01 - Razumov's Tomb

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  “And he died.”

  “He died. Razumov’s calculations were flawed.” Gabriel shook his head and a note of confusion entered his monotonous drone. “Somehow. Even after so many years of research, he forgot a crucial phrase. The magic tore him apart. It pummelled him into the ground, along with his tower.”

  Caspar stepped closer to Gabriel. As he did so, he noticed that the wizard’s robes had fallen open slightly at the neck. He averted his gaze, unnerved by the strangeness of the man. Below the neckline of his cloak, Gabriel’s flesh was almost completely translucent. Before he looked away, he saw the pulsing of the younger man’s heart. Caspar shook his head as he considered the changes that had wracked the wizard’s body. When he had first passed through the college doors, just a few decades earlier, Gabriel’s skills were limited, to say the least. He had shown an uncanny affinity with animals that had almost led him to a witch hunter’s pyre, and a knack of predicting the outcome of card games, but beyond that he was just a slightly eccentric farm boy. Caspar had offered him an apprenticeship, out of curiosity more than anything else, but, to his amazement, Gabriel had quickly surpassed almost all of the other magisters, in skill, certainly, but also in strangeness.

  “And you think you could finish what he started?” asked Caspar.

  Gabriel nodded without looking up, unaware of Caspar’s discomfort. “Yes.” He frowned. “Only one thing doesn’t fit.”

  “What?”

  “The auguries indicate a metal mountain. They say I would need to ride a mountain of gold.” He shrugged. “It makes no sense, but it’s not important. I could raise the tower. I could harness the stars.”

  Caspar’s legs began to tremble and he looked around for a chair. Seeing none, he settled awkwardly on the stone floor, letting out a small groan as the cold clamped around his arthritic bones. Darkness closed in on him as he considered the implications of Gabriel’s discovery. There was no doubt that he would be correct—he was like a freakish living almanac. The loss of written language meant nothing to someone with the movements of the entire cosmos locked inside his head. Caspar also had no doubt that news of Gabriel’s discovery would quickly reach the ears of the Emperor—the very Emperor who had recently questioned Caspar’s own ability to fulfil his duties. He pressed his hand over his robes, feeling the hard lump of the medallion as he pictured Gabriel explaining to the Emperor how he climbed Razumov’s tower and drew unimaginable power down from the stars. The Emperor would order Gabriel to replace Caspar as patriarch of the order, and free the Empire of the plagues that were blighting it.

  Tears formed in Caspar’s eyes as he stared into the shadows. He could picture nothing but the tattered ruins of his own future. He could feel his life ebbing away from him, slipping through his fingers. As needles of pain pricked across his scalp, he saw something else and gasped, not in pain, but delight. A trail of lights had begun dancing across his retina and he realised that the sight was vaguely familiar. It reminded him of the visions he had experienced as a youth. Even then, he had never known if the lights were real or imagined but, at times of crisis, they would often fill his thoughts. As a young apprentice, he had learned to discern pictures in the brilliance—brief, shifting glimpses of the future.

  Caspar had to stifle a smile as he realised his old powers had not entirely deserted him. As he focussed on the glow, he saw a vision of himself standing at the top of a storm-lashed tower, silhouetted by great, swirling tides of magic. The vision faded as quickly as it came but, as the lights receded, Caspar realised that, even now, there might be hope for him.

  Gabriel had already turned his attention back to the moondial, forgetting his master as he attempted to decipher one of the myriad puzzles still locked in his skull. He did not notice as the old man climbed to his feet and leaned closer, his eyes glinting dangerously.

  “Do you trust me?” asked Caspar, placing a tentative hand on Gabriel’s shoulder.

  Gabriel looked up and finally showed a trace of emotion, clearly upset that Caspar would feel the need to ask such a thing. “Of course.”

  Caspar nodded and graced his strange protégé with a paternal smile. He would have expected no other answer. He had saved Gabriel from the clutches of a witch hunter. He knew that the wizard considered him his only friend.

  “That’s good, Gabriel. I think you should share this hope with no one else, at least until we’re sure it’s not a mistake, and…” he hesitated, squeezing Gabriel’s shoulder, “if anyone is to attempt such a hazardous task, I think the duty should fall to me.”

  “You, my lord? The head of the order? Razumov died. What if you…?”

  “It is precisely because I’m the Grand Astromancer that I must take on this mantle.” Caspar felt a twinge of guilt as he played his next card. He knew that Gabriel’s biggest weakness was a complete blindness to his own potential. “If you’re honest with yourself, Gabriel,” he said, adopting his most caring tones, “you know this task is beyond you. Maybe one day, but not now. You’re still little more than an apprentice.”

  Gabriel’s pale cheeks flushed briefly with colour. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Don’t feel ashamed, Gabriel. You’re brave, not vainglorious, but I think you must agree that it would take a magister of many years’ experience to achieve such a thing.”

  Gabriel looked at the floor, appalled by his own presumption.

  “I cannot do it alone though, old friend.” Caspar gripped Gabriel’s arms. “Will you make the journey with me? Will you be at my side as I gaze deep into the unknowable heavens?”

  Gabriel stood up and pulled his robes a little closer around his neck. There was an intense look on his face and he replied in an earnest whisper. “I would be honoured.”

  Caspar clasped his hand. “Then we should leave soon. If your theory is correct, I may even be able to harness Razumov’s power to solve the mystery of these wretched plagues.” He stroked his long, serpentine goatee and finally allowed himself to smile. “Perhaps I can remind the Emperor of our true importance.” He ushered Gabriel towards the door and then paused, frowning in confusion. He turned around and scoured the shadows. “There are no beetles in here.”

  Gabriel shrugged as he opened the door. “I asked them to leave.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Reiksgraf Niclas von Südenhorst leaned back in his saddle and smiled. Even the repugnant light of Morrslieb could not dampen his mood this morning. A hundred Knights of the Twin-Tailed Comet were mustered before him, just a mile north of Altdorf, and as the sun failed to break through the thick green pall, Niclas thought his men made a suitable replacement. Every sword, breastplate and shield was polished to a dazzling sheen and as they cantered towards him, the Imperial standard snapped proudly over their plumed helmets. Attending on the knights were dozens of squires and servants, making final adjustments to their lords’ armour and driving wagons laden with supplies and weaponry.

  “This is my moment, Captain Stoltz,” said the reiksgraf, looking proudly at the knights. As he spoke, he flared his nostrils and lifted his chin, so that the moonlight flashed in his monocle.

  “Your moment, reiksgraf?” replied the knight at his side. He wore the same intricately filigreed plates of armour as his commander, but where von Südenhorst was slender, straight-backed and tall, like a sliver of Reikland steel, the captain resembled a bull stuffed into a can. His armour strained to contain his hulking shoulders and thick, trunk-like arms, and his face was almost entirely hidden behind an iron-grey, shovel-shaped beard.

  The reiksgraf turned to face him with a disdainful sneer, addressing the old warrior like a despairing parent. “Look around you, captain.” He waved his sword at the brackish swamps that surrounded the city. Green-lit fumes were draped over the landscape, leaving nothing but the ghost-like silhouettes of trees and the distant glow of funeral pyres. Death and lunacy had besieged the capital. Hordes of refugees were looming out of the darkness wearing their strange bestial masks, and beetles were still raining endlessly from
the low, fleeting clouds, rattling against the knights’ armour and ticking ominously in the long grass. “These truly are the End Times.”

  The captain gave a noncommittal nod. He had served the reiksgraf’s father with unswerving devotion for three decades, but had yet to make up his mind about the order’s new commander. He had a suspicion that a life of privilege might have thinned the blue Südenhorst blood.

  “Do you follow me, soldier?” asked the reiksgraf. “The Empire’s on the verge of ruin and the Grand Astromancer asks the Order of the Twin-Tailed Comet to ride out with him. This is no ordinary exercise.”

  “I believe the messenger talked only of investigating a ruin up in the Howling Hills. There was no mention of the current…” the captain’s vocabulary failed him as he waved at the strange scene.

  “Use your imagination, captain,” snapped the reiksgraf, curling his lips back from his teeth in a lupine snarl. “Why would the Celestial College have need of an army to investigate a ruin?”

  “Begging the reiksgraf’s pardon, but they didn’t request an army. The messenger only made mention of a small honour guard.”

  The reiksgraf blushed and sat even more stiffly in his saddle. “Well, it’s sometimes necessary to read between the lines when dealing with astromancers.” A note of derision entered his voice. “Even you should know that.”

  Captain Stoltz’s eyes flashed dangerously and he gripped his destrier’s reins a little tighter.

  “Ah, speaking of which,” said the reiksgraf, nodding back towards the city gates.

  A black coach-and-four was ploughing through the crowds of refugees. There was a small, stylised silver comet on one of the doors, and Captain Stoltz immediately recognised the symbol of their patrons, the magisters of the Celestial College.

  As the carriage approached, the curtains drew back and the wizened face of Caspar Vyborg scowled out at them. “What’s this?” He nodded at the ranks of knights and squires. “I asked for a few guards, not an invasion force.”

  The reiksgraf’s blushes deepened but he replied in the same clipped, stern tones he had used with his captain. “My lord, the Empire is more dangerous than ever. A journey into the Howling Hills will require every sword at our disposal. And we have no idea what we might find in Schwarzbach—the place has been cut off for weeks.”

  Caspar clenched his jaw as he looked back at the besieged city gates. “We’re meant to be slipping away without drawing undue attention to ourselves. Now I imagine the whole of Altdorf is discussing our departure.” He nodded to the north. “Let’s go, before the Emperor himself decides to join the parade.”

  With that, the wizard drew his head into the carriage and rattled the curtain back into place.

  The reiksgraf had prepared a long, self-aggrandising speech with which to greet the Grand Astromancer, but the words stalled in his mouth as the carriage lurched into motion and trundled past him. He turned to Captain Stoltz and waved at the ranks of soldiers. “What are you waiting for, man? We’re not here for our health.”

  The smog deepened as they rode north, until it was hard for the riders to see anything beyond the slimy, cuttlefish-strewn road. As Captain Stoltz peered into the perpetual dusk, he decided that blindness might be a blessing. If he tried to discern anything in the shifting, oily darkness, he quickly started to doubt his own eyes. He thought he saw shadows slipping up through the mire and circling overhead. He assumed at first that they were tendrils of fog rising from the marshes, but they moved with an odd sense of purpose. He saw from his men’s faces that they had noticed them too, and were beginning to mutter nervously to each other.

  “My lord,” he said, nodding at the shifting shadows, “could this be another plague?”

  The reiksgraf gave no reply, keeping his gaze fixed on the wizards’ carriage.

  Captain Stoltz scowled in the dark, not used to being ignored. Turning to the columns of knights, he held his sword aloft. “Keep your eyes on the road, men. You’re too old and ugly to jump at shadows.”

  A brief ripple of laughter greeted his words and the oppressive atmosphere lifted a little.

  As he looked at the virulent green horizon, bathed in Morrslieb’s evil light, Captain Stoltz wished he could dispel his own fears as easily as his men’s.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I will not die in Schwarzbach.” Steffan repeated his promise to himself as he ran, trying to ignore the pain it had already brought him. As he sprinted down into another fog-shrouded gulley, his exhausted legs finally gave way and he tumbled headlong across the sodden turf, grunting and cursing as he rolled, before slamming into the charred remains of a tree. He lay there for a few seconds, his face inches from the blackened bark, wondering what new monstrosity was staring back at him. Then he realised with a bitter laugh that it was a dead cuttlefish.

  “What have I done?” he muttered under his breath. In the warm confines of an inn, the idea of escaping from Schwarzbach had seemed like an act of inspired bravery, but now, as he lay panting in the mud covered in fresh wounds, it seemed more like lunacy.

  He heard voices calling his name, and looked up to see the rest of the party clambering down into the gulley. They were a pitifully small group now. The thing that had crawled out of the swamp had eaten Christoff with disgusting relish, swallowing his still-pumping heart like a delicious oyster. After that they had abandoned all pretence at fighting and simply fled. Within the hour they encountered a grotesque, enormous toad. The vile thing had devoured Alexius with such enthusiasm that he barely had a chance to scream.

  And so it had continued. Every glade and valley harboured creatures so bizarre that they beggared belief. Steffan’s men died in the jaws of a bewildering array of beasts: great serpents with human faces that swooped down from the clouds, lumbering ogres with the heads of eagles and a host of other things so unnatural that Steffan would have found it impossible to describe them without sobbing. As they ran, he wondered if Morrslieb could have somehow spawned the creatures. The loathsome moon had swelled beyond all recognition, filling the heavens with pulsing light and painting everything a nauseating green. Dawn had ceased to have any meaning as the putrid disc began to outshine even the morning sun and Steffan had lost all track of time. Morrslieb had clearly grown tired of its celestial role and decided to seize control of the earth, pouring its malice from the heavens and rebuilding the world in its own vile image.

  “Steffan,” gasped a lanky, ginger-haired youth, dropping down by his side. “Are you hurt?”

  Steffan looked up at the boy. He had never intended to bring children, but the wretched sneak had spied on the gathering at the Golden Hammer and demanded a place in the escape party. Steffan pulled himself up into a sitting position and felt hot agony erupt behind his eyes. It joined his body’s chorus of other complaints in a delirious, screaming opera of pain.

  “I’m fine,” he lied.

  The others emerged from the shadows, their ashen faces filling with relief when they saw that their captain was still alive.

  “For pity’s sake,” said an old man called Volkel, trembling as he approached, “take us home.” He was one of longest-serving members of Schwarzbach’s town watch. His face was ugly with scars and his arms were networked with impressively lewd tattoos, but as he rushed over to Steffan, he threw his shattered pikestaff to the ground and whined like a child, waving at the walls of the narrow crevasse they had entered. “What are we doing out here, captain? Do we all have to die before you’ll turn back? There’s nothing in Schwarzbach to match these monsters. Whatever you think of Thadeus Groot, he doesn’t compare to this!”

  Several of the other watchmen howled their agreement, waving at their terrible injuries as justification.

  Steffan climbed wearily to his feet and peered into the swirling fog, ignoring the tumult that had erupted around him. “My sword…” he muttered.

  Samuel followed his gaze and immediately raced off into the dark, returning a few seconds later with a proud grin and the captain’s broa
dsword in his hand.

  Steffan snatched the weapon and held it aloft. The unwholesome light of Morrslieb gleamed across his shaven head and threw his eyes into deep pools of shadow, giving him such a look of menace that the men immediately fell silent.

  Once he was sure he had their attention, Steffan spoke. His voice was edged with fury, but he kept it low, knowing that any sign of panic from him would be disastrous. “I gave no orders. You’re here of your own free will. I shared my suspicions, that’s all.”

  “But what if you’re wrong about Thadeus?” asked Volkel. “And who could have predicted this kind of madness?”

  Steffan looked down and grimaced at the oily mass of beetles rushing over his boots. He knew that Volkel was not just referring to the plagues, though. “It’s true that I never expected this level of…” He faltered as he tried to think of a way to describe the creatures. “I thought the attacks on Schwarzbach were the extent of it. I never dreamt that the monsters would grow in number as we headed south.”

  “There’s no way we could reach the capital now,” said Volkel, looking around at the others. “What are we—three miles south of Schwarzbach?” He motioned to the men’s various injuries. “And look at us.”

  Steffan glared at Volkel. “I would still rather take my chances out here than in that vipers’ nest.” He looked north, towards the faint silhouettes of Schwarzbach’s turrets and spires. “I will not be party to whatever devious games Thadeus is playing. And,” he looked at each of the men in turn, “when I reach Altdorf I intend to name everyone who has stood with him.”