WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 02(R)-Dark Storm Gathering Page 4

  The electors and other nobles, some still somewhat shaken from the dramatic effects of Behrer’s pact with the Dark Gods, nodded in turn. Some even looked like they meant it.

  Gelt was the only one to speak.

  ‘The colleges have already supplied many of the best wizards in the Empire as recruits for the Order of the Griffon. I will speak to my colleagues, and ensure that more is done. If the hosts of Chaos can put aside their differences in order to unite against us, then we must do the same.’

  The Emperor inclined his head towards the Gold wizard in thanks. Gelt was a slippery fish. Like all the rest of the council, it was only the dire necessity of the situation which curtailed the usual business of politics and intrigue between them. But for the time being at least, he seemed to have made his point.

  ‘Very well,’ the Emperor said curtly. ‘That is an end to the matter. I shall expect to receive lists of names from you all in due course. But now we must turn our attention once more to the conduct of the war. I wish to have no more disagreements on those best suited to carry out the defence. We must consider the location of the next attack, and be ready for it. We are no longer so far from the front, here in Altdorf. Our resources are meagre. Where should they be deployed?’

  Back on to the familiar territory of war planning, the electors and marshals shook off their uncustomary reticence and began to confer in earnest. Plans were introduced, sheets of parchment were pushed across the smooth wood of the table, and logistics and gunnery requirements discussed. Karl Franz sat back and let the discussion take its course for a few moments. His eyes strayed to the high window on his right. At the edge of his vision, a thick black pall of smoke was rising in the narrow courtyard outside. The charred remains of the spawn were being burned further. For a short time, he found himself drawn to the thin, twisting line of smoke. It had once been a man, one who had fought for him. How many others were waiting to turn, like Behrer, to darkness?

  The Emperor shook his head. There was no use in speculating. Turning his attention back to the debate before him, he resumed the wearisome business of listening to plans and counter-plans. In the end, he knew, there was only faith and vigilance. And given the scale of the task the Empire was facing, they would need plenty of both.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alexander Heisenherz was in a foul mood. This was in many ways his natural state. He hurried down the winding corridors of the Bright College with his robes flapping around him. His staff clicked as it struck the ornate tiling of the floor, and the iron heel sent stray sparks flicking into the shadowy recesses. He was late, and of all the many things in the world that he hated, being late was one of the worst.

  Alexander was deep in the interior of the college, some distance underground in the hidden catacombs. He was moving through parts of the rambling structure that no acolyte or visiting dignitary ever saw. Around him on the walls, powerful sigils had been inscribed in crimson mosaics. The stonework, suitably enough, was a deep vermillion, lined with terracotta decorations celebrating the many aspects of the Wind of Aqshy, the spirit of fire. For the wizards of Alexander’s order, whom the outside world knew as Bright wizards, fire was the element most closely attuned to their skills.

  Like all human wizards, the Bright mages were limited to mastery of just one of the eight winds of magic. These strictures had been laid down for hundreds of years, ever since the fabled elven mage Teclis had travelled to Altdorf during the reign of Magnus the Pious to instruct the humans in the ways of magic. The high elves themselves, so it was rumoured, could draw on the combined power of all the eight winds in their own spellcasting. Many human wizards, Alexander included, felt that the restrictions placed on the lore of the colleges were intended to keep humans back, rather than ward them from the supposed risks of the full spectrum of magic in all its danger and glory. But there was little that could be done about such a situation. The few humans who had tried to utilise more than one colour of magic had gone mad, or been driven into the arms of darkness.

  With the colleges tied to the methods laid down by Teclis, dabbling in the pure essence of the unconstrained aethyr was the business of renegades and madmen. So the elves had maintained their monopoly on the reins of true power while drawing the realms of men into their plans. Or so it seemed to him, at least.

  Alexander shook his head irritably as he walked along. Thinking about such things only worsened his mood. He arrived at his destination, and tried to relax. He was in front of a low, thick-looking door lined with iron. Protective wards had been inscribed in the metal, and the great icon of the college, the circular rune of Aqshy, had been inlaid into the wood in a band of gold.

  He smoothed his unruly hair and clothes as best he could. Like most of the mages of his order, he wore robes of deep red. His skin was inscribed with blood-coloured symbols, and even his hair and beard were flaming. His bizarre appearance was enough for most Imperial citizens to give him a wide berth, which suited him fine. Alexander was not over-fussy about his appearance like the ridiculous Gold wizards. Only his staff, the nexus of his power as a wizard, was looked after with all the care he could muster. Though a mage could work magic without a staff, the rune-studded instrument was as important to him as a sword was to a knight. It focussed his power and augmented it, acting as the fixed point about which his strange gifts coalesced. Alexander’s staff was carefully polished and maintained, and to a fellow practitioner of the magical arts, revealed much of the Bright wizard’s capability and temperament.

  Alexander rapped the tip of the shaft heavily against the iron of the door. With a yawning creak, it opened by itself, revealing a small chamber lined with candles. In the centre of the cramped space, a low fire burned. The flames were unnaturally bright, and moved in strange patterns over the brazier which sustained them. Eerie shadows were thrown up against the walls of the chamber, which in turn were lined with endless scripts of tiny engraved writing. Alexander made no attempt to read any of the curving letters on the walls. They changed so often anyway, it was futile trying to get any sense out of them. Only the master archivist, whose distant ancestor had created the powerful magic which animated the room, claimed to be able to read the shifting messages on the walls. But he was half-mad himself, and no one trusted a man who kept rats in the folds of his cloak and claimed they were his advisers.

  On the far side of the brazier, a cowled figure waited for him. The door closed, wreathing the room in shadows. Only the unnaturally warm glow of the fire and the insubstantial flickering of the candles broke the heavy gloom. Even for a wizard used to such elaborate theatre, Alexander found himself slightly unnerved.

  ‘Greetings, Patriarch,’ he said uneasily, trying to shake his pervasive bad mood.

  The seated figure threw back his cowl, and looked at Alexander with a weary expression.

  ‘When you first arrived here, Heisenherz, your consistent lateness was refreshing,’ he said acidly. ‘Now it is merely tiresome.’

  The speaker was a large, heavy-set man with a shaved head and voluminous beard. One eye was unseeing and glazed, while the other was hawk-like in its intensity. His robes were of the finest heavy cloth lined with fur, and an amulet of luminous gold hung around his neck. He was Thyrus Gorman, Patriarch of the college, and one of the most powerful mages in the Empire. He looked as displeased as Alexander at having to spend more time than was necessary in the vaults of the Bright College.

  ‘Apologies,’ said Alexander. ‘I was detained with an acolyte.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Gorman. ‘Whatever orders you were working under, you can forget them now. Things have changed. The war is altering everything. The Emperor grows intolerant of the number of wizards who remain away from the front.’

  At mention of the war, Alexander felt a curse rise within him. He bit his tongue.

  ‘So I am told,’ Alexander said. ‘But, forgive me, I see little sign of this great war. Every year some horde or other fights its way out of a hole in the mountains and carves up a province or
two. They always peter out after a while. If all the colleges were emptied every time a greenskin warlord rode into Stirland on a boar then our researches would grind to a halt.’

  Gorman regarded him coldly from under impossibly thick eyebrows.

  ‘Political acumen has never been your strong point,’ the Patriarch observed, witheringly. ‘Thankfully, you aren’t in charge of deciding such things. You will depart the city immediately and head to the Observatory of the Celestial College outside Altdorf. Their Patriarch has received some strange portents, and wishes the facility to be better guarded. It’s an easy task, and you can be thankful you’re not being sent somewhere more dangerous.’

  Alexander felt a wave of relief. Sharing a ramshackle observatory with a bunch of half-crazed amateur prophets was not his idea of a good time, but it beat trudging through the mud and gore with a column of mutinous peasant soldiers. Most Imperial citizens placed wizards somewhere between a traitor and a rat on the scale of social acceptability, so at least he would be amongst his own kind.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘What do our Celestial cousins want with a Bright wizard? Can’t they look after themselves?’

  Gorman ignored his tone.

  ‘The observatory is an institution of great importance. The Celestial College has been using it to scry the heavens in an attempt to foretell what may come to pass in the coming months. The need for their predictions has never been greater, and even you should have noticed that the skies have been strangely unsettled recently. There’s important work being done there, and someone with your unique gift for pyromancy will be of great help.’

  The Patriarch leaned forward in the darkness, as if some hidden pair of ears might possibly overhear.

  ‘And there have been troubling portents,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Visions of flame and of ruin.’

  Alexander nodded, with the faintest trace of a weary smile on his face. Where there were portents, it seemed they always involved fire and ruin.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, making to leave. ‘I’ll depart immediately.’

  Gorman shook his head impatiently.

  ‘Not just yet. There’s one more thing.’

  The Patriarch rummaged in a small pouch at his waist and pulled a metal token from it. It was a silver disc with a fine chain running through it. On the surface of the disc was an engraving of a griffon. On the rear was the Imperial coat of arms. Gorman handed it to him.

  ‘Normally there’d be some sort of ceremony involved with this, but there’s no time, and it would be wasted on the likes of you anyway. Congratulations. You’re now a member of the noble Order of the Griffon.’

  Alexander looked at the disc with some distaste.

  ‘The what?’ he said, doubtfully, turning the metal token over in his hands.

  ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. The Emperor himself has instituted it. There are members from all across the Empire. Great warriors, mighty knights, witch hunters, even the odd wizard or two. We’re all being encouraged to swell its ranks. Most of my other wizards are deployed with the Imperial armies doing useful work. As you’re one of the last to leave, I’m afraid you’re my best remaining candidate.’

  Alexander snorted.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘There must be a thousand Orders, conclaves and fraternities in the Empire. One more won’t make any difference.’

  Gorman gave him a look of studied disapproval.

  ‘There are ambitious servants of the Empire who would give up their own families to be counted amongst the Order of the Griffon. Supreme Patriarch Gelt himself is very worked up about it. And despite your lamentable attitude and general slovenliness, you have subtle gifts that can’t be ignored. If you didn’t, I’d have kicked you out of here long ago. Take the emblem, and wear it under your robes. You may scorn the honour now, but you’ll come to recognise the worth of it in time. I won’t tolerate any indiscipline from you in this matter. Just do as I say.’

  Alexander pondered resisting, but after taking a look at his Patriarch’s expression, decided against it. Some things just weren’t worth fighting for. He slipped the chain over his neck and let the silver pendant hang next to his chest. Even in the heat of the fire-lit chamber, it felt cool against his skin.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful you thought of me. Does this come with any extra orders?’

  ‘Nothing, for now,’ said Gorman. ‘Just look after the pendant. It’s your mark of identification. Keep your involvement in this secret from those outside the Order, and in due course I’ll arrange for a proper induction.’

  He gave Alexander a resigned look.

  ‘Try and live up to this, Heisenherz,’ Gorman said. ‘You’re a good wizard. Perhaps you have the potential to be more than that. The only thing holding you back is your attitude. I’ve seen wars bring out the best in men before. My hope is that the same will happen for you. This is an opportunity. Don’t spurn it.’

  Alexander nodded curtly. Lectures of this sort had been common throughout his long apprenticeship at the college. Now he was a wizard in his own right and the owner of an Imperial warrant, he had hoped the sermonising would end.

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ he said, trying to keep his voice sounding sincere. ‘And I’ll look after the pendant.’

  Gorman inclined his head, and gestured that he was free to leave. With some relief, Alexander turned on his heel and left the chamber behind. As before, the iron-bound door opened and closed behind him of its own accord.

  A nice touch, thought Alexander, walking in a leisurely fashion back the way he had come. No doubt Gorman had his own clandestine route from the chamber back up into the spires of the upper college. The Patriarchs liked their little secrets and games. As for himself, he was glad enough to get out of the city and away from the cloying atmosphere of the colleges. The Celestial wizards might be fools and dreamers, but at least the air at the observatory would be clean. That was more than could be said of Altdorf.

  Annika Bohringer crept through the tangled undergrowth as quietly as possible, keeping her head low. Her soft leather boots made little noise against the damp leaf matter of the forest floor, and her dun-coloured cloak and leggings blended well with the foliage. Behind her, Dieter made his way carefully. He was wearing the heavy brass-inlaid armour of of a Knight of the Blazing Sun, and went more slowly. Only his long training and enormous strength kept him from holding her up too much or giving them away.

  She was glad of his presence. The forests of the Empire were always dangerous, but in recent times the very countryside seemed to have risen up against its masters. The land was stricken with plague, and though the worst of the pestilence had subsided, the baleful effects of infection were still everywhere to be seen. Where prosperous villages had once bustled and flourished, now empty husks stood mournfully, burnt out by the cleansing fire of her fellow witch hunters or destroyed by the madness of their former inhabitants. Crops rotted in the fields untended, and the thick matted canopy of the forest had begun to stretch back over lands long claimed by men. The Empire’s hold over the vast homeland of Sigmar, ever tenuous, was beginning to fracture.

  Annika clasped her pistol tightly, and ran her thumb along the precious surface of the esoteric weapon. She was a traditionalist in most respects, and in general preferred the crossbow or short-bladed sword to the newfangled gadgets of the engineers. But her flintlock was something special. Three long, exquisitely-bored barrels extended nearly twelve inches from the ivory-inlaid handle. They were arranged in a pyramid formation, with intricate carvings of dragons in flight etched along the length of the steel shafts. It was a machine of rare craftsmanship.

  Only three had ever been made. One had been lost when its owner had led an ill-fated attempt to purge the lower Drakwald of beastmen twenty years ago. The other resided in an iron casket in Nuln, guarded by rings of elaborate traps and hidden deep in the vaults of the College of Engineers. Annika’s was the only one left in use, and she cherished it. It had been g
iven to her by the man who had made it, Augustus Ironblood, in payment of a debt of honour. It was rare indeed for a witch hunter to earn the gratitude of an Imperial citizen, and so she had taken it and learned to use it in preference to the crossbow. Long practice had made her a markswoman of the highest order. Now Ironblood was dead, and her skill with his greatest creation was the only way to mark his generosity.

  Annika paused, and peered through the overhanging branches. The weight of the pistol in her right hand was comforting. Dieter arrived at her side, his sword drawn. He had an open-faced helmet on, and wore an expression of flat, calm concentration. There was nothing untoward in this. Dieter always wore a look of flat, calm concentration.

  ‘Look there,’ whispered Annika, pointing ahead with the muzzle of her weapon. ‘More of them.’

  Dieter nodded grimly. Perhaps twenty paces ahead of their position, the trees began to thin and the land fell away. Further ahead there was a break in the forest and rough clear ground stood open to the sky. In the past, the place might have been tended and cultivated, but now the earth was overgrown with straggling creepers and brambles. Amidst the tangled briars, shapes were moving. They had the form of humans, but were each somehow distorted. All limped or dragged their limbs in an awkward fashion. Where the dappled sunlight fell on their faces, the skin looked pale and deathly. Some seemed to have odd growths protruding from under their rags, or patches of sores, or strange gaps where flesh should have been. None were untouched by mutation.