, but to a fellow member of the kommission of the colleges of magic they were immediately recognisable. And Verdammen wore an identical medallion himself.
“Indeed. It is Kozma Himmlisch,” the witch hunter said plainly.
The zealot was happy to take his master’s word for it and did not question how he knew. It was enough that the witch hunter said it was the case.
Verdammen considered the body of the celestial wizard with thoughtful detachment. Although the astromancer’s death hampered his investigations somewhat, Himmlisch could have expected little else. For, from the witch hunter’s experience, a violent death was the fate that awaited all those who dealt in sorcery. Their dabblings in the art caught up with them in the end, whether their use of such power corrupted them beyond redemption or proved too formidable for them to control. Ultimately, they all damned themselves.
And talking of fire, the devastation here had all the hallmarks of the devastation Verdammen had seen in Keulerdorf: a building savagely destroyed by flames.
Was it possible, Verdammen wondered, that the wizard the villagers had spoken of in Keulerdorf had been here before them and that for the last five days the witch hunter’s party had already unwittingly been tracking him? All he needed now was some evidence.
His eyes scouring every nook and cranny between the broken and burnt masonry, Verdammen began a frantic search of the ruins. He needed a sign that the fire wizard had been involved in the death of Kozma Himmlisch and the razing of the Tower of Heaven, and some clue as to the pyromancer’s identity. And then, in no time at all, as if he were meant to find it, there was all the evidence he needed, lying there in front of him, half-buried in the mud and ash.
It was a key. A golden key. His eye had been drawn to it by the gleam of the yellow metal amongst the blackened mess.
Picking the key up, he rubbed it clean of muck and held it up for his henchmen to see. The zealots had all crowded around him with the discovery of the wizard’s body.
“It’s a key,” one of them stated, the slow tone of his voice denoting his blissful lack of intelligence.
“Not just any key,” Verdammen said, studying the object in minute detail. “I’ll wager that this key did not open a single lock in this tower.”
The artefact was no more than a stylised representation of a key and certainly bore no scratch marks, as one would expect of a key that had been used as one. The witch hunter had seen other such keys before and he strongly suspected this one was the same as the others: golden keys of office among the Bright order of the colleges of magic in distant Altdorf.
It was the evidence the suspicious witch hunter needed. A wizard of the Bright order had been here who had already run riot within these forsaken lands. The pyromancer had gone too far, his terrible powers now controlled him. Verdammen had seen it happen on too many occasions before. This man, this pawn of the Dark Powers, had succumbed to the corrupting control of Chaos and embraced the blasphemous powers of evil. And he was still on the loose. He was an out of control killer who could be trusted to fight for justice, righteousness and the living Emperor Karl-Franz no longer. The sorcerer had become a murderer, and it was Verdammen’s place to stop him.
So this would now become the witch hunter’s mission. In that instant Verdammen determined to hunt down the bright wizard Gerhart Brennend and bring an end to his murderous rampage.
THREE
The Leper of Grunhafen
“When the ravages of age and disease take their toll, when harvests are blighted and famine threatens, that is when desperate men—men without hope—make supplication to the Grandfather to stay his scabrous hand. And it is from that moment that they are damned.”
—A Treatise Upon the Nature
of the Fell Powers,
by Brother-Scrivener Schreiber
It had been a week now since Gerhart Brennend had escaped the destruction of the tower-observatory of Kozma Himmlisch, and he was still walking through the highlands of Ostland under a permanently dark, overcast sky. There was little difference between day and night, so heavily smothered by cloud was the vast expanse of sky. And still it rained.
He was cold, wet, tired and hungry as he had never been before. He looked dishevelled and unwell, the lack of proper food and shelter taking their toll on him.
Since his battle with the astromancer Gerhart had not seen hide or hair of another human soul. The marshes of Ostland were as wild and untamed a place as any within the broad boundaries of the Empire. Herds of beastmen and goblin tribes lurked within the feral depths of the Forest of Shadows, as they did within the bramble-strangled, twisted heart of the more notorious Drakwald to the south.
The treacherous passes of the mountains were a sanctuary for human renegades and the followers of proscribed cults, as well as trolls, giants and worse. Gerhart had discovered this for himself at Keulerdorf. Then there were the raids of the Norse to contend with, marauding orcs and even, on occasion, bloodthirsty forays made by Kislevite bandits.
Of course, lying so close to the north-eastern border of the Empire, the Elector Counts of Ostland had fought alongside the hard-bitten warriors of the frozen tundra land of Kislev in their mutual cause to prevent the forces of Chaos rampaging south. However, if the astromancer’s speculations were accurate, it would seem that soon the whole of the Old World would be playing host to an invasion the likes of which had not been seen in five hundred years. All the armies of Ostland and Kislev would have difficulty containing it, let alone holding it back.
The Emperor on his throne in Altdorf, or the Elector Count of Ostland, Valmir von Raukov, bearer of one of the Runefang blades of legend, secure within his castle in the grand principality’s capital of Wolfenburg, might claim that these lands were civilised. But both men, “heroes in their own right”, had fought long and hard in defence of these northern lands.
Civilisation only really existed in these lands as a concept. Certainly armies could be mustered from among the vassal subjects of the Empire’s many states and cities to repel invaders and quash rebellions. Trade took place between the different regions on a fairly regular basis, with losses expected in these wild and dangerous times. Barges carried cargoes along the river ways of the Empire to the great free port of Marienburg and beyond to the chivalrous lands of Bretonnia and the city-states of Tilea as far as the coast of dusty Araby. The cities of the Empire were renowned as great centres of learning, where the secrets of alchemy and magic were plumbed alongside new advances in metallurgy, munitions and steam-locomotion.
Yet despite all of these great achievements the truth of the matter was that much of the countryside beyond the patrolled highways and the ancient cities was actually a dangerous wilderness of brooding, unruly forests, craggy, wind-scoured uplands and desolate moors divided by rushing rivers. People hid inside their cities, towns and villages, protected by thick stone walls and tall stockades, or in their castles, and the majority never ventured further than a few miles from their homes in their lifetime.
But the time was coming when perhaps not even such fastnesses of ancient strength would be safe from the storm rising in the north.
It was only now, as Gerhart descended from the highlands that eventually rose up to meet the Middle Mountains behind him to the west that Gerhart saw more regular signs
of human habitation once again.
In truth Gerhart had encountered some already on his travels, signs that in remote places these lands had once been inhabited. Ancient barrow-mounds and weather worn stone circles, uncorrupted by the sigils of Dark Gods or their followers, the shells of abandoned farmsteads reclaimed by nature and turf covered mounds that suggested that once a settlement had stood here.
At least these abandoned habitations had provided him with some respite from the incessant rain and a place to sleep. He had spent one night in the shelter of a decrepit windmill and another under the roof of a vacant shepherd’s hovel, listening to the deluge pounding against the rotting thatch above his head.
The rest of the time he had had to make do sheltering between the towering boulders on hilltops or crawling into shallow caves, having checked that there was nothing else living there first. Then, alone and undisturbed, the wizard had focussed his mind. He saw the winds of magic as their breezes danced over the rain-drenched land, reaching out to capture a strand of fiery power, the essence of Aqshy. It had been enough to start a small fire with which to warm himself, heat through some provisions and dry out his soaking clothes.
In the light of the fire, Gerhart had been able to go through the random notes he had taken from Kozma’s observatory. He wanted to make sense of the astromancer’s urgent scribblings. He was aware that the jottings were the ramblings of an unsound mind, but they kept coming back to the same conclusion. It had taken Gerhart some time but thanks to information he had gleaned himself before encountering Kozma Himmlisch, he had gradually been able to work out the gist of the astromancer’s observations.
Using his arcane telescope, the celestial wizard had spent months observing the flow of the winds of magic, and the heavens over the lands that lay to the extreme north. Kozma Himmlisch had suspected a rise in the power of Chaos, as the expanse of land covered by the warping Shadow increased, like a beach being swallowed by the high tide.
This ebb and flow of dark power, just like the waxing and waning of the moons, was not unusual. Those who knew about such things realised that it happened every year with the passing of the seasons. But those same people, would also have realised, as Gerhart had, that this current swelling of the Shadow was unprecedented in recent history. At best it would pass slowly. At worst it might swallow the entire world.
To Gerhart, this all seemed the conjecture of an unsound mind, but of one thing he was certain, that this rise of power in the north, like a storm of Chaos building on the borders of the lands of men, could threaten the whole Empire.
So he was now striding north himself, walking the highways and the byways of Ostland, using his oak staff to aid him. For, even if he ended up having to face all the multitudinous hordes of the north alone, he had to do what he could to atone for his sins.
Ahead of him lay the sentinel city of Wolfenburg and no doubt the greatest challenge he had faced in all his forty-five years of life, if Kozma’s ramblings were to be believed.
The pieces of parchment that bore Kozma Himmlisch’s forbidding divinations were stowed inside his robes, crumpled and water-stained, even though Gerhart had done his best to keep them dry. After all, they were the only proof he had of what he had seen and what he now furiously believed.
As the turf squelched underfoot, Gerhart guessed he had covered a fair bit of ground since leaving the burning tower behind. The leather of his boots was stained and discoloured from the perpetual wet and splashing mud. With only a hint of the sun behind a slight lightening of the constant grey cloud cover, Gerhart could nevertheless see that the track he was on showed signs of greater use and was descending steadily towards a wooded valley.
And then he glimpsed the smoke rising through the mist and rain, still some miles ahead of him at the limit of his vision in this miserable weather. But before he reached the source of the smoke, Gerhart came upon the first of the deserted villages.
The stillness was unsettling. The only sounds Gerhart was aware of, as he cautiously made his way towards the crossroads around which a few stone, timber and thatch buildings were clustered, were those that he himself made or those of the remorseless wind and rain. An air of death hung over the village like a burial shroud. There were no signs of life at all, human or otherwise. But then that was hardly surprising given the apparent fate of the settlement.
On every hovel door Gerhart could see a cross, daubed in thick red paint. This was a common practice in the northern lands of the Empire when dire circumstances struck. Some of these same doors, along with windows and any other entrance to the buildings had been boarded up and nailed shut from the outside.
It was a sign that spoke of a long and lingering death. It spoke of plague.
Wherever a cross had been painted, it told a tragic tale of entire families being boarded up inside their homes, abandoned by their neighbours. Even if only one family member succumbed to the sickness, every last inhabitant of the house would be trapped inside with the plague victim, condemned to infection and inevitable death, either from the illness, starvation, or at their own hands—trying to save themselves from the suffering that was sure to follow.
People who had once regarded each other as friends were now shut away. Friendships were forgotten, familial ties severed, and kind-hearted neighbours became compassionless pragmatists as they consigned those infected to a terrible fate.
For there was no room for compassion when it came to the plague. It simply had to be contained. A small hamlet or village already infected could hardly hope to survive at all if the spread of the disease was not caught in time. So the villagers put themselves into self-imposed quarantine and prayed to whatever beneficent god might be listening to save them in their most desperate hour.
Should they not do so, and one of the roving bands of Sigmarite Templars discover them, then their fate was assured; they faced death by sword and fire, possibly following a painful and unnecessary inquisition.
How had it begun, Gerhart wondered? A polluted water supply? A hex cast upon these poor common folk? An illness borne by rats, possibly even the product of the foul machinations of the rat-kin?
And how had it been spread? By an infected cargo brought by wagon to the village? A passing peddler? Intentionally by those corrupted of mind, as well as body, by the disease to serve the blasphemous powers ranged against mankind?
How long had it been since this anonymous village had succumbed to the plague, its name dying along with the last person to ever know it?
Gerhart did not break open any of the doors to discover what lay within. He already knew what he would find and, besides, he had probably seen worse fighting alongside the armies of Empire. There was nothing he could do for the people who had lived here except purge the place with purifying fire.
Concentrating his mind, Gerhart reached out and called the winds of magic to him. The tip of his staff sparked then burst into flames. He walked round the village, igniting the thatches of the forsaken homes, turning them into fiery sepulchres. Despite the endless rain, the wizard found the thatches to be dry under the eaves and there the fires took.
Gerhart left the hamlet with the buildings behind him ablaze. Thick grey smoke swelled from their thatches, and tall flames licked up the walls, consuming everything in their insatiable hunger.
At the next settlement, less than half a league away the story was the same. The same miasma of death hung over the stockaded village, the same red crosses daubed on the walls and doors, silence instead of birdsong. There were no signs of life at all. Once again he could do no more than put the place to the torch. With the power of Chaos building on the northern borders of the Empire, he had to cauterise the canker of evil growing within it.
So it continued. One hamlet after another, entire villages were wiped out, and lone farmsteads stood as silent as the grave. Forges, tanneries and even shrines, smeared with the same condemning crosses, all went up in smoke, purged with the same cleansing fire.
Had all of these settlements succ
umbed to the plague? There were no obvious signs that anything had been wrong in many of them. Gerhart had heard tales of whole villages being condemned to an untimely death by paranoia alone. If one man came down with a blood-fever or severe bout of stomach cramps, paranoia would do the rest, more often than not fuelled by religious fanatics and over enthusiastic witch hunters.
Days later, as he left another settlement to its fate amongst the flames, Gerhart turned and looked back at the path he had followed through the forest. Behind him black smoke rose from settlements he had put to the torch. It hung over the treetops in a pall, making it seem like Morr’s own raven of death had descended from the shadowy, unreal realm beyond the veil to gather the souls released at last by the funeral pyres.
It soon transpired that Gerhart was not the only one seeking to purge the plague from the land. Two days later he encountered the doom-mongers of Sigmar.
Having spent the previous night sleeping in the shelter of an ancient beech, a fair few miles from the last forester’s hut he had put to the torch, Gerhart now found himself on a path that wound around the side of a hill covered with sycamores before dropping down into a shallow valley between four low hills. The village that lay nestled in the hollow was already partially obscured by the dirty grey smoke coiling from the bonfires smouldering all around it.
Through the smoky billows that drifted between the trunks of the trees Gerhart could see that a river meandered through the stockaded settlement. It wound through two wicker water gates, and a number of barges were moored at a jetty on the northern bank of the watercourse inside the village.
The wizard sniffed sharply, catching the acrid smell of burning on the breeze that drifted across the valley and rode over the rolling contours of the hills. It was said by doctors and those who made the study of the human body that smell was the most evocative of all the senses. Certainly that was how it affected Gerhart now. The scent of the bonfires made his heart race and he felt the warm glow of the esoteric wind of Aqshy pass through him. He could see the red vapours of the ethereal wind at the edge of his vision, following the path of the smoke through the trees.
[Warhammer] - Magestorm Page 4
