He shuffled through the parchments. Some of the pages were vellum and some, linen. He noted a variety of inks, hands and scripts. As best he could judge, he was looking at a minimum of six different manuscripts written over the course of the last few centuries.
He decided to skim the document on the bottom. With luck, maybe it wouldn’t stab revelation into his head like the one he’d examined the first time.
It didn’t, at least not right away. It proved to be something of a metaphysical treatise, devoid of both the fervid exhortations and exotic words that figured in the other work. Its vileness lay simply in its trenchant argument that Chaos was not merely omnipotent but omnipresent. Order was only an illusion, and thus, in the truest sense, the stable universe of mundane human perception neither existed nor ever could.
Despite himself, Dieter gradually grew intrigued by the elegance of the author’s syllogisms even as he was repelled by their conclusions. But more than that, he was curious. As far as he could tell, the essay didn’t contain even a hint as to how one might go about actually performing Dark Magic, and come to think of it, the text he’d read previously hadn’t, either.
And thank the stars for that! It would protect him. Yet he knew the papers truly must contain such instruction, because Mama Solveig and Adolph had benefited from it, and he couldn’t help wondering how such a thing could be. As any true scholar would, he felt a yen to solve the trick of the concealment. Was it possible it would be safe to do so if he stopped with that, and refrained from actually poring over the secret content?
He reread the treatise, more attentively this time, then took up the next document, in its essence a rambling, disjointed paean of praise to Tzeentch.
He read every text, then started over. His eyes smarted, and he tried to blink the discomfort away. The skin on his forehead crawled, and he rubbed it.
So gradually that at first he imagined his eyes were merely playing tricks on him, certain words, syllables and individual letters became more prominent, as if rising slightly from the page while the surrounding text sank into it. Enough, he thought. That’s how it works. I understand now, and I should break away. But it seemed only natural to run his eyes over the emphasised characters and decipher the message they’d picked out.
It proved to be a set of instructions for evoking and reading portents, signs that would speak clearly whether a mage stood beneath the open sky or not, because the spell drew its strength not from the Blue Wind but rather a force abundant everywhere. The possibilities would have excited any astromancer, and Dieter was no exception. He murmured the words of power and stretched out his hand.
A clot of shadow writhed into being in his palm. It was cold and soft, and felt like squirming snow. For a heartbeat it resembled a living creature, a knot of coils not unlike Tzeentch’s icon, and then it flowed into a firm and static form, arms extending in a circle from a central hub to make a wheel, and glyphs hanging at various points on the radii.
Which was to say, it resembled a horoscope, and though the symbols were unfamiliar to him, as he stared, he began to discern the significance of the pattern: Destruction. Betrayal. Degradation. Damnation.
Alarmed, he cried out and flailed his arm, and his creation vanished.
Something glowed at the bottom edge of his vision. He glanced down to behold the characters on the parchments shining with their own luminescence.
“You see?” asked a baritone voice. Dieter jerked his head around. The hooded priest from his vision stood next to Tzeentch. “You can’t get away from it. The only reasonable course is to wallow in it.”
Dieter screamed, recoiled, and somehow managed to overturn his chair. Crashing down on the floor knocked some of the panic out of him. As he scrambled to his knees, he still felt frightened, but he also drew breath and raised his hands to cast darts of light.
But he didn’t need to. The priest had disappeared, and the ink on the parchments had stopped shining.
He drew a ragged breath, and told himself the priest hadn’t really been there. His imagination had played a trick on him.
It might have been more reassuring if he’d ever hallucinated before. Or if he hadn’t just been filling his head with the outlandish but strangely persuasive proposition that the distinction between reality and nightmare was fundamentally a false one.
It occurred to him that Mama Solveig must have heard his shout and the bang he’d made falling over in his chair. She must be hobbling over to see if he was all right. He turned in the direction of her shabby little infirmary.
She wasn’t there. At some point, she’d gone out without him noticing, and that wasn’t the most disquieting part. It was dark outside the windows. Several hours had slipped by while the parchments held him entranced.
It was more evidence of just how insidious their influence was. Not that he needed it, considering that he’d just performed a work of Dark Magic.
He had to extricate himself from this situation as soon as possible, which meant he needed to avail himself of opportunities like the one Mama Solveig had now provided. He rose, took up the candle, and proceeded to search the old woman’s work and living spaces.
Making sure to leave everything as he found it, he opened drawers, boxes and chests, and rummaged through their meagre contents, looking for anything that hinted at the Master of Change’s true identity or the location where he met with his lieutenants. Unfortunately, if such an item existed, Mama Solveig had hidden it well. In the end, unwise as it seemed to attempt any more magic so soon after performing the Chaotic spell, he cast a divination. To his relief, it didn’t have any adverse consequences, but it didn’t point to anything helpful, either.
He should have known, he thought glumly, that it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing else had been. He wondered what he ought to do next and felt a fierce, sudden craving to return to the parchments.
No! He’d already learned more than enough to satisfy the Red Crown for the time being. But then again, why not? The texts were inescapable in any case. He’d have to expose himself to their influence over and over for as long as he remained here. So why not learn as much as he could as quickly as possible? It was conceivable that he’d acquire some bit of knowledge or a spell that could solve all his problems.
He looked into the shrine, and Tzeentch leered back at him. The writing on the papers began to gleam. Then someone tapped softly on the door.
He scurried to the source of the noise and peered out the peephole. Jarla’s pretty, painted face was on the other side. He threw open the door.
“I should be working,” she said, “but I wanted to say hello.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “I’m so glad to see you!” He realised his voice was too shrill, too agitated, and tried to bring it under control. “Mama gave me a little money. Will you take supper with me?”
Jarla smiled. “Yes, I’d love to.”
“Then come on.” He seized her hand, and, struggling not to stride along so quickly that he’d end up dragging her, conducted her up the stairs and along the street.
CHAPTER SIX
Since Jarla knew the eastern part of the city far better than he did, Dieter suggested she pick the restaurant. Promising that the food was better than anyone would guess, she took him to a ramshackle place lit by a paucity of candles. The gloom failed to conceal a general air of shabbiness and grime.
Still, at this moment, any setting free of the taint of Chaos seemed pleasant to Dieter, and he smiled at the waiter. “My friend says venison stew is your speciality.”
The server, a fat man with coppery side-whiskers, a freckled face, and the stink of sweat wafting from his stained armpits, scowled. “It is, but we don’t have any. The hunters are scared to go into the woods and get it. Damn bandits!”
Jarla looked crestfallen.
“In that case,” Dieter said, “bring us a couple of bratwursts and whatever usually comes with them.” The waiter grunted and tramped off to pass the order to the kitchen.
“I�
��m sorry,” Jarla said.
“It isn’t your fault.” Dieter glanced around and decided their corner of the establishment was far enough removed from the other diners that no one was likely to overhear them if they whispered. “Or maybe it is. The army might already have caught the raiders if not for you.”
“I really am sorry.”
He shook his head. “Relax, will you? That was a joke, or a compliment if you like. I don’t care about the stew. I like sausage, and I like the company.”
She smiled and lowered her eyes.
“Do you know,” he said, “you’re about the last person I would have expected to take part in this enterprise of ours. You’re brave and resourceful, I found that out the night you tampered with my drink, but you also seem gentle. Sweet. How did you become involved?”
She sighed. “Adolph.”
“I should have guessed.”
“Not that I regret it!”
“Well, no. Why would you?” Aside from the risks of arrest, torture, execution, mutation and eternal damnation.
“Things were hard when I was little. My father and brothers all… mistreated me. Other people knew, but no one helped me. When I finally got away from my family, I resolved to make a good life for myself, but somehow things just never worked out the way I hoped. The cause is my chance to finally be happy, or at least to help make a world where others like me will be.”
They stopped talking while the waiter fetched the bratwursts, blackened and still sizzling on the plates.
“I understand,” Dieter said when the fat man had gone away again. He sliced off a bite of sausage. “Still, I’m surprised you’d join after hearing all your life that such efforts are unholy and depraved.”
She hesitated. “You came to Altdorf knowing exactly what you wanted, so when the rest of us offered it to you, we did it in a straightforward sort of way. Some recruits don’t realise what they’re seeking, and to them, the faith reveals itself in stages. When I joined, I was told the group exists to help people and fix things that are wrong, but at first I didn’t realise how ambitious and dangerous its plans really were. But now that I do, I’m proud to be a part of it all.”
Or else you just assume you’re in too deep to get out, Dieter thought. “Did Adolph know what the cult truly was when he brought you in?”
“No. I asked him once, and he got angry that I would even wonder. Because he wouldn’t trick me.” Her voice lacked conviction.
“That’s good. You certainly deserve a better man than any who’d betray your trust.”
She coloured. He could see it even beneath the layers of rouge. Perhaps because she didn’t know how to answer, she took another bite of the spicy, chewy meat. Reminding himself it was better not to push too hard, Dieter did the same, and they ate in silence for a while.
But it wasn’t long before anxiety and impatience compelled him to go to work on her again, although this time he took a different tack. “So, is it really true you’ve never seen our leader, or is that just something you old hands tell to new recruits like me?”
She glanced about, likely making sure no one had wandered close enough to eavesdrop. “It’s true.”
“And you’ve never met a single member of one of the other covens, either?”
“No.”
“It would be funny if there weren’t any others, and no Master of Change, either.” Actually, it wouldn’t be, not for him, because even if he discovered it was so, his instincts told him Krieger would never believe it.
“You mean, if being part of something big is just a lie Mama tells to make us feel brave and important? I can’t believe she’d do that. Anyway, the sacred pages have to come from somewhere.”
“I see your point. Does she meet the Master at a regular time every week or every month? Or does she tell you when a meeting’s coming up?”
Jarla cocked her head. “That’s an odd question.”
He shrugged. “I’m just curious about the way things work. Remember, this is all new to me.”
“I understand. When I joined, I felt the same. Anyway, I have no idea when she goes to see him.”
Then what good are you, Dieter thought? He imagined himself reaching across the table and slapping her face back and forth, leaving handprints in the cosmetics.
Then the spasm of anger subsided, and he felt sick at the urge that had momentarily possessed him. By the comet, what was happening inside his brain?
Three labourers, sweaty and dirty from their work, tramped in and sat at a nearby table. Jarla indicated them with a shift of her head, warning him it was no longer safe to discuss clandestine matters.
They drifted into talking about his imaginary village as it had supposedly been before disaster overtook it. He invented friends and a lass he’d fancied, all lost to him now, and felt a certain sneering superiority when his fraudulent reminiscences prompted her to pat his hand in sympathy. It was a spiteful, mean-spirited reaction, but he couldn’t entirely suppress it.
In time they finished their meals, rose, and headed for the door. As they passed the labourers’ table, the biggest of the three said, “Hey, darling. When you finish with skinny there, come back. I’ll feed you a sausage.” His companions laughed.
Dieter pivoted, snatched up a ceramic tankard from the table, and backhanded the largest labourer across the face with it. The mug shattered, spattering foam and pungent ale.
The big man lurched back in his chair and clapped his hands to his face. His friends started to rise, and Dieter brandished the remains of the tankard at them. The jagged edges, or perhaps something they saw in his glare or posture, froze them in place.
Jarla pulled on his forearm. “Come on!” she said, and he allowed her to haul him outside. The cool evening air felt good on his flushed, sweaty face.
Now that his rage was subsiding, he was appalled at himself. He’d fought during his time with the army, but only with sorcery and only when necessary. He hadn’t used his hand to strike a blow since he was a child, and he’d never in his life lashed out so viciously in response to such minimal provocation.
“Why did you do that?” Jarla asked.
He sucked in a deep, steadying breath. “I didn’t like the way that bastard spoke to you.”
She lowered her eyes. “He spoke to me the way a man speaks to a whore. Which is all I am.”
“Not true. That’s simply the mask you wear. In reality, you’re a fighter risking her life to help the whole world. Nothing could be worthier than that.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely.” He took hold of her chin, lifted her head, and kissed her. She pressed and ground against him. He pulled her into the dark, narrow space between two buildings.
He remembered his resolve to take things slowly, and Mama Solveig’s warning that Adolph could prove a dangerous enemy. He told himself he didn’t need to manipulate and exploit a woman he had, despite himself, come to like, not to this extent, particularly if she knew as little as she claimed.
Meanwhile, he kept pawing at her.
* * *
His behaviour still troubled him hours after he’d separated from Jarla and returned to the cellar. Yet at the same time, he felt a thrill whenever he remembered smashing the labourer across the face, or the frenzied coupling in the dark.
He prayed that a good night’s rest would make him feel more in control, more like his old self. He rose and turned towards the grubby cot in the infirmary.
Mama Solveig said, “I thought we might work on your magic for a while.”
Her statement kindled the now-familiar urge to plunge back into his study of the parchments no matter what the consequences. Struggling to quash the impulse, he said, “I can’t spend all my time reading in the dark, even if I have good eyes and the writing glows. I’ll go blind.”
“That’s all right. I didn’t mean you should return to the papers, not this time. Instead, I’ll teach you some of what I’ve already managed to learn.”
His mind seemed
to lock up. He wondered if he couldn’t think of a viable way to refuse because he didn’t really want to. “I thought…”
She smiled. “That you were required to learn every trick without any help from anyone? That truly would be inefficient. I wanted you to familiarise yourself with the holy texts as soon as possible. I believe it prepares the mind for everything that follows. But now that you have, you might as well benefit from everyone else’s discoveries.”
He felt a crazy impulse to laugh. Of course. Might as well, especially when he craved it anyway.
Can’t get away. The only reasonable course is to wallow.
“That would be wonderful,” he said. “During the battle with the spirit, Adolph stole Jarla’s shadow and made it fight for him.”
Mama smiled and nodded. “That is a good one. But you’ll have to detach your own shadow. You wouldn’t want to put a strain on this worn-out old heart of mine.”
They repaired to the hidden shrine and set to work under Tzeentch’s watchful eye. As it turned out, Mama Solveig couldn’t articulate the underlying principles, the whys and wherefores, of the spell with anything approaching the lucidity of Magister Lukas and Dieter’s other instructors at the Celestial College. But she did an adequate job of imparting the proper words and gestures, and after a few repetitions, he felt Chaos beginning to rouse.
It dismayed him just how much he liked it. Working Celestial wizardry could be as bracing as a drink of frigid mountain spring water. In contrast, Dark Magic was like guzzling raw spirits. He felt a fierce, heedless elation welling up inside him, and tried his best to hold it in check.
Once Mama Solveig was satisfied with his timing and articulation, it was time to try the spell in earnest. He spoke the words of power, and the darkness around him seethed. Someone laughed. Perhaps it was the icon, the priest, or the stranger he seemed in danger of becoming. Maybe they were all the same thing.
He looked at his shadow, vague in the wavering candlelight, and sensed just how much it would hurt to rip it from its moorings. But it didn’t matter. He was as eager to suffer the shock as he’d been to ravish Jarla.
[Warhammer] - The Enemy Within Page 9
