The night time forest was no longer dark. Crescendos of life throbbed through the trees, and the world around them glowed with a thousand vibrant colours. Above, stars shone with a fire that no ordinary man would ever see. No icy pinpricks these, but gems of white fire that seemed ripe for the plucking. Between them, brighter than any borealis, the winds of magic blew down from the north.
Titus basked in the splendour like a lizard in the sun. It was only with an effort of will that he managed to bring himself back to the task in hand.
It didn’t take long. Amongst the ethereal brightness of this otherworld, the darkness of Grendel’s path was as clear as a fire in the night. It sliced along the road, a thread of nothingness through the river of energy left by countless travellers.
Titus hovered above the trail for a moment, studying the shape of Grendel’s flight. He would be leaving his own trail behind, he knew. Not that that mattered. After all, he was the hunter, not the hunted.
With that happy thought, the magician floated up and then forwards, flying along the road with the speed and the ease of a diving hawk.
Even so, it took him a while to find the errant wizard. No doubt driven on by panic, he had made good time. Titus studied him from a thousand feet above, noting the drained quality of the sleeping form.
With a sudden rush of excitement, he realised that this was his chance. He had assumed that he would have to catch up with Grendel in the flesh before daring battle—without wearing his own flesh and blood, Titus retained only a sliver of his power.
The more he studied the grey shape beneath him, the more certain he became that a sliver of his power would be sufficient. Grendel was drained, little remaining of his energy but for cooling embers. He was also completely unaware.
Titus bit back a sudden pang of conscience and began making his preparations. He wouldn’t try anything complicated, just a physical death, he decided as he began to flex the images of his fingers: a creeping death for a running man.
It was as well that, for once, Titus had restrained his ambition. As he started to weave the spell, he could feel the lonely pull of his flesh and bone. The air eddied around his floating form, and the world around him started to spin as his concentration was stretched to near breaking point.
Finally, he was ready to strike. At least, as ready as he was going to be. He mouthed the last few syllables, drew back his arms and… and paused.
He and Grendel were no longer alone. Whilst Titus had struggled to juggle two spells at once, a pack of figures had emerged from the world below.
It was difficult to see exactly what they were. The energy that warped through them was a sickly green. Of all that he had seen so far tonight, they were the only things that were repulsive to behold. Titus almost thought that he could smell them, although of course, that was impossible.
What did it matter what they were? The power of the unleashed spell was burning his fingertips as his target lay below. He raised his hands to strike, and in that instant there came agony. He screamed as the world blurred around him, the symphony of colour exploding into a thousand stabs of pain. For a moment, he became aware of something moving in the north, something hungry.
Before it could reach him, he was falling from his chair onto the grubby floorboards of his unlit room. He didn’t realise that he was still screaming until the door burst open and Kerr appeared, lantern in one hand and dagger in the other.
“Are you alright?” he asked, glancing fearfully around the room.
“Yes,” Titus lied, hoisting himself to his feet and staggering over to the bed, “just a bit… a bit sick.”
“You look it,” Kerr said, coming closer.
Titus held up his hand to shield his eyes from the light. Sweat glistened on the palm.
“I’ll be all right,” he said, and took a long, shuddering breath. Then he squared his shoulders. Magic was no art for the faint hearted; it took cunning and strength. It also took bravery.
“Can I get you something?” Kerr asked, lowering the lantern. For the first time, Titus saw the dagger that gleamed in his other hand. It was no more than a pocketknife, really, not even long enough to cut a loaf of bread. Still, it had been weapon enough for Kerr as he had rushed to battle the unknown.
“Food,” Titus said, his pulse beginning to slow, “and wine… and Kerr?”
“Yes, boss?”
“You did well to come so quickly. In fact, you always do well don’t you? Tomorrow we should talk, you and I, about your future.”
“Oh, well, thank you.”
“In the mean time,” Titus continued, already regaining his composure, “off to the kitchens with you. I can’t remember the last time I had such an appetite.”
When he had gone, the wizard let his head fall to his hands and sighed ruefully. This wasn’t the first time he had skated over the brink of catastrophe, nor would it be the last. Thank Sigmar, he decided, deliberately turning his thoughts from the subject, for the gift of gluttony.
There’s nothing like meat and wine to comfort a man after a night like this.
He slapped the great mound of his stomach appreciatively and licked his lips.
Peik paced up and down the tap room, his boot heels drumming out his agitation.
Vaught and old Fargo watched him. They sympathised with his frustration. All true witch hunters were cursed with it. Even so, theirs was a world of necessary evils, and discipline had to be maintained.
“I just don’t see how it can be right,” Peik said, waving a hand up towards the ceiling.
“The Emperor has his reasons,” Fargo said.
“And so do our own superiors,” Vaught added.
“Politics.” Peik spat the word as if it was poison.
“Be careful, lad.” Vaught’s sympathy evaporated. “You are coming dangerously close to disrespecting our order, and, through our order, Holy Sigmar himself.”
The younger man was immediately contrite.
“I apologise. Obviously our masters know best. Even so, I find it difficult to bear the stink of sorcery.”
Fargo grunted with amusement.
“You could bear it well enough before you found out he was a wizard. Try not to get so worked up. If he’s a member of the college then we can’t touch him. He might even be useful. Nobody seems to have seen our quarry. Maybe he can tell us which road to take.”
Vaught frowned.
“Sorcery is an abomination,” he decided, “but I think you might be right. Every hour we waste here hurts more than a week in the saddle.”
Vaught seized an iron at the thought of sorcery and jabbed it into the fire. A burning log burst asunder and sparks filled the air. He sighed.
“We will give our pickets until noon. If they haven’t gleaned any information by then, we will ask.”
Peik looked as if his two comrades had just sprouted horns. “We will ask a wizard for advice?” He was incredulous. “But how do you know… Well, he could be our quarry. Magicians know well how to warp the appearance of things.”
“Come now,” Fargo said. “You saw what the man wanted for breakfast. Does he look like a necromancer to you? Anyway, it’s unlikely that a man on the run would have allowed his servant to announce his profession to witch hunters.”
“He did look worn out,” Peik said, a desperate gleam in his eye, “maybe from dealing with the Dark Powers. Maybe telling us that he’s a wizard is a double bluff. You know, like that butcher in Rope Street.”
“Fargo is right,” Vaught decided. “We will question the wizard before he leaves.”
Peik looked hopefully at the torture implements that they had left on display. The sight of them had loosened many a reticent tongue since they had arrived, although to no effect. Grendel’s trail of exhausted horses and cheated horse traders had ended here, at the last outpost before the deep forest.
“Do you want me to question him?” Peik volunteered, but Vaught distrusted his eagerness.
“Not that sort of questioning,” he said.
Peik looked disappointed.
“Don’t worry, lad,” Fargo told him. “You’ll get through your share of the damned, in time.”
Peik looked at him, wide-eyed. Fargo saw something suspiciously like fear through the veil of the younger man’s fanaticism, and wondered what had made him join their profession. He came from a wealthy family; he could have done anything.
“Anyway, your enthusiasm does you great credit, lad. Doesn’t it, captain?”
“He is worthy of our mark,” Vaught said, “as are all of our troop.”
Fargo winked at Peik. “I remember when I was your age,” he said. “I thought I was going to save the world.”
“But we have to,” Peik said, his voice almost a plea. “Without us, Chaos will spread like a cancer across Sigmar’s lands!”
Fargo looked at him, taken aback. It was Vaught who broke the silence.
“All you have to do,” he told Peik, “is your duty, and if the Emperor says that your duty is to spare his pet wizards, then so be it. Anyway, come on, we might as well do it now. Let’s go and talk to the gods’ cursed thing.”
Fargo spat into the fire and let Peik and the captain lead the way upstairs. The wizard’s servant had already told them which room his master was staying in. Fargo smiled as he remembered how closely Peik had questioned him about its dimensions, doorways and windows.
No wonder he had been so disappointed to learn that there would be no assault.
He also looked disappointed when, instead of axeing through the door, Vaught knocked on it. There was a grunt from within, and Peik dropped a hand to his cutlass. Fargo lifted it off and shook his head.
“We are in the Emperor’s service,” Vaught said, his voice as sharp as a headsman’s axe. “We want to speak with Menheer Titus.”
“The Emperor’s service?” a voice bellowed back. “And how exactly do you service the Emperor out here in the wilderness?”
Vaught and Fargo exchanged a glance. The captain pursed his lips, and then decided that they could afford honesty. After all, where was there for the man to run to?
“We are witch hunters,” he answered.
It was a declaration that would have chilled the hearts of most men, even the most innocent, but the wizard’s only response was irritation.
“Sod off, then,” he rumbled. “There are no witches here, just a grey wizard trying to sleep.”
For a moment, Vaught was too surprised to reply. Then he scowled and banged on the door again, as hard as if it had been the occupant’s head.
“You have nothing to fear if you are an honest man,” he said, falling back on the usual routine.
“Ha!” The reply was followed by what sounded like the squeak of bedsprings. “What I fear is that you’ll carry on scratching at the door until I let you in. Damned cheek.”
The voice muttered on, becoming ever more distinct, and finally the door was pulled open. It made a perfect frame for Titus; the rolling expanse of his linen-clothed bulk and the tangled mass of his beard just about fitted into it. “Well? What do you want?”
Vaught gazed at him, stony faced. Although Titus was big, Vaught was bigger, and he stepped forwards so that he could look down at the fat man.
“Why didn’t you come to see me?” he demanded. “Didn’t the innkeeper tell you that all guests are to report to me or my subordinates on their arrival?”
Titus grunted with amusement.
“Don’t be a fool. You servants can sort yourselves out without disturbing me.”
“We are hardly servants,” Peik snapped. Vaught turned to glare at him, not looking away until the apprentice had started to sweat.
“I can only apologise for my colleague,” Vaught said, his words as smooth as a sword being drawn from a scabbard, “but we have had a tiring time of late. The fact is, we have been looking for a wizard, a wizard of the Grey Order. We have orders…” Vaught paused with the anticipation of a man about to play an ace, “…to visit Sigmar’s justice upon him.”
“Well if I were him I’d hardly be concerned about that,” Titus sneered. “If you are content to waste time disturbing my sleep, I doubt if he has much to fear. He’s probably in Praag already.”
“So,” Vaught spoke slowly, “Praag. You do know where this man is heading. Being from the same order, you are a friend of his, I suppose?”
There was a serpent’s hiss as Peik drew his sword. This time Fargo didn’t stop him. He was too busy drawing the string of his crossbow.
Titus looked at them, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
“If you are trying to implicate me in that idiot’s crimes, then you’re an even bigger fool than I took you for, and if you think that I, a master of the Grey College, have any fear of your peasant’s tools, you are insane.”
Fargo lifted the crossbow so that the bolt was centred on the fat man’s forehead. Peik lowered the point of his blade for a disembowelling thrust.
Only Vaught seemed unconcerned by the wizard’s words. His face remained as still as porcelain, and his voice was low. “There is no need to be impolite,” he told the wizard. “After all, you’ll admit that it seems a coincidence to find you here. Two masters of the same craft, on the same stretch of road, just after the same incident.”
“Grendel was no master,” Titus snorted. Somehow it was difficult to remain annoyed at this captain. Although he had the scars and harness of a warrior, he lacked any of the usual quarrelsome passion. Trying to stay angry with him was like trying to stay angry with a piece of wood.
“So you did know this Grendel, then.” Vaught nodded, as if in sympathy.
“Not really,” Titus shrugged. “I’d seen him from time to time; heard his name mentioned. He didn’t have much imagination, that was his trouble. It made it all the more surprising the way he went bad.”
“The quiet ones are always the worst,” Fargo said, and lowered the crossbow.
“Not for much longer,” Titus told him. “The college has ordered me to revoke his licence.”
“It’s already been revoked,” Vaught said. “That’s why we’re after him.”
Titus studied the man. For a moment, he considered suggesting an alliance, but only for a moment. After all, he was Titus Braha, wizard of the Grey College. It wouldn’t do to be seen with these vagabonds.
“No,” he decided out loud. “No, my task is to permanently revoke it.”
Vaught nodded.
“Might I ask how you know that this Grendel creature is going to Praag?”
“No,” Titus shook his head, “you may not, but he is, so if you want him, you’d better hurry up.”
With that, the wizard slammed the door. Vaught thought about knocking again, but decided against it. The creature’s words had had the ring of truth to them, and they had wasted enough time already.
“Well then,” he said, turning to the other two. “Praag it is.”
They turned to go, when Titus’ door opened once more.
“Hoi, scarecrow.”
Vaught turned back.
“There are some things in the woods ahead, dangerous things. Keep an eye out for them.”
The witch hunter nodded stiffly.
“Thank you,” he said, and hurried to round up the men.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grendel had resigned himself to another night spent shivering amongst the roots of the forest. Although his horse was so exhausted it could barely stand, he tied it to a tree trunk anyway. Then, after checking the knot, he wandered a little way off. He spent a few minutes looking for somewhere comfortable before giving up, wrapping himself in his cloak, and collapsing onto the ground.
As the sweat dried on him and the cold sharpened, he considered lighting a fire. It didn’t take him long to reject the idea. Apart from the effort it would take, there was no way of knowing what the bright warmth of a fire might bring. In the endless vaults of this dark forest it would certainly be more than moths.
So instead, he curled up into a miserable ball, and co
mforted himself by brooding over the injustice of his plight. The memory of the disaster that had brought him here was like a bone in his throat, a constant nagging discomfort that he could never quite forget.
He had had no idea, no idea at all. He had thought that the agony, and the blood that wept from his eyes, had been the result of a simple miscast. Only when the arch magister woke him from his stupor did he begin to understand what he had done.
Grendel allowed himself a single sob and decided to think about his hunger instead.
In the past, he had never given much thought to food. Whenever hunger had driven him from his studies he had just sent down to the kitchens. Night or day, all that was required was a word from him and laden platters had appeared, their provenance as mysterious to him as his own work was to the chef.
Things outside the college weren’t so easy. All he had eaten in the past week had been a loaf of bread, some salt fish, and a hatful of small green apples that had made him sick. If Grendel had been gaunt before his flight he was emaciated now.
The thought dampened his bony cheeks with cold tears of self pity. They didn’t stop until he had ached and shivered his way into something resembling sleep.
Grendel awoke with a rush of complete disorientation. For one hysterical moment, he thought that he had been struck blind, but then he saw the faintest glimmer of grey light above and remembered where he was. The reason he could see nothing was not that he’d been struck blind, but that his exile had led him to this horrible place.
The realisation didn’t come as much of a relief.
He blinked and tried not to think about the nightmare he had been having. At first, he thought that it was a horrible dream that had awoken him. Then his horse whinnied again and he realised that the beast’s disquiet must have broken his troubled rest.
“Hush,” he muttered, and then cursed the animal. He would never get back to sleep, and it couldn’t be much past midnight.
Even if the horse heard the command, it paid it no heed. As Grendel tried to rub some feeling back into his freezing ears, it whinnied again. It was louder this time, and for the first time, the wizard heard the fear in it.
[Warhammer] - The Corrupted Page 8
