MARK OF HERESY
JAMES WALLIS


Chapter One
MEETINGS



HE CAME OUT of the darkness like a lion onto dogs, crashing out of the leafless trees beside the rough earth road, his sword raised and swinging. The first of the group half-turned towards him and fell with his face bisected in a spray of blood. The second lifted an axe to defend himself but the sword darted low, a flash of blue steel like a kingfisher over a stream, slicing through leather and cutting flesh. The third stared at the sudden stump of his arm as he dropped, his legs cut from under him. The fourth parried the thrust aimed at his heart, took the hilt of the sword in his face, staggered back a pace and was decapitated, his head falling to the frozen ground, followed a second later by his body.
The last two turned and fled, heading off the road and into the forest, leaving the corpses of their comrades twitching on the road around the statue-still newcomer. His tall form was dark against the sombre sky of the late afternoon. His hair was jet-black and wild, the feathers of some dark bird about to take flight. Shadows hid his eyes and scars.
The four men he had saved cowered beside the cart they had been pulling. They wore monks' robes and victims' bruises, and stared at their saviour with fright and disbelief. Two of them were silent; two muttered prayers and praises to a selection of gods. The dark man did not look at them, but walked to the edge of the earth road, tore up a handful of frost-dried grass and began to wipe the blood from his sword-blade.
The leader of the monks stepped away from his followers, moving towards the nearest of the corpses. The tall man moved quickly towards him, blocking his path with a hand to prevent him from getting close.
'Don't. Leave them.'
The monk flinched, looking up, seeing the man's face for the first time. A few weeks later, when the witch hunters questioned him about it, even under torture all he could remember was the dark, straight hair, the unshaved high cheekbones, the deep-set eyes bracketing the twisted shape of a nose that had been aquiline before it had been broken. This was a man who used to be handsome. Now his face commanded respect and fear, but few would smile at it. There was a bandage around his neck, almost hidden by the collar of his tunic.
The monk tore his gaze away. 'These men are dead,' he said, 'and I must bless them.'
By answer the man drew his sword and used the tip to rip open the ragged shirt of the closest corpse. Under the skin, something thick writhed.
'Not men,' he said, 'and not dead. Mutants, things of Chaos. They do not need your blessings.'
The monk shook his head. 'If I do not bless them,' he said, 'then their bodies may be possessed by necromancers. It is my duty to protect them against dark magics.'
'Then help me burn them, to destroy their contagion. No sorcery can raise a body from that.'
'Let me bless them before you burn them.' The monk paused. The tall man's expression was guarded and unchanged, and he could not read a reaction in it. 'Even mutants were men once,' he said, 'and some may have been good men. Even you cannot say that their souls should not be sent to sleep eternally with our lord Morr.'
The tall man did not move as he paused, considering the priest's words. 'Very well,' he said. There was dark humour in the voice, though none in his face. 'Begin your blessings, while your fellows help me gather firewood. Work fast, nightfall is not far off. What town is closest?'
'Oberwil.'
'I have heard of it. There is a monastery there. You are from its Order?'
The older monk bowed. 'I am Father Darius of the temple of Sigmar. We have spent a week in prayer at the shrine of Sigmar's Water in the forest.' He turned, pointing away into the trees. 'We were ambushed as we began our return. They killed two of us and made the others pull the cart. They would not say where we were going.'
'To their camp, where your bodies would have joined their food-stocks. It has been a long, hungry winter for all of us, and their hunger has made them bold. Go, start your blessings.'
The monk turned away, then back. 'Stranger, we have not yet given you our thanks for saving us, nor asked your name.'
The man's expression was hidden in the shadows of the late afternoon. 'Your thanks is not important.'
'And your name?'
'Less important than your thanks.' He paused. The other monks were moving, picking up dead branches from beside the road, making a pyre, staying away from the corpses of the mutated bandits. 'Is Oberwil far?'
Father Darius shook his head. 'Two hours maybe.'
'I will come with you.' He paused, watching the monks work. 'Luthor Huss served his novitiate at your monastery, I believe?'
'A part of it, he did, and a very different novice he was to the warrior-priest he's become.' Father Darius grimaced. 'A diligent, faithful youth, attentive to his lessons and respectful to his superiors. How much has changed.'
The stranger stared away, towards the embers of sunlight. 'Tell me, does Frau Brida Farber still live in Oberwil?'
'She does. You know her?'
'I knew a friend of hers. Tell me of her.'
'A kind woman, though her life is sad. Her husband died two years ago, and her only grandchild died of cowpox this autumn. She visits the sick in the monastery hospice. You must excuse me: I have to say the blessings.' He walked away, then paused to look back. The enigmatic swordsman was silhouetted against the reddening sky, unmoving, staring down the road towards Oberwil.
There was something about him that unnerved Father Darius. He could not think of the last time he had spoken to a man who had used language like a sword and shield, his questions fast and sharp, all responses parried and knocked aside. Perhaps this was a man who had much to be defensive about.
Blessing the corpses was slow and laborious. Darius had not performed the prayers to Morr, god of death and afterlife, for some time and the words came to mind only slowly. By the time he finished praying over the last corpse the other monks had finished a good-sized bonfire and were standing around it, silent, watching him. He straightened up slowly, looking at them.
'Pile the bodies on the firewood,' he instructed.
Nobody moved, and he was not surprised. They might be priests of Sigmar but they were scared. There was something about the taint of Chaos that overruled knowledge, objectivity and the serenity of the gods' grace, shaking loose a deep primeval terror in the hearts and stomachs of all men. Even Father Darius felt it. His acolytes were young, initiates, and for most of them this was their first encounter with the world's darkest power. Rumour said that to touch a body infected with Chaos was to risk contagion and damnation for one's own flesh. Of course they were scared.
Then the tall stranger was striding past him to the first of the bodies, picking it up. Part of it twitched and flinched as he carried it a few paces and half-flung, half-dropped it on the woodpile with a sound of cracking branches, and the gathered monks took a pace backwards, away from it. He lifted the second body and dropped that beside the first, then turned to fetch the third. Father Darius had reached it first, gripping it below the arms to drag it to the pyre. He had to show this stranger that his Order was not weak, in body or in spirit.
The corpse reared, twisting, its split face gaping wide. Teeth had formed along the edge of the wound. They clamped shut on his wrist. Father Darius jerked away in shock and pain, but the mutant's new jaw gripped hard. He could feel the teeth grating against his bones.
The stranger was beside him, sword drawn. A first stroke decapitated the savage corpse, a second smashed its skull and it fell away, leaving bones and teeth embedded in the priest's arm. The stranger drew back his sword, looking down at Darius who had fallen to his knees. The priest looked up, into his eyes. There were no words, just a joint understanding of what had to be done.
The bloodied sword slashed down, and Darius's hand and wrist fell to the ground. He screamed. Blood pumped from the severed end of his arm. He stared for a second at the stump and went limp, unconscious from shock and pain.
The other monks, taken by surprise, reacted with screams and shouts. One ran at the stranger, trying to knock his sword down. The swordsman swatted the monk away with his free hand.
'Light the wood!' he yelled. 'Bring me fire to seal the wound!' Then, quieter: 'The rest of you pray to Sigmar that the creature's blood didn't mingle with the father's before I acted.' He pulled a cord from his pocket, looped it tight round the stump and pulled it tight.
'Will he live?' one asked.
'He may. Pray that I was in time and his body is free of Chaos.' He turned to stare at them, his eyes wild and red. 'Pray, damn you! Pray!'

LOKSTEDTERWEG, A PROSPEROUS street in the mercantile district of the city of Altdorf, was shadowed and quiet in the late afternoon light. A few people were coming out of their houses and walking slowly down it, out of the street, their pace deliberately slow, their faces apprehensive. At one end of the street a high-sided cart stood at rest in the cobbled gutter, the large horse in its traces standing with bowed head. Behind it, huddled in a small group, stood four men. Three wore the black tunics and silver buttons of witch hunters while the fourth, shorter, older and balder, had on a heavy golden robe embroidered with a strange symbol like a circle pierced by an arrow over his breast.
The four men were watching a man wearing the leather apron of a carpenter further down the street. He had emerged from the front door of a house, leading a group of women and children out after him. Now, rather too nonchalantly, he was ushering them towards a side-street that led away at right angles. The children and the women, a mix of goodwives and servants from their clothes and scarfs, looked straight ahead and walked quickly. The carpenter followed more slowly, and glanced over his shoulder at another house that stood slightly back from the street, its shutters closed, a few doors down from the one he had left.
Erwin Rhinehart, a witch hunter for four years, with thirty-five successful prosecutions to his name, groaned. 'Idiot,' he said. 'He knows they're watching the street from in there.'
'The city watch are amateurs. I told you we should have used our people for this,' Theo Kratz said. Three years younger than Rhinehart, he had two inches in height, a year's superiority and twelve more executions to his status, and it was obvious he knew it.
'You know we don't have the manpower in Altdorf right now,' Rhinehart said without taking his eyes off the house.
'He's coming over,' said Anders Holger. Youngest and quietest of the three, his blond curls and soft western accent led his colleagues in the Order of Sigmar to take him less seriously, and some felt that his reputation for plodding thought and the fact he did not assume everyone was guilty of something indicated that perhaps he took himself less seriously too.
The last of the women had left the street, and the man in the carpenter's apron was approaching the cart. A few feet away he stopped and saluted the group. 'Rolf Aachen of the city watch—' he started.
Kratz grabbed his raised arm, pulling it down and yanking the man out of sight of the house. 'You idiot,' he growled. 'If you've blown this operation…'
Rhinehart put a hand on his shoulder. 'Enough, Theo. He's only doing his job, however badly. He doesn't know what's going on because we didn't brief him on it. Do you?' The watchman rubbed his shoulder and shook his head. Rhinehart stared at Kratz. 'I'm in charge of this operation. I'm the one who followed these two all the way here from Talabheim. If there are reprimands to give, I'll give them,' he said. Then to the watchman: 'Continue.'
'All houses within fifty yards have been cleared, sir. Men with crossbows are out of sight down every street and alley. There's no way out.'
The man in the gold robes coughed gently. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'Time is creeping on. This operation would be a good deal easier if carried out before evening falls, and besides I have an audience with the Supreme Patriarch in under an hour. Could we proceed?'
Rhinehart shook his head. 'I apologise, my lord wizard, but we can't start till the magus from the Jade College gets here.'
The wizard pursed his lips. 'My skills have been proved on the Empire's battlefields many times. In a matter such as this—'
'The matter,' said Rhinehart, 'my lord wizard, is that one of the renegade acolytes holed up in that house was from your college, and one is from the Jade College. Each has to have a representative at their arrest. That is the matter.'
The wizard looked put out. 'Yes, but merely a matter of protocol.'
'Protocol and defence. If spells start flying, we need someone from each college to neutralise them.'
'The spells?'
'The casters.'
'I thought you wanted these men alive?'
'If possible, yes.'
'But nobody will weep if they die,' Kratz said. Rhinehart turned and glared at him, but before an argument could start Holger tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the far end of the street. A gaunt man with shaven head, bare feet and green robes had rounded the corner and was standing, gazing around, looking lost. Then he spotted the group by the cart and began walking down the street towards them, his strides long and purposeful.
'Is that him?'
'Damn him, it is!' Rhinehart waved frantically, gesturing him to move back down the road. The approaching wizard saw the movement and waved back, quickening his pace.
'He's in clear view! They must have seen him!' Kratz exclaimed.
'No movement from inside,' Holger said, his eyes not moving from the house.
'We can't take the risk - we have to move now.' Rhinehart drew his sword and pointed, the tone of command in his voice. 'Kratz, you get the Jade mage under cover. My lord Rudolphus, stay here and give fire if necessary. Anders, you with me.'
Holger looked startled. 'Wouldn't it be better to wait for them to make a move?'
'That would be your way, yes? More pragmatic, and safer. But this is Altdorf and I'm in charge, so we are doing this one by the letter of the law. And that says we have to try to arrest them and they have to resist before we can kill them. Come on.' He ran across the street to the cover of the far side, then edged towards the heavy front door of the watched house. Holger followed, feeling hidden eyes watching him.
They stood either side of the door. Holger looked on as Kratz pulled the Jade wizard away down the street. Then Rhinehart drew a dagger with his left hand and used its pommel to bang three hard knocks on the impassive wood.
'Harald Topfer! Timotheus Jager! We are witch hunters! In the name of Sigmar, we charge you with unauthorised casting of spells and dealing with Dark Powers! Surrender or—'
The door blew out across the street in a concussion of fire and noise. The shutters shattered, exploding into splinters, flames gouting from the windows. Holger was knocked back and down, landing hard on the blunt cobbles. He dragged himself up. His ears and head were ringing. Rhinehart was still on his feet, clutching at his left arm. It hung oddly, where the fragments of the exploding door had hit it. Holger glanced at it. Possibly dislocated but not broken, he thought. Bloody painful all the same.
There was a moment of silence, then a hiss as balls of fire sped down the street from the fingers of the wizard in gold robes. They flew through the now-open windows of the house to detonate inside with heavy reports. Holger caught Rhinehart's attention.
'We've got to go in,' he shouted above the noise.
'What!'
'That explosion was a distraction. They know we're out here. They'll try to escape over the back wall.'
Rhinehart's eyes were full of pain but he nodded. Holger went in first.
The interior of the house was gutted, full of smoke, dimly lit by burning furniture. It was hellish and hard to breathe. Holger ran through the rooms towards the rear. The wizards outside had stopped throwing fireballs, he noticed, and felt grateful.
The main rooms led to the servants' quarters, and from there into a scrubby herb-garden surrounded by a high brick wall. Two men stood by the doorway to the rear street, one with his hand on the bolt. They were arguing. Holger took them in at a glance: their unstubbled faces, unlined brows and the intensity of their panic. Still in their teens, he thought, caught up in their studies, forgot to get the proper authority to practice their new-learned magic, and suddenly found themselves criminals, suspected of dealings with Chaos and pursued half-way across the Empire. No wonder they were panicked.
He raised his gloved left hand. 'Don't open the gate!' he shouted. 'There are crossbowmen outside with orders to shoot you.'
'We're not here to kill you.' Rhinehart called from behind him. 'It's not too late. Give yourselves up, cooperate and we'll help you.' It was a lie, Holger knew, but a lie in the service of the greater truth was an allowable sin for a witch hunter.
The two sorcerers looked at each other, then one stepped forward with hands out and palms up, a gesture of supplication. 'Please,' he said, 'don't hurt us. We only—'
Holger was trying to see the other man. The second wizard was hidden behind his partner, one hand raised in front of his mouth. Suddenly he knew what was happening. 'Spellcasting!' he shouted and lunged forward, sword high. But as he did he felt himself falling, his mind swirling away. He saw Rhinehart collapse ahead of him, and then his vision went black. He was not aware of hitting the ground.
Someone slapped his face and he jerked awake. Rhinehart knelt over him. 'Get up,' he said through gritted teeth. Holger staggered upright.
'What happened?' he asked.
'They hit us with a sleeping spell. I fell on my bad arm and woke up fast. They've gone back into the house. Come on.'
Inside, the house was still burning. They ran through the flames, knowing that their quarry would not have paused either. The stairs were ablaze and impassable. There was only one way out: the front doorway. They went for it.
Outside there was a commotion in the street. Men in city watch uniforms stood in doorways and windows, aiming crossbows. Kratz stood on top of the cart, his sword drawn and raised. In the centre of the street lay two figures, flailing weakly as if trapped under an invisible weight, unable to move or speak. They were surrounded by a lattice of glowing gold bars that pulsed with energy. Hofstadter's Enchantment of the Gilded Cage, Holger thought. He'd heard of it but never seen it cast.
Thank Sigmar they'd cleared the area: the citizens of Altdorf were better schooled and more sophisticated than the country peasants, but even they tended to panic at the sight of raw magic. At opposite ends of the street, the representatives of the Gold and Jade Colleges stood, gazes fixed in concentration to maintain their spells.
'Neutralised,' Rhinehart said. 'Six bloody months it took, but now we can question—'
'Fire!' Kratz shouted from atop the cart, slashing his sword down.
'No!' Holger cried. Crossbow bolts filled the air, thudding into the prone and helpless figures of the two sorcerers, pincushioning their bodies. Rhinehart gave a strangled groan. The men's blood seeped through their robes and flowed over the cobbles around them in a red pool, and they lay still.
By the time the burning house had been extinguished and searched, the corpses had been removed, the wizards from the Colleges of Magic thanked, the watchmen dismissed, the locals allowed back into their houses and the blood cleaned from the street, some of Rhinehart's fury and frustration had abated, but much remained. Holger watched him simmer over the next hour, impressed with the man's ability to remain professional despite his obvious rage at Kratz.
Finally they were sat around a table in The Fist and Glove tavern, surrounded by the dark atmosphere of the room where witch hunters had gathered for centuries to drink to forget the horrors they had seen. At last Rhinehart could hold in his anger no longer, and he started in on Kratz before the pot-boy had brought their first beers.
'You had no right to give that order.'
'I had every right.' Kratz sat back with the smug half-grin of a man convinced of his own supremacy. 'I was the ranking officer and in my opinion the renegades presented a threat and had to be killed.'
'Ranking officer? Anders and I were standing in front of you!'
'You were compromised. You'd been in the same building as the sorcerers, so you could have been under their influence. I had no choice.'
The beer arrived. 'Of course you had a bloody choice,' Rhinehart said, his pint in his hand. 'But you saw a way to snatch the glory for six months of my work, and you couldn't resist it. You son of a bitch.'
Kratz put his tankard down carefully. 'Two renegade spellcasters are dead. The Empire is safer than it was a few hours ago. I do Sigmar's work.'
'You do your own work, pleasing your high-born friends close to the Grand Theogonist. Maybe they told you to have the wizards killed?'
'Magic channels the stuff of Chaos,' Kratz growled, 'and men who misuse it are as dangerous to Sigmar's empire as the mad army that sacked Wolfenburg in the autumn. The law is clear: they must die.'
'They were my prisoners!'
'You were compromised!'
'What I don't understand,' Holger interrupted before the argument went any further over old ground, 'is why they came back to Altdorf.' There was a momentary silence from the other two and he ploughed on: 'They fled from here originally, I'm right? So why would they return, especially if they knew there was a witch hunter on their trail? All in all,' he concluded, 'it would have been useful to question them before they were killed.'
The other two stared at him and he felt pleased that he had been able to defuse the argument, drawing its aim onto him, before his two colleagues tore each other apart. Rhinehart had every right to be angry, but there was something in Kratz's defensiveness that was disturbing. He was about to continue his train of thought, hoping to distract the two from their argument, but someone was standing by the table. It was one of the novices from the Order of Sigmar. Holger had seen the boy before, in the hallways of the Altdorf chapter-house, their headquarters. He couldn't have been more than twelve.
'Brothers,' the novice began, 'I have a message…' He paused and swallowed. Holger guessed he was intimidated by having to address two witch hunters whose hair and clothes were still scorched and smelling of smoke from the house-fire, and a third widely known to be among the more notoriously zealous members of their Order.
'Spit it out,' Rhinehart said. 'Who's it for?'
'All of you, brothers.'
'All of us?'
'Yes, brothers.'
'Who's it from?'
'Brother Karin… wishes to speak with you in the upper library at ten bells.'
The three exchanged a look of surprise. Rhinehart drank his beer. Kratz's face was blank. It was left for Holger to smile at the boy. 'Thank you for your message, brother,' he said. 'Tell Brother Karin that we will be there.' The novice nodded and left them to their beers.
'Ten bells,' Holger said. 'Late for a meeting.'
Kratz spat in his half-empty tankard and rose to his feet. 'Excuse me. I must scourge myself and pray.' Holger and Rhinehart watched him leave.
'We should finish our beers and go too,' Holger said, 'and wash the day's filth away.'
'Filth is right,' Rhinehart said. 'Ashes and bile. I hate him. Six months of my work destroyed for an ounce of his patron's favour.'
'What do you mean?'
'He's transparent,' Rhinehart said. 'His zeal and ambition have found favour with our new Lord Protector, Lord Bethe, and Bethe's master Johann Esmer, the Grand Theogonist. He's their creature now. Bethe's as hard-line as Kratz is, and Esmer hates all wizards because he believes them a threat to his power.'
Holger shook his head. 'Theo is ambitious, I grant, but he's not a political animal. Being political implies an ability to negotiate and compromise, and Sigmar knows he has neither of those. Besides, interrogating the two renegades might have brought us information that would embarrass the Colleges of Magic, weakening them that way.' He supped his beer, thinking. 'It's possible that he was just following the law: it says renegades must be put to death, and his zeal is unmatched among our contemporaries. But…'
Rhinehart drained his tankard and waved the pot-boy over for a refill. 'What do you mean?'
Holger shrugged. 'I don't know. A suspicion, nothing more. I pray I'm wrong.'

A HUGE MAN strode towards the Cathedral of Sigmar through the noonday crowds. Plated with armour, a heavy warhammer on a strap at his hip, muttering imprecations under his breath, he was an incongruous sight but nothing was so strange as the human form he carried in both arms. It was man-sized, stiff and gold. People moved out of his way fast.
'Luthor Huss,' people whispered to each other. 'Huss the warrior-priest. Huss the outspoken. Huss the renegade. Huss the prophet.' He heard them. Let them whisper. They would have more to whisper about by the end of the day.
He mounted the steps that led up to the massive metal doors, closed for the service within, and turned to face the good citizens of Nuln in the square below. Not all of them were looking at him. Clutching the figure of the man with one hand, he unhooked his warhammer with the other and swung it, striking the doors with a crash that rang out across the city like a bell. Now he had their attention.
He held the golden figure up for all to see, his bear-like hand around its neck. Its wooden limbs dangled loose and its head lolled.
'Do you see this man?' he demanded in a voice like a landslide. 'This is Johann Esmer. This is the Grand Theogonist! The protector of our faith! The representative of Sigmar!'
He struck the doors again, and again the sound reverberated across the square.
'See how he is tarnished? See his lust for gold made visible on his flesh?' He shook the effigy and its limbs rattled. The wood-carving had taken him all night. He had never actually met Johann Esmer, nor seen the man's likeness, so he had no idea if the dummy's gold-painted face resembled the Grand Theogonist at all. But the crowd didn't know either. Esmer had never been to Nuln.
'The hospice at Wartenberg. The blessed forge at Blauenthal. The Brotherhood of the Holy Spring at Ludenscheid. The monastery at Oberwil. For his first act, the leader of our church has ordered the closure of these holy places and more. Fourteen in all. Fourteen temples to Sigmar! And at this time of darkness, of famine and the encroachment of Chaos, he has done this - to save gold for his coffers in Altdorf!'
The crowd was silent before him. From the corner of his eye he saw uniformed figures emerging from doorways and archways around the cathedral square, the colours of Templars bright on their armour. He knew these men: he had joked with them, eaten with them and prayed with them. Now they had their jobs to do. His time, he knew, was short.
'How much longer must we endure this? How much longer will we be forced to swallow this diet of worms? Can you not see the darkness descending on our souls? How long before this downward spiral into devilry is the end of us all?' he roared, shaking the wooden mannequin. Then he turned, held it up to the metal of the door and brought his hammer crashing down against it. There was a gasp from the masses behind him. He let go, and surveyed his work.
The nail he had positioned at the figure's heart had done its job. The effigy of Esmer was held in place, hanging limp like a corpse, the word ''Esmer'' carved into its golden forehead.
He turned back to the crowd. There were more Templars taking up positions, but they made no move towards him. What he had done was treason and sacrilege, defacing the cathedral and demeaning its highest priest. As holy knights the Templars should arrest him, but he knew that many of them secretly agreed with his views, and they would let him leave the square as long as he kept walking. With Chaos such a potent force in the land, no city could tolerate the presence of such a heretic within its walls - but with Chaos a potent force in the land, a city was no place for a warrior-priest like him. And besides, he had a new god to find.
He walked away from the cathedral, towards the west gate of the city, knowing he was leaving the first part of his life behind him. He prayed to Sigmar that he was doing the right thing.

THE HIGH WINDOWS of the upper library of the Order of Sigmar, the headquarters of the witch hunters, looked out over the sleeping city. The bright architecture and whitewashed walls of Altdorf lay dark and cold in the greenish moonlight. The sound of ten bells had rolled out across the quiet streets from the high tower of the Cathedral of Sigmar a few minutes before, and now the gothic limestone bulk of the largest temple in the Empire stood silent, outlined against the night sky like a great gaunt tree, its high spiked branches reaching up towards the moon. Inside the library, the room was empty, the tables plain, the chairs simple, the bookshelves largely bare. There were few books that the witch hunters trusted.
Brother Karin was waiting for them. Dressed in the austere black uniform common to all witch hunters, their brother officer in the Order of Sigmar stood silhouetted against the window, gazing out over the night streets below. Hearing their approach, the dark figure turned to face them,
'Brothers,' she said. 'Thank you for coming.'
Holger had heard about the transformation of Sister Karin Schiller, and the reasons for it. She had been a part of one of the armies that had travelled north last summer, alongside Lord Gamow, her mentor in the Order and her unacknowledged lover. They had been ambushed by forces of Chaos and their troops slaughtered almost to the last man. Gamow had died in single combat against a traitorous mutant in the Empire's army, and she had watched it happen. By the time she returned to Altdorf Karin had reinvented herself in Gamow's image and memory. She abandoned her femininity, denying weakness of any kind, demanding to be treated like a man.
The Order of Sigmar was overwhelmingly, relentlessly male-dominated. It had female members, but they were few, and inconspicuous. But Brother Karin's mind was iron and her will was ruthless. Amidst the changes that had happened in the Order of Sigmar since the violent death of the Grand Theogonist Volkmar the Grim and the troubled installation of his successor Johann Esmer, she - he - had proved herself and had advanced within its ranks to become the confidante and advisor of the order's new Lord Protector, Lord Bethe, the man appointed by Esmer to the post her late lover had held.
She was still a startlingly beautiful woman. The austere lines of the witch hunter's uniform were not tailored for a female figure, and its contours were shaped and filled by hers, swelling at her breasts and hips, and tight around her waist. Her hair had been cut short in a manly style that served only to accentuate the length of her pale neck. No lack of kohl, rouge or powder could make her eyes, cheekbones and lips any less womanly. Despite herself, Brother Karin was very attractive. Even her voice, lowered an octave, had a huskiness to it that was half purr, half growl.
'Karl Hoche,' she said. 'Find him.'
'The renegade mutant? Why? Why now?' Rhinehart asked.
'And why us?' Holger said.
'There is something happening out there,' Karin said, gesturing to the world beyond the window, 'and Hoche is a catalyst. Where he goes, things happen.' She moved from the window to the central table and leaned against it, her pose disquietingly masculine. 'Often people die. Many people.'
'Brother Karin.' Kratz's tone was conciliatory, diplomatic. 'We are all aware of the death of your friend and mentor Lord Gamow at the hands of Karl Hoche last year, but—'
'This has nothing to do with that. Hoche is a danger to us all. Maddened by his past and his taint, he is taking the law in his own hands, interpreting it according to the twisted rules taught him by the Untersuchung. His existence undermines our authority, and he intends to continue his perverted crusade against those he decides are agents of Chaos.'
'How do you know that, brother?' Rhinehart asked.
'He writes me letters,' she said. 'He sends them by the coach-mail, routed through different towns so by the time they reach Altdorf their origin cannot be traced. Even if we could find where they were sent from, he would be long gone when we got there. You three will have authority to use whatever force necessary to find him and stop him.'
'Dead or alive?'
'Preferably dead.'
'And why us?' Holger prompted.
'You have met him.'
Holger blinked. Kratz gave a short, barking, 'Ha!' Rhinehart looked sceptical.
'Fifteen months ago,' Karin said, 'the three of you spent an evening in The Fist and Glove drinking with a pious merchant from Carroburg called Herr Frei. A tall man, blind in one eye, with black curly hair. He questioned you about the arrest of the Untersuchung. That merchant was Karl Hoche. I was there; I saw you and him together. We captured him later that night, after he had killed one of our brothers.'
'I remember him. He seemed nervous,' Holger said.
'Do you remember enough to recognise him again?'
'His manner, his movements… yes. I would know him if I spoke to him.'
'Good.' Karin took a few steps to stand in front of them, the hard soles of her shoes rapping against the bare wood floor. 'Brother Theo, the Lord Protector tells me you are already bound for Nuln to look into the Huss matter. Judging from his last few letters, Hoche seems to be travelling in that direction.'
Kratz bowed.
'Brother Erwin, his last known point was Averheim; see if you can pick up a trail from there.' Rhinehart dipped his head in acknowledgement.
'Brother Anders, you will stay in Altdorf.'
'Altdorf?' Holger said.
'Altdorf. All reports of Hoche's activity will come here, all sightings, all news. You will sort it and send word to our brothers in the field. And when Hoche comes here, you will know it, and you will be ready for him.'
'Why would he come here?' Rhinehart asked.
'To kill me,' she replied. 'This is why he writes to me. Each letter is an accusation and a warning. I know he will come to Altdorf, sooner or later, but we will be ready for him.'
'When do we begin?'
'It has begun,' she said. 'You leave tomorrow morning. I will pray for your success.'

'YOU CUT OFF Father Darius's hand?' Frau Farber asked incredulously.
'He could not risk corruption,' the tall man said, and shifted in his chair. 'Even if the Chaos-thing's essence had not entered his body, he could never be certain that he was safe from the infection in its blood, that at any time his body might begin to mutate. My sword gave him that certainty. He is more whole with one hand than he would be with both.'
'If he survives the wound,' Frau Farber said. 'But you speak like a man who has dealt with Chaos at first hand before.'
He saw the suspicion in her eyes and smiled ruefully, but said nothing. So this was the woman he had travelled so far to find. She was not what he had expected: tall and slim, in a simple high-collared dress that accentuated her figure. The lamplight made her pale skin glow like porcelain. Her face seemed still, calm and ageless, but the wrinkles on the back of her hands could not be disguised as easily.
The two of them sat in silence for a while. Firelight illuminated the parlour of the modest townhouse, a street away from the market-square of Oberwil. It was small and tidy, with tapestries on the walls and every shelf decorated with ornaments of china, porcelain and bone. Only one thing was out of place here, he thought, and that was him.
'So, Frau Farber,' he began. 'I would ask…'
'You would ask another roundabout question that wastes our time and gets us nowhere,' she said. 'Stop this. Tell me your name and why you have travelled so hard to find me, or leave me in peace.'
'If I do,' he said, 'will you help me?'
Her eyes were as cold as a statue's. 'I make no deals without hearing the terms first,' she said, and then, 'Tea?'
He lifted a hand to scratch at the dirty bandage that encicled his neck. 'Frau Farber,' he said, 'I will lay out all the cards I hold, though they are few and of little value. My name is Karl Hoche. I was a member of the same organisation of Chaos-hunters as you, the Untersuchung. We fought the good fight until a corrupt witch hunter realised we were a threat to his schemes, denounced us and had our Order arrested and burnt. Few of us escaped, and most of them have changed their names and fled, or gone to ground. As you have.'
She said nothing, but hung a tin kettle over the hearth to boil.
'It has taken me a long time to find you,' he said. 'My tutor and friend Gottfried Braubach left hints to your identity in his diary.'
She turned her back to him, busying herself with teacups.
'I am contacting as many old agents as I can,' he said. 'Nobody is tracking down the Chaos cults that have infiltrated the Empire's courts and councils. Even the witch hunters have been corrupted at their highest levels. The Untersuchung's time is past and we cannot rebuild it, but we can make a new organisation to fight the schemes of Chaos. And that is why I sought you out. I need your help, Frau Farber.'
She did not turn to face him. 'How do I know I can trust you?'
He smiled at her back. 'I can give you no reassurance except my word. But a spy intent on trapping you would have forged a proof. My lack of evidence is the only bond I can offer.'
'How do you know you can trust me?'
'I don't. But concealed within the carvings on your door is the Untersuchung code-symbol for a safe-house, so at least I was sure you were the right person.'
'Who is the corrupt witch hunter you mentioned?'
'Lord Gamow, their former Lord Protector. Dead.'
'Braubach's diary?'
'Destroyed.'
'And how many Untersuchung agents have you tracked down?'
'You,' Karl said, 'are the fourth.'
'How many have joined you?'
He did not answer. He knew she knew.
'One agent to save the Empire,' she said, 'and him a liar. You have kept one card hidden from me, and it is a trump.'
'Yes,' he said, and knew he had lost her too. 'I bear the mark of damnation. Chaos flows in my blood, put there by a cultist's cursed blade. I am a mutant like the ones I killed on the road. My body is changing, and though so far my mind remains clear, one day it too will succumb to this curse. Until then, I shall fight against the power and influence of Chaos wherever I find it, with every shred of my strength.'
She said nothing, but passed him a cup of tea. He took it and their fingers brushed. She did not flinch away.
'How did you know it?' Karl asked. 'Can you recognise us?'
She sat down, holding her own cup. 'Nothing so clever. There are handbills for your arrest, Karl Hoche. They describe you as a mutant, a traitor and an assassin. They say you betrayed an entire army to an ambush by Chaos knights. They promise two hundred gold crowns for your head.'
'Signed by Brother Karin Schiffer,' he said. 'I have seen them. They are not true.'
'Why are you really doing this?' she asked. 'You didn't cross half the Empire to find an old woman, expecting her to join your foolhardy crusade.'
He looked into her face and found nothing there to distrust. 'I have nobody I can talk to,' he said. 'There is nobody to help me bear my pain. Even for a man such as I am, loneliness is a fearsome burden. Talking to somebody who understands… who does not hate or fear me… even for a few minutes…' His words trailed away.
There was a long pause, heavy with meaning. She looked at him, and her eyes were not unkind. 'Agent Hoche - Karl - I cannot join you. I will tell you what I told the last Untersuchung agent who sought me out…'
'Wait.' Karl leaned forward, tea spilling unseen from his cup. 'I'm not the first? There have been others?'
'There was one other,' said Frau Farber, 'who sought me out here, two months ago.'
'What was his name?'
'He would not tell me. About your age, or slightly older. Three inches shorter than you, ten pounds heavier, hair brown and thinning, posing as a mendicant. He wore a silver hammer on a chain and had a strange wide scar on his neck.'
Karl shook his head. 'What did you tell him?'
'What I have told you: that I cannot help you. But ten weeks before that, as the harvest was coming in, I received a letter. It was not signed, but its text was filled with our pass-phrases. It said that if I was interested in continuing the - what was the phrase? – ''the great work of my former employer'' then if I went to The Dog and Pony tavern in Nuln and asked for Herr Scharlach, I would learn something to my advantage. And then I sent him away.'
'May I see the letter?'
She shook her head. 'Destroyed, like you destroyed Braubach's diary. Too dangerous to keep.'
Karl was silent for a long moment. 'So what now?' he asked.
'Now I send you away, and clean up the mess you've made,' she said.
'Mess?'
She pointed at the spilled tea, but he knew she meant more. In this small community there would be questions: why had the stranger who'd saved the monks in the forest wanted to see her? What had he said? Who was he? All these things would require falsehood, and a tapestry of good lies takes time to weave.
'Is there nothing else you can do for me?' he asked.
She was already on her feet, fetching a cloth from a cupboard beside the fireplace, but stopped and looked at him.
'I can read your fortune,' she said.
Karl stared at her. She smiled, and there was a lifetime in the smile.
'My husband was a merchant captain,' she said, 'and knew a man from Araby, who claimed to have learned the skill from a man in Ind, who had had it from one of the fabled sorcerers of Cathay. I do it rarely these days, but I will do it for you. Choose six sticks from that box of kindling and pass them to me.'
Karl dug among the rough twigs, sorting and selecting. 'Does it work?'
Frau Farber shrugged. 'If you believe a thing will happen, does it become more or less likely? If you doubt it then don't see it as prophecy, see it as advice.' She took the sticks from him, closed her eyes and cast them onto the carpet in front of her. They fell in a scatter. She stared down at them, her lips pursed. In that long moment Karl realised that once she had been a very beautiful woman; the kind of beauty that only the upper classes have. How had she been lured into the Untersuchung?
She looked up at him. 'Opposition and change,' she said. 'On one side: you. You will grow stronger and weaker.'
'The mutation,' Karl said. 'It strengthens my body even as it weakens my mind.'
Frau Farber pointed at the sticks. 'The other side. There are three against you. One will bend and two will break.' She paused. 'That's all.'
Karl considered her words, then stood and picked up his sword and cloak. 'Thank you, Frau Farber,' he said. 'I have troubled you enough.' At the door, he turned back to look at her and her little home, the contents of her long life spread out around her to keep her company, and for a second he felt again a sense of desperate solitude.
'When you read the fortune of the other agent, what did you see?' he asked.
She looked him in the face, and he felt that he saw the same loneliness reflected there. 'Nothing good,' she said. 'All I see these days is nothing good. It's why I stopped casting the sticks.'
He hesitated for a long moment. Then: 'Pray for me,' he said, opened the door and stepped out into the long night.

Chapter Two
WEIGHED DOWN



'I WANT TO see Herr Scharlach,' Karl said.
It was a bright day, beyond the reach of winter but still too early in the year to be called spring. Nuln, the southernmost of the major cities in the Empire, was always first to feel the heat of the year's new sun, bringing the townsfolk onto the streets like forest creatures coming out of hibernation to sniff cautiously at the street traders and market stalls. The River Reik flowed through the centre of the city, rolling and heavy with floodwaters from upstream, bringing the smells of upland topsoil, ice, grass and mud, and carrying away the must and mildew of winter.
The Dog and Pony tavern was bright and cold, its windows thrown open to the pale sun. A couple of patrons huddled over drinks in shadowed booths, keeping pale complexions and tired faces out of the light. The walls were whitewashed, the sawdust on the floor freshly strewn. It felt curiously soulless. Outside in the street a ragged voice was crying doom for the Empire.
Karl leaned on the bar and waited for the landlord to finish cleaning and checking the taps on the large beer-barrels and the smaller casks of wine racked behind the bar. Finally the man looked up and observed him with thick eyelids and half-closed eyes.
'Herr Scharlach's not here,' he said. 'If you sit and buy a drink I'll send the boy with a message.'
'Does he work far away?' Karl asked.
'There and back takes about a glass of wine,' the bartender said, 'if you have a large one and a meat pie with it.'
Karl sat at a table half-way down the tavern and waited as the innkeeper brought his food and wine. He had not known such a sense of enthusiasm, of optimism, for years. Meeting Frau Farber had felt different: he knew he had been taking a risk, and the chances of her agreeing to join him had always been small. But now he had the name of someone who, like him, was trying to recruit former Untersuchung agents.
The Untersuchung. Karl sipped his wine and grimaced at its bitter undertaste. He had only spent six months in the secretive branch of the Reiksguard. He had been tricked into joining in the first place, and his brief career as a member had not exactly been glistening. But in those short months he had made true friends - friends who had died when the witch hunters under the Chaos worshipping Lord Gamow had falsely accused the Untersuchung of being infested with Chaos worshippers - and he had seen firsthand the importance of the organisation's role in seeking out and destroying the cults and schemes of those who followed the four Dark Gods.
With the Untersuchung gone, there was nothing to fill its place. The witch hunters tried but were too bound by doctrine and fanaticism: they were rakes and sledgehammers compared to the subtle instruments that Karl and his colleagues had wielded. Since the Order had been destroyed, since Karl had become a wanted criminal and a mutant, he had sworn vengeance against the forces that had ruined his life. But there was a limit to what a man could do alone. Even if Herr Scharlach had only recruited one other person, that still made three. And three was a powerful number.
The meat pie was stodgy and filled with bits of gristle. Karl left it and waited for the boy to return. What had Frau Farber said? ''One will bend and two will break''. He had no idea what that meant, but eighteen months ago he had no idea what the wise fool and the two of hearts would represent. Fortune-telling, like many things, was always clearer when you looked back at it.
The boy re-entered the tavern at a run and handed something to the landlord, who emerged from behind the bar, approached Karl's table and held out a folded piece of parchment. There was no writing on its outside, and the seal that held it closed was just a blob of hard wax. Anonymous. Karl broke the seal, opened the letter and read it.
The handwriting was neat and elegant, though the ink was slightly smudged. 'I regret I am unable to meet you at present. I am detained by pressing business which will keep me busy until tonight,' it read. 'Come to the Oldenhaller quay on the docks at ten bells, where I will await you. Faithfully, Herr Scharlach.'
Karl read it over twice, looking for hidden nuances or codes in the language. He could find none. The letter appeared entirely innocent, and therefore would be safe if intercepted. The mysterious Herr Scharlach had given himself ten hours to prepare for the meeting and more besides: almost a day to observe his visitor, not just a few minutes. The whole operation was nicely planned. Without lifting his head, Karl studied the other drinkers in the tavern. Which one of them was watching him? Was one of them secretly the man he was here to meet? He knew he'd have to behave cautiously, but despite it all he was impressed. It felt good to be working with professionals again.

KARL, SPENT THE day waiting for ten bells. In the meantime he hired a cheap room at a boarding house called The Fallen Gryphon in the east end of the city, exchanged his filthy travelling clothes for new-bought ones and sent the old set to be laundered.
He explored the streets and squares of Nuln to get a feel for the place, its layout, its thoroughfares, alleyways and hiding places. He had never been here before and wanted to get the measure of the city.
He also wanted to hear the news and gossip. He had spent the winter trekking through the Empire's forests, following leads and hunting down beastmen, until he had felt like a beast himself: isolated, insulated against the civilised world, able to lose himself in the chase and the fight. It was an easy existence, but it was not the path he had sworn to follow; and that path had brought him back to the bustle, crowds and inquisitive faces of the city. He was probably in more danger here than he was in the depths of the darkest forest.
The mood of the city was sombre. On the streets the spring clothes and faces were bright enough but in the taverns and bars where the real business happened, conversation was subdued and gossip was quiet. Questions about Luthor Huss and his heretical declaration were answered with nervous glances. It seemed to Karl that other people had been asking the same questions, had not liked the answers they had heard, and even all this time later the bruises were still raw.
He spent a while in a tavern at the docks, listening to gossip, then moved to another not far from the cathedral, sitting not far from a group of pilgrims talking about Esmer and the changes he had brought to the Church of Sigmar. He had been tempted to go into the cathedral itself, partly to pray and partly to view its famed high altar, but he had seen Imperial handbills fluttering on signboards in the square, each with the name and description of a wanted criminal on it, and being recognised was not a risk worth taking.
Night fell hard and cold, and ten bells came round slowly. The river-wharfs and docks were deserted save for sporadic watchmen. At the southern end, the Oldenhaller warehouse stood unguarded and shadowed, its solitary quay stretching out into the dark waters of the River Reik. A wind blew off the water, cold and cutting. Karl walked out to the end of the jetty and waited.
The city was a panorama of lights against the night sky. In front of the lights a silhouette walked down the docks towards him. Karl appraised it as it approached: male, human, short and stocky, short hair, thick clothes but no cloak and no armour. Sword on the right hip. Confident. The figure strode across the waterfront and along a parallel jetty separated by fifty feet of river water, well out of range of sword or throwing-knife.
Karl smiled to himself. The precautions they were taking were exemplary. He hoped that his own were as good. 'Herr Scharlach,' he said.
'Herr Scharlach is indisposed,' the man said, 'but I speak for him.' The two stared at each other across the gap. In the near-darkness Karl could see the details of the newcomer: the shine on his leather boots, the bone buttons on his wool coat, the streaks of grey hair at his temples, the way his waistcoat was stretched across the curve of his belly. He looked about forty and prosperous. Karl didn't recognise him.
The man slowly reached up with his right hand and scratched his left ear. There was a long cold pause. It seemed to be up to Karl to make the next move.
'I wish to know more of you,' he said. 'You wish to know more of me. But how do we convince each other that we are trustworthy?'
The man grimaced. 'You go straight to the heart of it. We could each be any colour of villain. What is your name?'
'A man who shouts his name to a stranger in public is not to be trusted with secrets.' Karl said. 'Passwords and code-phrases can be broken. Men can change sides. I need to know that I can trust you, and that your aims are my aims, and that you will not betray me to my enemies.'
'You have enemies?'
'A man who does not have at least one mortal foe by the time he is twenty has not been trying,' Karl said.
'So far,' the man said, 'this conversation tells me you have many aphorisms, but little else.'
Karl rubbed his hands, wishing he had brought gloves. 'Isn't there somewhere warmer we can go?'
The man stood, considering, then turned to point out across the river. 'You see that black-sailed wherry, moored midstream? Her cabin has a warm stove and a bottle of ten-year-old brandy. Nobody will hear us there, or see signals if either of us should send them. You agree?'
'I agree.'
'Then join me and I will row us out.' He began unfastening the mooring-ropes of a clinker-built rowing-boat tied up alongside the quay. Karl walked around to where the boat was rocking on the water and climbed in. He did not offer a handshake to the other man; he knew they had not reached even that little level of trust yet.

THE WHERRY'S CABIN was snug and warm, the stove smoky, the brandy a little disappointing. Karl and the unnamed stranger sat across a table that was little more than a single plank. Being this close together made it somehow harder to talk. The little rituals of drinking spirits punctuated the silence.
The man across the table lifted his glass to Karl. 'Here's blood in your eye,' he said, swilled the brandy into his mouth and swallowed, pausing a second to savour the aftertaste. 'Delightful. Sent by a friend in Parravon,' he said. 'For services rendered.'
'You have an outpost in Bretonnia?' Karl asked.
'We have outposts all over the Old World. Agents in every city. Advisors close to the ears of some very powerful people.'
'So this isn't a new organisation?'
The man's brow furrowed. 'New? Not at all. We've been around for decades. What made you think we were new?'
'I was—' Karl forced himself to pause and sip more brandy to give him time to think. 'Let me start again. The person who gave me Herr Scharlach's name told me that if I wanted to continue the work of my former employers, I should talk to you.'
'What happened to your former employers?'
'Witch hunters burnt them,' Karl said.
The man cocked an eyebrow and drank more brandy. 'My first fear was that you were a witch hunter,' he said. 'You have the bearing of one. And the city is crowded with them at present.'
'Who are they looking for? Luthor Huss?'
'No, Huss is long gone, and the motley band of fanatics, doom-sayers, the too-credulous, the easily swayed and the terminally bored with him. Have you heard the stories?'
'Some, but…' Karl shook his head.
'Well. After he nailed the effigy to the cathedral door, the organised church was thrown into uproar. While they're arguing about responses, he has been leading his pack across the Empire, dealing his own kind of justice to those he sees as enemies of the faith. Corrupt priests, embezzlers of temple funds, those within the church accused of crimes against women - or children. There's never enough evidence to convict him, and sometimes he's miles away when the killings happen…'
'He's killing people?'
'People are dying, let's say that. Huss hasn't returned to this city since he left it at Hexenstag, yet Brother Bernard Schneider, known as the Leech, was beaten to death a mile away a fortnight ago and Huss or his followers given the blame - or the credit, depending on your point of view. Schneider's death is one reason why the witch hunters are so active. Otherwise, as I'm sure you've sensed, there is a mood of fear and melancholy settling down from the north of the land, where the great armies of Chaos are gathering, and the witch hunters of the Order of Sigmar believe they can prevent the invasion by arresting and burning a few old women and hedge wizards.'
Karl thought about telling his drinking companion that he had seen the Chaos armies for himself, the summer before, but restrained himself. Something told him this would be the wrong time. In this kind of transaction information was power, and the stout man had not even told him his name, much less given him a reason to confide in him. He seemed satisfied that Karl was not a witch hunter, but Karl could not say the same for him. No, not a witch hunter, but despite the other's words and his acceptance of what Karl had told him, there was something about the situation that still didn't feel right. Karl had learned to trust his instincts.
The man refilled their glasses with the last of the brandy. 'So why did the witch hunters burn your Order?' he asked.
Karl raised his glass in a silent toast, and drank. 'My new friend,' he said, 'we must each accept that neither of us will walk away from this meeting with the information we want. I want to trust you, but trust is a fragile thing and we both have too much to protect. So if we cannot prove ourselves with words, then let me prove myself with action. Give me a task, and I will show you that I can be useful, and loyal, and follow orders.'
The man smiled and raised his glass in return. 'I accept your offer,' he said, and at that moment Karl knew he had ascended the first step towards the eventual goal. He leaned back as the other leaned forward.
'We have a courier mission. A package needs to be handed to a messenger at a location a few miles outside the city tomorrow, and another brought back. This is how it works: a package of clothes will be left for you at your inn. The letter will be sewn inside the lining of the jerkin, along with enough money for you to hire a horse. Go to Preminger's stables by the south gate; tell him that Herr Stahl recommended that you see him and he will give you a paper with directions to the meeting-point. The messenger will be there at noon. Do not let us down.'
He paused and looked up at Karl.
'Thank you for your trust, Herr Stahl,' Karl said. 'My name is Hans Frei.'
The two men's stares met, each recognising something in the other - a sense of duty to a higher calling, perhaps. They touched their glasses and drained them in a wordless toast. In months to come, Karl would remember the chink of glass, the sense of the impact, and wonder who or what it was that Herr Stahl had been drinking to.

THEY ROWED BACK to the quayside in silence, shook hands and walked away in different directions. Karl was half-tempted to follow his mysterious companion, but his mission had already begun and the soldier in him told him that to do such a thing would be a breach of loyalty, if not of trust. Besides, if the man was as professional as Karl suspected, he would take a false route designed to lose any pursuers.
As he walked back towards his boarding house, he felt the first hints of elation rising in his stomach and spreading through his body. He did not know yet what the unnamed organisation was, or what its aims and goals were, but somehow that didn't seem as important as the simple sense of belonging to something again.
The Fallen Gryphon was quiet and after a brief word with the landlord Karl took a candle straight up to his attic room. He bolted the door and fastened the shutters: although Herr Stahl and his unseen friends knew where he was staying, he didn't want them to learn any more about him for the moment.
He took a water-skin from his pack and poured the contents into the china bowl on the dresser. The water was dirty and discoloured: it had been several weeks since the monks at Oberwil had given him a fresh supply. If he could get to the cathedral he would obtain more. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar over the bowl, then positioned the polished silver of the room's small mirror so he could see his face. He peered at himself. Were his eyes just bloodshot, or was the redness in them something more permanent? In this light it was hard to tell.
Slowly he unbuttoned the high collar on his shirt and pulled it down and apart, then unknotted the bandage that encircled his neck. Under it, the contraption of wood and leather straps that served as a gag was still in place. He undid its clasp and pulled it away, staring at his reflection. On the left side of his neck, the chapped lips of his second mouth moved, parting, revealing fierce white teeth. A dark tongue flicked out, licking at the worn, calloused skin around the orifice. Karl watched the movement, unable to control it. The thing had a mind of its own.
This thing, this foul addition to his body, was the outward sign of the contagion in his system: an unwanted gift from the gods of Chaos. He was changed in other ways too, he knew, and still changing: he healed faster now, and his senses were more acute. Sometimes he felt he was stronger too. He hated it. It had destroyed his life, and would destroy his mind, and until that day he would fight against it with every ounce of his spirit.
He took a cloth, wetted it in the bowl of holy water, and began to clean the lips. The water stung on the mouth's cracked lips, and he relished the fleeting pain. The tongue moved, giving a low moan, and Karl froze, ready to jam the washcloth between its teeth to silence it if need be. It had given him away once before, and he would never let it happen again. The moan subsided with a low burble that could have been a word, perhaps ''blood'' or something else, and the mouth was silent. He relaxed. More than once he had thought about cutting out its tongue, and would have done it if he was not afraid that the blood would clog his own lungs and drown him. Or that the tongue would regrow, perhaps as something worse.
The washing done, he rinsed the wooden gag and the bandage in the water and laid them out to dry. It was a nightly ritual. Then he rummaged in his pack for the leather satchel with his inkstand, quills and parchment. Dawn was a long way off, and it had been weeks since he had last slept. Writing would pass the time.

WHEN HE LEFT his room in the morning the bundle of clothes was outside his door, and the letter where Stahl had said it would be. Its cover was plain parchment, sealed with three hard wax impressions. Karl studied them. It would be a matter of moments to open them - he had a candle and a sharp knife in his room - and almost impossible to detect. But the purpose of the mission was to establish trust. There was unlikely to be anything of importance in the letter, and even if there were it would be in code. And if they noticed the seals had been removed and re-set, they would never trust him again. It was not worth the risk.



AS THE PIEBALD mare trotted southwards out of the city along the old Reman road, Karl could not resist taking the letter from his saddlebag and holding it up to the weak sun, hoping the light would penetrate it and reveal the words written inside. The parchment was too thick but his curiosity was piqued. Now that Herr Stahl's organisation had begun the slow process of accepting him, he wanted to know more about them and about the role he could play in their work. He wondered if they would accept a mutant, and how long he could keep that fact about himself hidden from them.
The sun rose in the sky, traffic on the road was light, and Karl counted the crossroads as he passed them. Shortly before noon he came to one marked by an old moss-covered shrine to some neglected saint or martyr, and took the left-hand turning, down a track that led between the twisted trunks of old, scattered woods. Two miles down the road forked beside a pond of dark water, half under the canopy of the trees' empty branches. This, according to the instructions he had been given, was Dead Man's Pond.
A large chestnut horse, bridled and saddled, was snuffling around the weeds at the water's edge. A man leaned against an old elm that stood near the road, picking at the mechanism of a pistol with the point of a knife. He was wearing the uniform of an Imperial messenger. Karl reined in his horse and swung himself down, unsure what to do next. He had not been expecting an officer of the Empire, and his instructions had not included any password or way of identifying himself, or checking that he was giving the letter to the right person.
But as the man stepped towards him he lifted his right hand and gently touched his left ear. Karl recognised the gesture that Stahl had made the night before. It must be one of the group's secret signs, which meant this must be the man. Perhaps there was something that he was meant to do in return, to signal that he was the other half of the connection. Stahl hadn't mentioned anything.
'I have the letter,' he said, dug in the saddlebag and produced it. The parchment was slightly creased from the journey. The stranger took it, backed away a step or two and examined it closely. Evidently what he saw satisfied him, because he sniffed and turned away towards his horse.
'I have a question,' Karl said. He had many questions, ones that he couldn't ask Herr Stahl, but this man didn't know he was an outsider.
On the other hand he hadn't been able to reply to the hand-signal, so perhaps it was obvious. Still, it was worth a try.
The man turned back and faced him. 'Have we met before?' he said.
'No.'
'Then you shouldn't have spoken. If you're caught and tortured, now you'll be able to tell them what my voice sounds like. Discretion is everything.' He made a clicking sound and his horse left the edge of the pond, walking over to him. He swung up into its saddle and prepared to move off. Then he stopped, twisted round and tossed a small package towards Karl.
'For your contact,' he said.
The throw was high. Karl reached for it, but the leather-wrapped bundle glanced off the tips of his outstretched fingers and ricocheted away. He made a desperate grab at it, missed, and watched as it splashed down into the dark waters of the pond, bobbing on its ripples.
The rider gave an amused snort, trotted to the road and rode off towards the main highway. Karl looked after him for a second, then cast his eyes around the area to find a branch long enough to retrieve the package from the water before it sank. There were none: evidently someone had gleaned the area for firewood recently. He sighed and waded into the cold water, feeling deep mud squashing beneath his boots.
The water was very cold and surprisingly deep, and in a few steps he was already up to his thighs. Circles of waves spread from where he stood, upsetting the still waters and pushing the package further out towards the centre of the water. He kept going, moving more slowly till the parcel was almost within arm's reach. Then something on the base of the pond shifted under his foot and he stumbled, lurching sideways, half-soaking himself. He swore loudly and with feeling.
A few feet away from him, something brushed the underside of the water's surface, and was gone, sinking back into the murk. Something attached to the thing he had kicked, probably. Karl stared at the swirl of sediment where it had been. It had been white, branched and curled. Very like a hand.
He grabbed the package, shook the water from it and threw it onto the bank, then walked slowly across the pond, feeling the bottom through the soles of his boots. The water was up above his waist. He kicked a stump of wood, but that wasn't it.
He knew, with awful inevitability, that he was looking for a body.
His right foot struck something soft, moving it an inch or two out of the bottom silt. It was large and heavy, but he was able to push it slowly towards the bank. Then he felt it shift and roll in the water, and one arm swam up towards the surface. He grabbed it. The flesh was soft and clammy and he felt it slide off the arm-bones, but it was clad in a leather-sleeved jacket and when he grasped that it didn't tear.
He pulled the body to the shore and out of the water.
It was a man with dark hair. He guessed it had been in the water a while, but the cold winter had slowed its decomposition and the tiny fish and insect larvae that would have feasted on its flesh had not had time to do much damage. All the same, it looked like hell. Its eyes were gone, and most of its nose. The skin was white-green and puffed, swollen inside its clothes, its belly distended by gases. Its pockets were stuffed with stones to weigh it down, and in the middle of its forehead was a ragged hole, roughly circular. The man had been killed by a musket ball, too small for a rifle. It was the kind of wound a flintlock pistol would make.
Karl stared down at the corpse, trying to read information from it. The man was slightly older than Karl and a little heavier, with short, thin hair. The skin of his neck was strangely textured, as if burned or scarred. Karl didn't recognise him. Then he caught a glimpse of a silver pendant inside the man's shirt and something brought Frau Farber's voice and words to mind. Another agent, she had said, shorter and heavier than Karl, and she had mentioned a scar and a silver talisman. And he too had travelled to Nuln in search of the Untersuchung or its heirs.
This could not be a coincidence.
The corpse carried no other identification. Karl checked, then pulled the pendant out from inside its shirt and stared at the tiny hammer of Sigmar. Perhaps it bore a jeweller's mark, and he could use that to trace who the man was, who he had been, to learn his story.
No. This man's past was irrelevant. His present had told Karl all it could, and his future was murky and held nothing good. Karl rolled the body back into the water and watched as it sunk from view, muttering a brief blessing over the place. He felt he knew rather more about the people he was dealing with now, and it didn't make him comfortable.
He picked up the leather-wrapped package from where it had landed on the bank. It was wrapped in a ribbon, fastened with a blob of sealing wax. He was tempted to open it, but he knew that whatever the implications of his accidental discovery, he was still being tested. Stahl would be waiting for him back in Nuln. It was time to return, and the journey would give him time to think.
He retrieved his horse, climbed into its saddle and let it walk on. It seemed to know the way. The sun was behind him, casting his shadow onto the road ahead, as if he was following a part of himself that had already trod this path before. It felt like an omen. Under his high collar, the thing on his neck struggled against its gag, gnawing against the hard wood. Something had upset it. Karl ignored it, thinking.
The man in the pond had been shot, probably by the Imperial messenger or one of his colleagues, but the key question was why, and on that Karl could only speculate. Perhaps he had not been what he seemed: an infiltrator from another sect, a rival group. Perhaps his curiosity had won over his sense and he had broken the seals on whatever he had been given. Perhaps he had been an informer, or had recognised his contact as an old adversary. Or perhaps he had revealed too much about himself or his past, and it had not been to his new friends' liking.
It was all food for thought.
The ride back took as long as the ride out, though the road was busier: merchants, pilgrims and men of the cloth were scattered along the miles that led to Nuln's walls, all of them heading away from the city. None looked cheerful. A couple were chanting ancient prayers, the rhythm and familiarity of them more comforting than the actual words. Karl stopped for a few slices of pork and some potatoes at an inn about eight miles from the city and listened to the gossip of the other travellers: apparently there had been raids that morning, heretics and religious extremists arrested. Many who sympathised with Luthor Huss were taking the chance to flee to safer towns, or even to seek out Huss and his rabble-band of crusaders on their Sigmar-inspired mission. Karl heard the stories and left in silence. He hoped that Stahl and his men were made of sterner stuff.
The sky was darkening by the time he reached the city's south gate, a half-moon already high in the sky, and the pinholes of a few bright stars. It was going to be a cold night and the streets were already clear. It was too late for traders, but still too early for the students from the university to be out looking for their evening's entertainment. Even the stray cats and the flocks of pigeons that usually plagued the place seemed to be hiding, or to have left.
Karl returned the horse to Preminger's stables, reclaimed the coins he had left as a deposit and made his way on foot across the river to The Dog and Pony, close under the city's western wall, on the edge of the university district. The place was more crowded than the last time he had been here but this seemed to be a different crowd and he recognised no faces, even among the staff.
He had hoped that Stahl might be here, or that he might be contacted by someone else from the group, but after a few minutes of standing at the bar with a tankard of light beer, it was clear that wasn't going to happen. He downed the last of the beer and pushed through the patrons to the door of the privy at the back, a small room just big enough for one occupant, with a plank above a stinking trough. Someone had hung some garlic on the wall, either to mute the smell or to ward off anything that might emerge from the filth below.
Karl peered up at the ceiling, then stood on the plank and pressed upwards against the panelling. One of the pieces of wood shifted, revealing a gap. Following the instructions he had received that morning, he slipped the damp leather-wrapped bundle into the darkness, slid the panel back into place and climbed down. Presumably someone would collect it, but he wasn't going to spend all night watching the privy door. He cast his eyes around the tavern one last time, and slipped out into the night.
The walk to The Fallen Gryphon took him most of the way across the city, a walk of almost twenty minutes. The paving stones of the street, laid in Reman times and probably not moved since then, felt strange to shoes used to the cobbles of more northern towns. Something about Nuln set his teeth on edge, something more than just the danger of dealing with people whose loyalty and affiliation were unknown. The city had been the capital of the Empire until just a hundred years ago, and it was as if it still held a silent grudge against anyone who held allegiance to the new Emperor in Altdorf, many miles north along the River Reik.
The Fallen Gryphon was quiet, though the tavern across the street was doing good business; the smell of roasted mutton and spilled beer wafting across the street. Karl could hear its noisy patrons as he stood in the Gryphon's empty front room, looking for the porter so he could ask if there had been any messages or packages for him, or to get a candle to navigate the dark stairs and light his room. There was no sign of anyone. He tapped his fingers on the countertop, felt in his pocket for his key, and started up.
His room was on the top floor, under the slanted ceiling of the eaves. The corridor was whitewashed walls and bare wood floor, lit by a strip of faint night light from between the half-closed shutters over the window at the far end. He fumbled the key into the lock, turned it and pushed open the door.
Light burst through the gap, and he knew something was wrong. There was a man in the room, standing, sword drawn. Witch hunter's uniform. Lamp in one hand. Hat lying on the bed. Karl recognised him.
'Karl Hoche, you are under arrest,' Theo Kratz said.

Chapter Three
THE PUSH



KARL THREW THE door shut. He could already hear footsteps beating up the narrow stairs behind him, cutting off his escape, and there was movement from one of the other rooms. An ambush. He guessed they wanted him alive, but he suspected they wouldn't be too upset by the alternative. He sprinted down the corridor.
Kratz shouted, 'Stop!' Another room door opened, but Karl was already past it, shoulder lowered to charge the wooden shutters that bracketed the lead-paned window at the end. He collided with it, the impact bruising his entire forearm. The weak hinges gave and the panels swung outwards, crashing into the diamond-patterned glass. The frame broke part-way, sending bits of lead and glass shards cascading outwards, sliding away down the steep tiled roof.
Karl grabbed the upper ledge of the window-frame and swung his legs up, kicking at the remainder of the window. It collapsed outwards and he was through, rolling through the smithereens of glass that covered the sloping tiles. He threw out his arms to stop his roll towards the edge and felt the fragments slice at his hands and clothes. He scrabbled, trying to gain a hold for his fingers or feet before he hit the gutter and then, a few seconds later, the street below. Tiles slid loose under him. A corner of his mind made a note to plan his escape routes in more detail next time.
His foot hit the wooden end of one of the gables, slowing him enough to get his fingers round the edge of a tile and cling on. He felt himself slide to a stop. For a second everything was still and quiet. Then he could hear dislodged tiles shattering on the cobbles of the street below.
'…under arrest for consorting with the forces of Chaos, conspiring against the Empire, sedition of the innocent—' Kratz's face was at the window, ten feet above, staring down at him with a look of amusement. Another witch hunter appeared beside him, carrying a crossbow. 'You have no possible means of escape,' Kratz said. 'Don't do anything rash.'
A memory of a rooftop in Altdorf lit by moonlight, the figures of witch hunters bearing down on him, the threat of arrest, and those words. It felt like a hammer-blow. He would not let that happen again. He could not. He looked up at Kratz.
'I cannot climb up on my own,' he said. 'Throw me a rope.'
Kratz gave an order and the other witch hunter left the window. Karl lay there, hearing their voices, planning. A moment later the end of a length of rope began to slither down the roof towards him, stopping just by his left hand. Not quite ten feet. Not enough to get him over the edge of the roof, out of the crossbow's arc of fire.
'Tie it off there,' Kratz told the other witch hunter.
Karl waited a second, then reached for the rope, testing it. It felt solid. He took a solid grip, wrapping it around his wrist, then used it to pull himself up onto his feet, balancing on the steep incline. He looked around. Between him and the window the tiles were broken and dislodged, revealing the lathe and rafters beneath.
Holding the rope, aware of the crossbow's unwavering aim, he took two steps to the left, watching his footing as he traversed sideways across the slope, then turned to look at the roofs on either side.
'Try anything and we'll shoot you where you stand,' Kratz said.
Karl pulled on the rope, thinking about angles and arcs, and took another step to the left. Then he sprinted right, in a semicircle across the steeply slanted surface, using the rope to stop him from falling. Tiles cracked and broke under his feet. He heard the thud of the crossbow firing but felt nothing. Then the gap between the buildings opened up at his feet revealing the street below, and the gentle slope of the next building's roof beyond. He dropped the rope and leaped.

FOUR ROOFS FURTHER on he found an open skylight and climbed in, shutting it behind him. The empty servants' attic room inside led to a passageway, and from there to a back staircase, and he was out in the alley behind the street in seconds, having gained a half-cloak and a hat along the way. There was activity further down the street, and he glanced back as a concerned citizen might, before heading out into the street.
The fugitive Karl Hoche would obviously not head straight for the cathedral square. That was where he went, striding as quickly as possible without drawing attention to himself, trying to pluck coherence from the confused torrent of his thoughts.
They had been waiting for him. They had known where he was staying. Either they had traced him there, which meant they must have been following him since yesterday, or someone in or near The Fallen Gryphon had recognised him and told the witch hunters, which was unlikely because he had never been to Nuln before and the handbills calling for his arrest did not give enough description to identify him; or this was down to Herr Stahl.
He hated to admit it, but the last option seemed the most likely. He forced himself to quash his disappointment, to ignore it, and to remember his Untersuchung training: work out all the options, weigh them up, apply Occam's Broadsword to rule out the unlikely ones and make plans based on the others. Basic strategy. But it required objectivity and a clear head, not one already filled with a sense of regret and retribution, and a sense of panic at knowing witch hunters were so close behind.
He took several deep breaths, forcing the other thoughts out of his mind. The Karl Hoche who panicked, who felt regret and pity, who was human - that part of him was dead. He had smothered it, coldly and deliberately, in the Reikwald forest a year ago. In becoming less, he had become more. Why, then, was he finding it so hard to regain that inner strength now? The hard part was done: he had escaped, buying himself time to breathe and think.
The cold air stung his lungs and forced him to concentrate. Herr Stahl. Karl had identified himself as Hans Frei to the man, the same name he had used to the three witch hunters in Altdorf, all that time ago. Stahl might have guessed that he was really Karl Hoche, but Kratz had known it was him even while he was still opening the door. On the other hand, if Stahl had described him, Kratz might have recognised the description. But then Kratz had only ever seen him once before, eighteen months earlier, and in disguise.
It might not be Stahl. There might be infiltrators or rogue agents in his organisation, possibly working for the witch hunters, or for a rival group, or a Chaos cult, or some opportunist. Many cultists would cheerfully frame an agent of another group if they could. And two hundred crowns was a lot of money.
Who else had known where he was staying? The answer came to him immediately: whoever had followed him from The Dog and Pony yesterday and, if it was not the same person, whoever had left the package outside his door this morning. Both of these seemed more likely than Stahl. He had liked Stahl. He had wanted to trust him.
The cathedral square was deserted, the doors of the great temple itself closed and barred for the night. He walked towards them, aware of the faint scent of resin and sawdust: the Arch-Lector of Nuln had demanded that the doors be replaced after Huss had desecrated them with his effigy of the Grand Theogonist. They were ghostly in the moonlight, their timber still pale and fresh, unbattered by storms. Like the Grand Theogonist himself, Karl thought.
To one side, in a covered colonnade, one wall bore wooden boards covered with official signs and notices. Many were temple duties, orders of service, prayers to be said for the ill and the dying. He was looking for the other ones. The board wasn't hard to find.
Luthor Huss was at the top, of course, with a woodcut rendition of his face. The printing was strident, black ink on yellow paper, but no crime was stated and no reward offered. It was a notice of excommunication. Huss had fled the stable of his own accord, but the Church of Sigmar was determined to make its slamming of the empty stable door echo round the Empire.
Karl found his handbill fifth, and ripped it down to study it. It was a revised printing with new information; evidently Brother Karin's hatred for him was undimmed. There was no picture, but his name was in inch-high letters, and the reward on his head had increased by fifty crowns. He had noticed his description grow more hyperbolic with each new bill that Brother Karin issued: this time he was apparently ''subtle, treacherous and vile'', his ''limbs swollen with the power of his Chaotic lords'', his face ''hawk-like, raptorial and vicious''. At the bottom was a list of aliases he was known to use. Hans Frei was among them.
Karl crumpled the bill in his hand, and crossed that name off his mental list. He had enjoyed being Hans Frei, the jovial godfearing merchant from Carroburg, with a wife and two sons at home. It had been relaxing to slip into that personality from time to time, to pretend to have even for a few minutes the things that Karl Hoche never would: a home, stability, happiness, peace.
He could create another persona as soon as thinking about it, but Herr Frei had become almost a part of him. Just another thing that Chaos and its works had taken away. With a thought, the absence of a thought, he discarded Herr Frei, his history, his family and his contented life. Existence moved on. This would be a busy night, and there was no time to mourn imaginary friends.
Unbidden and unwelcome, a parade of faces from his past pushed their way back into his memory. There was Gottfried Braubach, his mentor in the Untersuchung, burned by the witch hunters. Schultz, his orderly in his old regiment, killed by Chaos cultists. Sergeant Braun and Tobias Kurtz, good soldiers and comrades, who he had inadvertently led to their deaths. Erasmus Pronk, who he had tried to keep safe and failed. His parents, the dutiful priest and faithful wife in Grunburg, still alive but believing their son was a traitor to the Empire and their god, turned against them and everything they held precious, an Imperial criminal with a price on his head. And Marie, the girl he had loved and the woman he had dreamed of marrying. He hoped he was dead to her. He hoped she never thought of him. He wished she was happy in the arms of another man. Anything else was too painful to contemplate.
He banished the thoughts. There would be time for them on his journeys, when he left the city. But there was much to do before then.
He glanced up at the sky, taking his bearings from the stars and the steeples and spires of the tall buildings he recognised. The docks were south-east from here. He walked away, keeping to the shadows.



THE WHARFS WERE busy this evening. A chain of barges carrying cloth, brassware and dried fruits from Estalia had docked and gangs of stevedores were sweating to earn their wages, lit by flaming baskets of bright-burning wood mounted on high poles, the air bearing smoke, shouted orders and oaths. The barges would be unloaded by dawn, the cargo sold by noon and reloaded into carts and other boats by nightfall. Whatever the direction, leadership and fate of the Empire, the trading never stopped.
Karl made his way through the paths of men carrying crates, boxes, barrels, sacks and bales, dodging loads and oaths. The far end of the docks was quieter and darker, the shadows deep and long. He walked to the end of the quay and stared out across the dark water. The river was scattered with boats, the strong current pulling against the ropes that held them in place. The wherry with the black sails was not there.
He scanned the length of the river, from the Altmarkt bridge upstream to the bend where the Reik turned away north outside the city, studying the silhouette of each moored boat. The wherry had a distinctive design, low and wide with a style and grace quite unlike the river barges that plied the lengths of the Empire's waterways. If it was on this stretch of the river, he should have been able to recognise it. He could not.
What were the possibilities, he thought. What might have happened? Stahl and his men have sailed it away. The witch hunters have captured it and sailed it away. Someone else has taken it. It is here and I cannot see it. It has sunk. Possibly it was not Stahl's at all; perhaps he knew it would be empty last night and would leave the next day, making it a perfect venue for a secret, untraceable meeting.
He wondered if the dockmaster was around, and if so whether anyone had told him to be wary of people asking about the wherry.
There was only one way to find out.
A watchman was sitting on a folding stool not far from the door to the Oldenhaller warehouse, warming his hands on a pot of coals. A small white terrier lay beside him, one ear cocked. The two watched idly as Karl approached them.
'A cold night for watching,' Karl said.
The man studied Karl's face, dispassionate, and did not reply.
'A man needs something to warm him through the long hours,' Karl said, and held out a handful of silver shillings, enough for a bottle of cheap spirits. The man looked at him, and at the coins, and at him again.
'And much warming they'll do me tonight. Not able to leave my post till six bells,' he said, but reached out his hand all the same. Karl dropped the coins into it.
'Last night a black-sailed wherry was moored out there—' he pointed. 'Do you know who owns her, or where she is now?'
The watchman looked up with slow scornful eyes. 'The thing about boats at night,' he said, 'is that it's dark. Sky's dark, water's dark, other boats dark, mooring ropes dark, shoals and sandbanks in the water dark. Easy to hit things, or run her aground, or sink. So if you move a boat you do it in the light, and when night comes you tie her up.'
'Yes,' Karl said, 'and the wherry was there last night, but—'
'And I seen her last night, as I would, being as I been night-watchman on these warehouses these twelve year. And when dawn come I went home, and when the sun go down I come back and she's gone.' He looked around and rubbed his hands in front of the fire. 'And now it's night again, another cold one, but if I want this job for another twelve year, to hand on to my son Bertold in his time, then I can't leave my place for a bit of a warm.'
Karl dug in his breast-pocket, pulled out a flat silver flask and passed it over to the man, who unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow from it. Karl's father had given him the flask when he joined the army five years ago. These days it didn't remind him of his family much, and when it did he drank its contents and tried to forget again.
The watchman handed back the flask, sucked his lips contemplatively for a second, then stood and turned in the direction of the dockers unloading the barges. 'Heinrich!' he bellowed. 'The Eider - when did she sail?'
A man with shoulders as broad as the crate he was carrying turned, hefting the load into a more comfortable hold. 'About three bells this afternoon,' he shouted back. 'Headed downstream, no cargo loaded. Who's asking about it now?'
The ''now'' caught Karl's attention. 'Get him over here,' he said. The watchman's sardonic eyes turned to him, then back to the stevedore and he raised his hands to cup his mouth again. 'Feller wants to talk to you,' he shouted. 'Got brandy.'
Heinrich walked over bow-legged, carrying the crate on his right shoulder, steadying it one-handed. He spoke with a local accent but wore his moustache in the long Kislevite style. Karl sensed mixed blood in him. 'What about the Eider?' Heinrich asked.
Karl passed him the silver flask. 'Who owns it, who was on it when it left, where was it bound and who else has been asking about it,' he said.
Heinrich shook the flask. 'Not much brandy in there for a lot of information.' He unscrewed the cap and sniffed it. 'But decent brandy, I'll grant. A thirsty night, this has been. The Eider, she's an Oldenhaller boat, bit small and long in the tooth now, but nippy if speed's what you want. They use her mostly for special cargoes, perishables and valuables.'
'People?' Karl asked.
'On occasion. Her winter's been quiet, she was moored on that station for the last two weeks. She's got no regular crew.'
'So who took her out today?'
'Didn't recognise them. But the Oldenhallers hire all sorts. Anyone who'll work cheap. Anyhap, she was bound for Grissenwald, they said. And left in a hurry.' He shifted the crate on his shoulder and swigged the last of the brandy from the flask.
'The captain?'
'Pieter Finkel.' Not Stahl then. Perhaps the mysterious Herr Scharlach. After all, Karl reminded himself, he wasn't the only man in the Empire with many names. 'Do you know a man, short, smart, grey hair, in his forties?' he asked.
The watchman chuckled. 'You mean that feller you met here last night?'
Karl held himself. He hadn't realised he'd been seen with Stahl, and was furious and terrified. He forced himself to stay calm. Surely Stahl would have known they'd be seen together? Perhaps that was the point. 'Yes, that's the man. Who is he? Have you seen him again?'
The watchman shrugged. 'Seen him once or twice before. Don't know his name. Anyone like that on the Eider when she left, Heinrich?' The big man grunted neutrally. Karl took it to mean he didn't know.
'Who else has been asking about her?' Karl said. Heinrich shifted his feet, taking a more solid stance, bracing himself. 'Ah, now,' he said, 'some information is dangerous to the teller. That's worth more than brandy. And silence doesn't come cheap either.' He held up the empty flask, studying it in the light from the brazier. 'Nice piece of silverwork, this.'
'Knowing isn't worth that much,' Karl said, holding out his hand. Heinrich's reaction had told him what he needed to know: the witch hunters had been here before him.
Heinrich snatched his hand back, holding the flask out of reach. 'Knowing goes two ways. What if I was to tell certain parties that a man had been asking after the Eider? They'd be interested to hear that. Is my silence worth this trinket?'
Karl feinted a fast punch with his right fist, and as Heinrich dodged left, slowed by the crate on his shoulder, grabbed his long moustaches with his left and pulled down. The weight of the crate pulled Heinrich forward and down. Karl brought his knee up, hard, and the two connected with a crunch of breaking nose. Heinrich yowled. The crate hit the ground and shattered, scattering straw and brass pots across the stone dock.
Karl grabbed for Heinrich's hand, prising his fingers open to free the brandy flask, bending them back and hearing the little bones crack. Heinrich was on his knees, making gagging cries of pain. Karl kicked him in the mouth and he shut up and fell over. Blood poured onto the stones. Beyond his body, the dockers had heard the commotion. Some had put down their loads and were coming over.
The terrier was on its feet, yapping and snapping. Karl pulled the flask free of Heinrich's ruined grasp, sidestepped his wildly swinging fist, stepped away and took a long kick at the dog. His boot connected solidly, hefting the animal into the air to fly across the dock in a howling, twisting trajectory. It hit the stones, bounced and dropped into the water.
The dockers were running now but so was Karl, heading away into the darkness of the closest alley. He had got what he had come for, and had left with what he had brought. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking his pursuers, but they seemed to have dropped back. The last thing he saw was the watchman, still sitting beside the brazier, staring into the flames, as his sodden dog limped across the dockside towards him. He hadn't moved. There was a man who knew the value of not getting involved.



AS HE RAN, he cursed himself. For an instant he had lowered his guard and the beast inside him had broken loose, rushing up to possess him, making him wild and dangerous. He had fought it down this time before anyone had been killed, but he should have been able to resolve the situation without bloodshed. As Heinrich's nose had smashed against his knee, as the fingers had twisted and shattered, he had felt something in him rise and rejoice, and he hated himself for it. If there was any way he could take a knife and cut it out of him then he would, but the only way to do that was to cut his own throat - and even that might not be enough. The only sure way to end it was decapitation and burning, as he had done to the mutants outside Oberwil. Without hesitation. Without mercy.
He knew that one day it would come to that.

THE WINDOW IN the front of The Dog and Pony let loose a fan-shaped spread of light across the street. Karl passed by on the other side of the road three times before he was confident there were no witch hunters in the tavern. It was not unknown for witch hunters to wear ordinary clothes to make an arrest, but they never drank on duty, and Karl was sure that anyone under the command of Theo Kratz would be doing neither.
The tavern was not crowded and not noisy. A couple of people glanced up at him with suspicious looks but nobody made a move, except to pull at their steins of beer. Karl approached the bar - another bartender he didn't recognise - and handed the man his flask.
'Put four shillings of Bretonnian brandy in there, and don't short the measure. I'll be using the jacks.' He dropped silver coins on the bar and slipped through the grubby door beside it.
The stinking room was just as he'd left it that afternoon. He stood on the plank and pushed the loose panel out of the way. Above was only empty space. The leather bundle he'd left there was gone.
Damn, damn, damn. Either someone from Stahl's organisation had collected it, or the witch hunters had learned of the drop-point and had got there first. Either way the information in the bundle was lost to him now, and he had been hoping he could learn more from it.
Heinrich had said that the Eider had sailed at three bells. Karl hadn't returned to the city until past four. So if Stahl or his agents had the package, then it didn't leave the city on the boat. That didn't mean it hadn't left the city, but…. No, there were too many options for him to begin to work out what might have happened. He needed more solid information.
He moved his head back and forward, trying to see if there was anything in the cavity between the ceiling and the floor above. He could see nothing except faint light through the cracks between the floorboards.
Cracks in the floorboards.
He reached up and pushed against the underside of the board, and it moved. So that was how they removed the packages: they didn't even enter the privy in case it was being watched, but took them from above. But The Dog and Pony was a tavern, not an inn, so the room above wasn't a bedroom or dormitory. He wondered what was in there, and knew he had to find out.
Karl replaced both boards, stepped down and re-entered the main room. His flask was standing on the end of the bar, and he picked it up and pocketed it, then turned to the barkeeper.
'Do you have any rooms? Anywhere I could stay?' he asked.
The man looked up: long face, bored expression. 'No,' he said.
'No space to rent upstairs? I can pay.'
The man gave no answer and his expression didn't change. Karl shrugged and left. He knew he'd get nothing else there.
Outside, in the dark street, he looked back at the tavern. A narrow alley ran down one side of the building, with a small doorway set a little back from the thoroughfare. The door looked too solid for an easy break-in, and it would be too public, not to mention audible to anyone inside. That was no use.
From down the street he heard the crack of hard leather boot-soles on stone, and knew the sound: soldiers' boots, high and black, designed for cavalry but worn for authority. Witch hunters' boots. He ducked into the narrow alley and listened.
Three men walking in a group, then stopping. He heard a voice he recognised: Kratz. 'Jan, wait here; Marcus round the back. If anyone tries to bolt, apprehend them. If you hear a fight, come and help me. If I'm not out in fifteen minutes, go for reinforcements.'
His adversaries' timing was unfortunate but, Karl reasoned, at least it meant he had reached the tavern before them. Karl ran down the alley, which opened into a small yard stacked with empty wooden casks. A narrow staircase ran up the rear wall of the tavern, turning sharp right to face a bare wood door. A winch projected from the wall above it, a loose rope harness dangling fifteen feet off the ground. There were no windows in this part of the building. Karl went up the stairs. He could hear the witch hunter Marcus entering the alley.
He pushed the door, muttering a prayer to Sigmar about places too poor to afford locks, and it gave inwards on loose hinges. He slid through the gap and closed the door as slowly as he could, then pressed his ear to it. No sound came from outside: no indication that Marcus had seen him. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
The room was lit by two thick candles on a table at the side of the room, the same soft light he'd seen filtering through between the floorboards. The place was furnished with racks of barrels and casks lying on their sides on rough wood frames. Evidently The Dog and Pony had no cellar to store its stock. The standard tools of the vintner's job lay on the table: hammers, spare bungs, heavy iron rods for levering the heavy barrels into their places. One of them had been used to beat in the skull of the man who lay in the centre of the floor. The great puddle of his blood was cold but still wet. Killed here, then, and dead no more than a couple of hours.
Another person who had missed the boat out of town. Had this corpse been sent to collect the package, or had he tried to take it from the rightful collector? He had dark hair flecked with grey and wore clothes that could have belonged to a trader, but they were worn, and last year's cut. The palms of his hands were soft, no callouses from manual work, and yet he had the words ''Karl Franz'' tattooed across his knuckles. Karl didn't recognise him. He rummaged in the corpse's damp pockets to see if he could learn any more, but they were empty.
On the floor beside the dead man someone had left a mark: a handprint in blood, fingers slightly apart, the print scarlet in the low light. A woman's right hand had made it, and one unaccustomed to hard work: no callouses or blisters had left their trace. Whoever she was, she wore rings on her third and fourth fingers. The print was too clear, too precise to be an accident. It meant something, but he had no idea what.
Karl studied it for a second more, then leaned over and pressed against the short floorboard next to it. It moved. He had been right about that, at least, but why put a marker next to an empty safe-drop point? Was someone trying to tell someone else that their message had been intercepted, or to indicate that the right person had picked it up, or even that it wasn't safe to use any more? Karl felt dizzied by the details. Each new clue only added more uncertainty, more possibilities to the already confused weave of information. He needed some sharp facts to help him unpick the threads. He needed information.
He lifted the floorboard from its place and stared into the void between the floors. There was nothing there but he could see a little through the cracks in the wood panel ceiling of the privy below. He could tell that there was someone sitting in there. Someone in a black tunic and no trousers.
He silently lifted the lower panel from its rest and stared down at the feared witch hunter Theo Kratz, his britches around his ankles, straining. He stared straight ahead, unaware of everything except his bowels.
'Move and die,' Karl said. 'I have a crossbow aimed at your head.'
Kratz froze. One hand moved instinctively to cover his groin. Karl didn't stop him; he could see the man had no weapons there.
'You will never leave Nuln,' Kratz said, his gaze fixed on the closed door in front of him. 'We know—'
'Who told you where to find me?' Karl asked.
Kratz said nothing.
'What brought you to this tavern?'
Kratz's stare was fixed straight ahead.
'Who are the people—' Karl stopped. Asking that would tell Kratz that he knew almost nothing about Herr Stahl and his organisation, and besides it was clear that the witch hunter was not going to tell him anything. He tried a different tack.
'Who set you on my trail? Brother Karin?'
'Yes.' Kratz's reply came through gritted teeth.
'She wants me dead because I know the truth about her and Lord Gamow. She follows the Blood God.'
'Heretic filth,' Kratz growled. 'Mutant. I will not listen to your foul lies. I have men surrounding this building—'
'Jan at the front and Marcus at the back, I know.' The witch hunter's obstinacy was tiring but Karl was beginning to enjoy the sense of control and the other's obvious discomfort. 'And if you don't tell me what I want to know, I will kill you where you sit.'
'Not an inch will you have from me. I will track you down and destroy you, in the name of Sigmar. No servant of Chaos shall be permitted to live.'
'You may not believe it, but my creed is the same,' Karl said. 'You know enough about me to know that is true. And I will kill Brother Karin for the same reason: Chaos and its servants must be destroyed.'
'Then kill yourself,' Kratz said.
Karl was still. 'I think about it often,' he said. 'But I prefer to die struggling against my enemies.'
'You are a ruthless man,' Kratz said. 'Such zeal would be admired among the godly, but you are an abomination. You are the cause I fight against.'
'We are fighting for the same cause,' Karl said, 'but you don't know it yet because you haven't realised who your real enemies are. When you do—'
Someone banged on the privy door, three hard thumps. Karl jerked, startled. Kratz dived forward, hitting the door with outstretched arms, pushing it open and rolling through, out of sight. The last thing Karl saw of him was his hairy backside, smeared with shit.
Most men would stop to clean themselves after that. Karl knew it would take more than filth and stink to stop Kratz.
He leaped to his feet, ran to the door and shouted, 'Brother Marcus! Up here!'
Heavy footsteps ran across the yard outside and came up the stairs two at a time. Witch hunters were renowned for their zeal and the swiftness of the justice they brought, but they were not great strategic thinkers. Like a faithful dog, Marcus was responding to his name, not to the voice that called it.
As Brother Marcus's footsteps reached the top of the stairs, Karl kicked the door as hard as he could. It flew open, hitting the witch hunter and sending him backwards off the edge of the platform, with a strangled cry and a crash of falling barrels. Karl followed him, grabbing the dangling ropes from the pulley above the doorway and swinging to the ground.
Marcus lay half-buried in smashed barrels, not moving. Karl grabbed the man's cloak, pulling it loose from under the barrels, and threw it round his shoulders, then picked up his tall hat, knocked the dents out of the felt and slipped it on.
Kratz and the other witch hunter appeared at the entrance to the alley. Karl, stooping, pointed at the figure under the pile of barrels.
'Good work, brother,' Kratz said. He still smelled of shit.
The two witch hunters approached the fallen figure. Karl slipped around behind them, and was away down the alley. It would be a few seconds before they discovered he had tricked them, but that was enough.
He had to get out of town. It would leave many questions unanswered, but he preferred to be alive and wondering than informed and dead. He could have stayed and killed Kratz - he felt an alien part of his spirit rise with bloodlust at the thought - not least because after this evening the witch hunter would be an implacable and relentless foe, but when he had said that they were on the same side he had meant it. Allies were hard to come by. Perhaps Kratz could finally be made to realise that not all was as black and white as Brother Karin wanted him to think.
The western gates of the city loomed ahead. For the next few hours, Karl thought, he would be a witch hunter. Then he'd find a coaching inn outside the city, borrow a horse from their stables and head downriver. The Eider had sailed towards Grissenwald, its crew and cargo unknown. It wasn't much to go on, but he had nothing else and at least the journey would give him time to think.

Brother Karin,

Your dogs have chased me out of Nuln, though I am not sure there was anything left there for me. Theo Kratz is a changed man since I met him in Altdorf. Do not chastise him for losing my scent. His zeal and single-mindedness are impressive, but they are also his weakest points. In that way, he reminds me of myself as I was when I entered the Untersuchung. Give him time and he may gain understanding and become a true warrior against the forces of Chaos, as I did. And if he does, then you should live in fear.
I have sensed there is a web that crosses the Empire, and it grows day by day. It is the outward sign of something that matures within our hearts: the Empire's own resistance to the insults and infections thrust upon it by its enemies outside, like Archaon's army in the north, and from those who burrow into its heart like worms or parasites, like you. I am a part of it. From what I hear of him, Luthor Huss is too. Theo Kratz may feel it, and if he does then he may join us.
It increases not by planning or design, or by the subterfuges that the cults of Chaos use to spread their tendrils, but every time a man or woman realises that the only way to stop the destruction and corruption is to add their strength to the struggle. I feel it more strongly every day. You should fear it because one day it will rise up and strangle you and all your kind.
If you think the lack of mercy that you showed the Untersuchung, or the bloodlust with which your warriors of Khorne cut down Duke Heller's army last summer was a show of your might, then I tell you that when it is revealed our strength will show yours for the pitiful, scornful thing it is.
I hope I am there to see you die.

Karl Hoche

Karin refolded the parchment and held it in the flame of a candle, letting it burn till it scorched her fingers. 'He's left Nuln,' she said.

Chapter Four
THE CONTENTS OF A CHAMBER POT



GRISSENWALD TOOK A night and a day to reach. The night was cold, the day was filled with a miserable drizzle, and the horse he had borrowed from the coaching inn at Mattersheim had thrown a shoe barely a mile beyond the village and he had been forced to walk beside it until he found a blacksmith to nail it back on. Karl did not let these things distract him from his thoughts.
How much of the information he had learned in Nuln could he trust, he asked himself, and answered his question almost immediately: only what he had seen, heard, smelled and touched for himself. He could not trust the word of any of the people he had spoken to; not Herr Stahl, who he had wanted to trust very much; not Theo Kratz who had told him almost nothing anyway; certainly not the men at the docks; not even Frau Farber back in Oberwil. People were unreliable. They could be corrupted too easily. He did not trust people.
No, he corrected himself, there were two people in Nuln whose information he did trust: the dead man in the pond and the dead man in the attic. Corpses did not lie. Then he thought of the mutant's new mouth biting down on Father Darius's wrist and amended his own reply: not usually.
The first corpse was almost certainly the man that Frau Farber had described to him, who had claimed to be an Untersuchung agent on the same trail as Karl: tracking down former members, wanting to restart the work. He had got himself shot in the head. If there had been an ambush at Dead Man's Pond, or even if a meeting had been interrupted there, any clandestine group worth the name - and Karl knew from what he'd seen of them in action that Stahl's organisation was tightly structured and intelligently run - would never have gone back there. So either they had no idea that the man was in the pond, or they put him there.
The former wasn't impossible. A third party might have intercepted the courier on his way back and killed him. But Karl thought of the Imperial messenger who had waited for him, and the look in his eyes, and he knew that these men had been behind the fate of the unnamed corpse.
Which told him nothing, except that he was dealing with ruthless men who worked outside the law - which he had expected - and that Frau Farber's skills as a fortune-teller were not to be underestimated. She had thrown the sticks for the dead man and seen nothing good in them, and she had been right.
The second corpse, the one in the attic, was more perplexing. It could have been someone who was retrieving a message from the cache above the privy. But was he a part of Herr Stahl's group, caught and killed by a member of another organisation as he checked the drop-point? Or an outsider who had found the drop-point and been killed for it? It was possible but not likely that this was a traitor agent, possibly even the agent who had betrayed the group to the witch hunters - killing him in this way would render the drop-point useless. Perhaps that was the point. The man had been killed while the group was fleeing the town; always a good time to settle old scores and end unfinished business.
The thing that could answer the conundrum was the hand-print. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it was a deliberate mark, a symbol, not something left by a careless murderer. A scarlet hand. Did it refer to the dead man, or to the person who had killed him, or to the drop-point? What did it mean? Why leave a print of your own hand in the blood of a man you've just killed? And who was the murderess who had done it?
Not for the first time, he wished there was someone he could ask, or some library to refer to. The Untersuchung had employed some of the Empire's best experts on conspiracies and secret groups across the world, whether connected with Chaos or not. It was their speciality, the reason for their existence: to monitor these clandestine organisations, observe their movements, and if they became a threat to the Empire or infiltrated by followers of the Dark Powers, then destroy them. More often than not they would inform the local chapterhouse of the witch hunters and let them do the dirty work and the burnings, as well as taking the credit. When the witch hunters had turned on them, the library had gone up in smoke along with the experts.
So what had happened over the last two days? For some reason Kratz had decided to arrest him the same day that the witch hunters moved against Stahl's organisation. Had somebody - an informant perhaps - made a connection between the two? Had Kratz just assumed that the two were linked? Had someone told Kratz that Karl was looking for a group like the Untersuchung, possibly containing former Untersuchung members?
Karl reined in his horse abruptly and sat in the saddle, staring at the grey clouds on the horizon. There was another possibility he hadn't considered, hadn't even realised: he didn't know if the witch hunters were going after Stahl's group at all. They had appeared at the docks and at The Dog and Pony, but then Karl had been seen in both places - they could have been following his trail, nothing more. He had no evidence that Stahl and his associates had fled the city as soon as the witch hunter raids started; in fact he had nothing to tie Stahl to the Eider except that he had known its cabin would be empty that evening.
It was even possible that Kratz wasn't going into The Dog and Pony to search it or question its patrons, but just to use the privy. Stahl and his people could still be in Nuln, lying low till the witch hunters stopped hunting.
All in all, it wasn't much of a reason to chase a fast wherry downstream. But Nuln had become too hot for him, and it didn't seem likely that Herr Stahl would be eager to employ someone who had a price on his head, and who had led the witch hunters to two of his group's meeting-places.
The drizzle was constant, cold and thin. How could something so relentless be so half-hearted at the same time? His horse cropped grass from the side of the road. He decided to let it loose outside Grissenwald and walk the last couple of miles into the market town. Maybe its owner would find it and reclaim it. He hoped so.
Over in the bare strip-fields to his left, a peasant shouted some greeting. No, the man wasn't farming, he was running towards the road, shouting.
As the man got closer, Karl could see his clothes were long and ragged, not what a peasant would wear for working in the fields on a day like this, and he was out of breath.
The bedraggled man staggered closer, his feet heavy with dark mud. 'Sir, we need help,' he gasped. Long-haired, long-bearded, ragged cloak over dark clothes. Thin. No hat. Middle-aged. Scared.
'How can I help you?' Karl asked.
'Ride and get help. The village is being attacked.' He pointed back across the fields.
'Attacked?' Karl could see the village now, spirals of smoke rising beyond a line of trees, and the stone bell-tower of a temple standing square against the sky.
'Attacked by a fiend of Chaos! Bring soldiers and witch hunters! Please, ride!'
Karl grinned. He had needed something to bring him back out of his head, and this panicked rustic would suffice. 'Lead on,' he said. 'I'll do your dirty work.'

THEY WENT TO the village, Karl riding and his fetcher leading the way on foot, turning back every few paces to check he was still there, or to explain a part of his story in greater detail. There was already too much detail to it, Karl thought, and too much of that biographical. The man's name was Oswald Maurer and he described himself as a traveller in the service of Sigmar, which seemed to mean he went from place to place visiting shrines and sacred sites, preaching in villages and inns, living off the alms of the generous, and sleeping in temples or under hedges.
He had been in Haldedorf, that being the name of the village, for less than a day when the Chaos creature had attacked. Oswald's description became chattered and confused at this point: the thing was ten feet tall, hairy all over, or with scales, with one or possibly three heads which might or might not have horns, or look like a goat, or a bear, or a dragon. Karl realised that Oswald had not actually seen the creature. From the man's garble he was able to work out that the invader was most likely a beastman, a second- or third-generation creature of Chaos, its body roughly human, its head roughly animal, its intelligence and instincts somewhere between the two.
It had come to the village first by night, breaking down a hut door, killing a man and making off with his body. An hour ago it had returned in daylight, killing three peasants and two cows, then dragging the body of one of the animals away into the woods.
Anything that could drag a dead cow any distance was worthy of respect, but Karl had fought beastmen before: they were coarse, belligerent adversaries who believed in the strength of their own aggression. He could do this, and he needed to remind himself that there were things he was still good at.
They arrived at Haldedorf. It was hardly worthy of the word village: just a few houses clustered around a temple in bad repair, and a building beside the stream that doubled as mill and smithy. Oswald wanted to introduce him to the priest of the temple, and the blacksmith, and the blacksmith's wife, but Karl held up a hand and passed him the reins of his horse. 'Stable him, rub him down and give him some water,' he said and as Oswald started to protest, 'Well, find someone who knows how. If I'm not back in a day, sell the horse and hire some mercenaries.'
A few scared, puzzled villagers watched as he inspected the torn-up pasture where the cows had been kept, then followed the beastman's cloven-hoofed tracks away, between outlying hovels, towards the woods. Karl's hunting skills weren't honed, but the trail left by a dragged cow wasn't hard to follow.
The woods were light, the spring leaves still small, pale-green and delicate. Rain dropped onto rotting loam with heavy plashes. Karl drew his heavy sword and stalked in, using the thicker trees as cover. He wanted to get close enough to take the beast by surprise.
After twenty minutes he knew he had been right: it hadn't been able to drag the carcass very far, and judging by the dead cow's exposed bones and torn flesh, it was very hungry. It was what he had expected: lone beastmen did not attack human communities unless they were starving or mad. He could see the creature kneeling over the remains of the cow, ripping out organs and stuffing them into its mouth. He crept closer. What was this monster's story? How did it come to be alone and starving so close to human settlements? Most beastmen lived in the depths of the Empire's huge forests, or in the frozen north towards Kislev, where the armies of Chaos were gathering. Perhaps this one's tribe had been wiped out, or had all died. Perhaps it was following some weird instinct of Chaos, travelling across the world to fulfil some strange destiny?
But who understood the ways of beastmen, and who cared? Karl held its destiny in his right hand. He lifted it, feeling the perfect balance in the blade. Down the trail, the beastman lifted its snout into the air, sniffed and turned, and he saw it was a female, young, ribs exposed and dugs wrinkled from hunger. It looked at him and stood, snarling, its face and body covered with blood and hair. Its hands were huge things, its fingernails hooks, its teeth crags.
Karl charged and swung.
It sidestepped, ducking, swinging wild claws at him.
Karl stepped back, let the blow go past and thrust his sword-point through its heart. It staggered. He withdrew the blade and, as it raised its hands to cover the wound and staunch the first gouts of fatal blood, beheaded it.
That had been pathetically easy.
It was too wet to burn the body. He picked up the head by one curled horn and carried it back down the trail, out of the woods, across the pasture and into the square of muddy earth outside the mill house. The villagers began to gather, hanging back from him and the ugly thing he carried, talking in hushed tones.
Karl threw the head down on the ground. It rolled and came to rest, its sightless eyes red and bovine, its tongue lolling from between its elongated jaws. Mostly goat-like, Karl thought. There was a hush from the villagers, part sated, part expectant. Karl waited for the first words of thanks and praise.
Opposite him, a big man in a rough smock pursed his lips, making a sucking sound. 'No,' he said, 'that's not the one. The one that took the cow was more like a bear. And bigger.'
A bellow shook Haldedorf. At the edge of the woods, something was charging across the pasture, its arms as thick as the five-foot tree branch it carried as a club. Each step in its charge shook the earth. It was, Karl had to admit, more like a bear. And bigger.
He suddenly became aware that he was standing alone, next to the lolling head of the beastwoman. The villagers had disappeared.
About nine feet tall, he calculated. Its arms were long, probably a reach of five feet, plus its weapon. That was a hell of a reach, too far for him to hit with his sword, too difficult to get in close. Time to think of some fresh tactics.
He pulled his knife from his belt, balanced it in his hand and, as the beast thundered into range, flung it. He was aiming for its eye, or its mouth. He hit it in the right shoulder, the blade making an audible sound as it struck and stuck.
The beast didn't notice. It swung its rough club, the splintered end whistling through the air towards him. Karl danced back, but it struck him on the side, knocking him sideways and over. He hit the ground, rolled and was up on his feet - a move beyond most men but then he, like his monstrous opponent, was more than human. He guessed it had broken two of his ribs.
Damn, but it was fast. The tree branch crashed into the ground where he had been an instant before. It was as if the club had no momentum; it flicked and spun as easily as Karl's sword did, recovering from a swing, twisting back into the air for another blow. All Karl's energy and all his mind were taken up with dodging and defending: he knew that if he spared a moment to think about parry or attack, he would be dead. The club thrust at him and he jumped sideways to avoid it. The wood was too thick to hack through, too fresh to break.
He stepped back and stood still for a second, daring the beastman to take its best swing at him, and it did, whirling the club around to bring it wheeling down in a great overhand stroke that shuddered the earth as it struck. Karl moved left and slightly forwards, closer in towards his enemy, and as the beast began to heft the branch out of the mud for another shot, he leaped in and thrust at its hand, sweeping the tip of his blade up to slice across its wrist. A slash of bright blood sliced through its furry skin and the beast howled in pain and increased rage. It dropped the club…
…Karl jumped back, his heart leaping that his attack had succeeded, readying his sword for another blow…
…and it charged him, head lowered, arms outstretched, its massive brawny legs powering across the village square with incredible speed and force.
The creature struck Karl hard, hitting his sword out of his hand, knocking him flying backwards and down. One fist struck at his heart, and he felt more ribs break. The other grasped for his head, to squeeze it until his eyes burst and the blood ran from his ears. It was on top of him, pushing him down, smothering him with its weight.
He pressed back against it with what strength he had left, feeling his broken ribs scythe against each other, tearing flesh inside him. His hands groped against the hard contours of its heavy flesh. One of them, the left, found something. Smooth and metallic. He grasped it. His dagger.
The air was being crushed out of him. His skull felt like it was about to split. His heart was vibrating, his mind closing in with pain and lack of breath.
He pulled at the dagger, feeling its short blade tug free from the muscle of the beast's shoulder, twisting it to get it out and sensing the creature react to the pain, moving slightly, allowing his arm a little more space. He felt its hot breath, stinking of fresh blood and rotting meat, hot on his face, and knew where its throat was.
He struck for it.
A flood of hot liquid gushed over him. It was in his eyes and his mouth. The beast thrashed. Its weight was crushing him. He could not breathe or think any more.
He passed out.

HE WAS LYING on his back. Light was shining through his eyelids, but he couldn't open them. He raised an arm - it felt heavy, and his broken ribs angrily reminded him of their presence. His face was covered in a crusty residue. Dried blood.
He rubbed what he could from his face, becoming aware of the cold wetness where he lay. Then he opened his eyes and found himself still in the village square, where he had fallen. The beast's blood discoloured the ground around him, making his clothes foul and stiff, but there was no sign of the carcass. The drizzle had stopped. From somewhere beyond the row of rough cottages, smoke rose into the grey sky.
He staggered to his feet and looked around him at the churned mud of the village square. He could only see one person, hunkered down on his haunches beside the rough lumps of a ragged wall that formed a boundary around the temple yard. It was Oswald. The older man climbed upright slowly, as if weighed down and tired. Karl looked across the muddy, bloody space at him.
'Is it dead?' he asked.
Oswald jerked his thumb towards the fields and the column of smoke. 'They dragged the body out to the pasture and burnt it.'
'Was I next?'
'No. Well, perhaps.' Oswald looked confused and embarrassed. 'You were covered in its blood. Nobody wanted to touch you, even to see if you were alive. Some wanted to kill you before you mutated.'
'Mutated?' Karl said, startled at the word. Had his bandage come untied? Had they seen his hellish disfigurement?
Oswald's lips parted in a smile, but there was little humour and fewer teeth in it. 'They seemed to think that you'd turn into a beastman like that. But if you wash it off they'll see you're fine.' He gestured towards the stream that flowed past the mill.
Karl waded into the knee-high flow of cold water, and kneeled to wash the blood out of his face and hair. Then he removed his jerkin and shirt, rubbing the fabric in the flow to release the dried blood, watching it stream away in thin lines of red. The cold numbed his legs, dulling the pain of his bruises and cuts. His ribs were still a sharp pain but, he reminded himself, as long as he took things easy they would be set and strong again in a week. One of the benefits of his curse. He didn't remove the bandage around his neck.
He wrung the water out of his clothes, stepped out of the stream and pulled the wet garments back on. It was uncomfortable but the warmth of his body would dry them soon enough. Oswald was watching him.
'What?' Karl asked.
Oswald was silent, his eyes unwavering. 'Why did you do it?' he said.
'It was the beast or me.' Karl picked up his sword from where it had fallen, and began wiping the blood and earth from its blade. There was no sign of his throwing-knife. They'd probably burnt that too.
'No, why did you come to our aid? Why go into the woods on your own?'
Karl spotted the knife half buried in the earth, and retrieved it. 'Someone had to. There was no time to fetch help.'
'Why you?'
'Because I have had enough.' Karl sheathed his sword. 'I have seen Chaos win too many battles, and destroy too many lives. There comes a time when a man has taken all he can. I have taken all I can, and I will take no more. You called for help. I was there. Thank Sigmar and think nothing more of it.'
'We will thank Sigmar,' a voice said from behind Karl. Oswald started. Karl didn't look round.
'You're the priest,' he said.
'I am the priest,' the speaker said, walking into his line of sight. Black robes, bald head, thin beard tinged with grey: Karl had seen a hundred men like him. 'We will thank Sigmar tonight, and at the service on Festag, and whenever we meet to give praise to the gods. And we will show you our hospitality tonight. You have done us a great service.'
'And you left me in the mud, bleeding to death for all you knew or cared,' Karl said. 'Your idea of gratitude puzzles me.'
The priest smiled apologetically. They must teach them that, Karl thought. 'It is the nature of Chaos. You were crushed by the beast, covered in its blood. Its poison may have been in you. We cannot be too careful.'
Karl gestured at his wet shirt. 'But a little water has cleared me of the deed, it seems,' he said. 'And now I am pure again, you would feast me and give thanks for my selflessness. Well, reverend father, let a priest's son give you some advice. The next time a man risks his life for your village, you can stuff your salted meats and rum-pots filled with last summer's fruit. They would be ash in my mouth, given from duty, not from true gratitude. Thank a man when he needs it, when he's lying half-dead with broken ribs. Next time you'll have a dead hero.'
The priest seemed sympathetic. Karl knew he wasn't. 'But you'll stay tonight?'
'No. I must be in Grissenwald by nightfall. I have a boat to catch.'
Oswald stepped forward. 'I am heading to Grissenwald. I can show you the way.'
Karl pointed north. 'I follow the road till it reaches the town. It's not steam tank science.'
'But there may be other beastmen…'
'If there are, I'm hardly in a state to fight them off.' His ribs grated and Karl grimaced. 'But there's room on my horse for a bony old pilgrim, if that's what you're asking. Go and fetch it if you want to come with me.'
Oswald went. The priest stayed, studying Karl, making small nervous movements. 'I am sorry, truly,' he said, 'but I could not—' He paused.
'Could not what?'
The priest took a breath. 'If you had been infected,' he said, speaking fast, 'if the Chaos-beast's blood had got into your veins and mingled with yours, would you have wanted to live? Wouldn't you have wanted to bleed to death and die a man and a servant of Sigmar, rather than change and become some vile spawn, losing your soul…'
Karl took three paces across the square until they were face to face. 'Pray you never have to ask yourself that question, man of Sigmar,' he said.
There was an ugly silence until Oswald arrived with the horse. Karl helped the thin pilgrim into the saddle, climbed up in front of him, and geed the horse into motion, riding away. He did not look back.
Random acts of spontaneous heroism, he thought. He had done a good deed, and though he hated the priest's sanctimonious attitude, he knew the man had only been trying to protect his community. He had no doubt that he would be remembered in the village's prayers many times over. And then when the witch hunters followed his trail here in a few days or weeks, and told the peasants that the man who risked his life to save them from two beastmen was Karl Hoche the traitor, mutant and servant of Chaos, how would that change the way they thought of him?
He had no idea, and did not want to think of it. They were sheep, river-weed, letting themselves be swayed this way and that by the current of the times, never making a move to take their destiny into their own hands, and unable to even think of the possibility of doing it. They were too scared to even help someone who had saved their lives; too scared or too contemptuous. Too many people were like them, thinking inactivity was a form of protest or defence. It was not even denial. It was stupidity and fear, and he hated them for it.

'SO WHY ARE you going to Grissenwald?' he asked Oswald and felt the pilgrim shift on the saddle behind him.
'There's a temple,' he said. 'They have a part of Sigmar's cloak. I have never seen it.'
'Sigmar's cloak?' Karl said. 'My father once said that so many temples have a piece of it, if they were all stitched together the cloak would be as big as a physic garden, and as many-coloured.'
Oswald sniffed. 'Sigmar must have worn many cloaks in his life. I wish to see this one. I dreamed about it when I was in Ruhfort, and it called to me. I find it wise to follow my dreams. Do you?'
'I do not dream,' Karl said. 'And I do not make a habit of lying to people, particularly if they have saved my life.'
Oswald was still.
'You're a pilgrim and a preacher, and you must have passed up and down the Reik twenty or thirty times. Did you think I'd believe that you'd never seen the temple at Grissenwald? Every boat stops there.'
Oswald was silent.
'You don't owe me the truth,' Karl said, 'but it would be polite. And we may be able to help each other.'
Oswald shifted. 'I have to meet some people.'
'In Grissenwald?' Karl's heart jumped, reacting a second before his head. Then he realised it was not the men he wanted to find there. 'It's about Luthor Huss, isn't it?' he asked.
'Yes. How did you know?' The man behind him stiffened with tension. 'Who are you? I don't even know your name.'
'Hans Fr—' Karl stopped himself. 'Leo Deistadt. A traveller, carrying news north from Nuln.'
Out of his sight, Oswald said, 'You don't owe me the truth, but it would be polite.'
Karl was silent. The horse plodded on. Behind the clouds, the sun sank towards the wooded horizon, a circle of light like a hole to another universe, a different place and time, a better existence. In an hour it would be gone.
'I am Karl Hoche,' Karl said. 'The Empire has declared I am its enemy, but it is wrong.'
'I too, and many who believe what I believe. Well met, Karl Hoche,' Oswald said. 'Why are you going to Grissenwald?'
'Enough secrets for now,' Karl said, and dug his heels into the horse's flank to speed it on.

THE SUN HAD gone and the last of the light was fading from the sky. Karl stood at the eastern end of the wooden wharfs projecting out into the river. Downstream, past the moored boats, the waters of the River Grissen flowed east into the waters of the Reik, which swallowed it and continued its uninterrupted path north. The rivers were black in the twilight, the lights of Grissenwald reflecting dully from the rippled surface.
The wharfs were crowded but there was not much traffic on the dock-side. Grissenwald was a popular stopping-point for river traffic but not a major port or trading centre. Outside of harvest-time it had few goods to offer, save what might have been brought down by traders from Dunkelberg and other communities further west towards the Grey Mountains, and many of those goods were destined for further afield, or for the dwarf shanty-town that butted up against the south wall of the town. The dwarfs kept themselves and their trade to themselves.
There was no sign of the Eider. Rationally he hadn't expected the wherry to be there, but a part of him had hoped it might be, that Herr Stahl might be in the town or on the ship, ready to answer his questions, to explain, to make it clear that it had all been a misunderstanding. But the boat wasn't there. Now he stood facing the last of the warehouses, hoping it might have some answers.
A couple of dockhands sat on rough-wrapped bales outside the wide doors, the red points of the tobacco in the clay pipes in their hands glowing and moving like the eyes of some sinuous river-monster as they gestured and gesticulated to emphasise their conversation. Karl walked up to them, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
'Is this the Oldenhaller building?' he asked.
They stopped and looked at him, their eyes guarded by shadows.
'I'm looking for a boat,' he said. 'A wherry, the Eider, up from Nuln. I have urgent news for her.'
The man on the right scratched his balls. The other said, 'You've missed her,' and took a suck from his pipe, its embers glowing brighter.
'When did she sail?'
'Noon.'
'Did anyone get off? Any passengers?' The smoker shrugged. His friend said something low that Karl didn't catch. He was about to say something else, to protest that he had to speak to the men on the Eider, but realised he would get no further here. Possibly a bribe would help. Or possibly something else.
He took his right hand from the hilt of his sword and raised it slowly and deliberately across his chest, to scratch his left ear with his little finger, as both Stahl and the Imperial messenger had done. He felt self-conscious and a little foolish.
The docker who had spoken got slowly to his feet and with the same deliberate movement that Karl had used ran his left hand through his hair. Karl watched the gesture, a knot of tension in his stomach. Was that the proper response? Had he just given himself away?
Then the man cleared his throat and said, 'Now you mention it, friend, I recall two men did leave the boat. If they're still in town, they're likely staying with the master.'
'The master?'
'Karsten Oldenhaller.'
Karl digested this. 'Thank you,' he said, and walked back into town.
Grissenwald reminded him of home. Grunburg, where he had grown up, was about the same size: it was closer to Altdorf but on the banks of the Teufel, a smaller and less important river than the Reik. The mix of docks, traders, shops and merchants, taverns and itinerants felt familiar: the blending of rich and poor, easterner and westerner, human, elf and dwarf; and in the background the ever-present rushing of the river, the world coming to and flowing away from the town.
Everybody he asked knew where the Oldenhaller house was: towards the western edge of the town, two streets away from the main market square. It stood within its own ornate garden, almost arrogant in its isolation and modernity. We, it said, are a breed apart.
Karl strode up the flagstoned path to the front door and rapped hard on it. After a few moments it opened at the hands of a footman in red and black livery who studied Karl with the same look of arrogance that the house possessed. Behind him lay a hallway decorated with Arabyan silks hung on the walls, contrasting incongruously with the dark wood beams of the ceiling. New money, Karl thought, and not enough to spend it on. Or possibly they got stuck with a cargo of fabrics they couldn't sell, and decided to make the most of it.
'Yes?' the footman said.
'I have urgent news from Nuln for a man I believe is staying here,' Karl said. 'He arrived on the wherry Eider yesterday.'
There was an imperceptible pause. 'What is the name of the person?' the footman asked.
Karl hesitated. He had no idea if the names he had been given were real. But if not then at least there was a good chance they were code-names and would be recognised, and judging from the response of the man at the warehouse, the Oldenhallers were somehow involved in the organisation as well. 'Herr Stahl,' he said, 'or, if he's here, Herr Scharlach.'
'Wait here.' The footman turned on his heel, and kicked back against the door as he walked away. It slammed in Karl's face. He muttered an oath about overweening house-staff, then leaned forward and pressed his ear to the damp elmwood, to see if he could hear anything.
The sound was muffled, but he could make out the footman's steps across the stone floor, and the change in sound as he reached the end of the hallway and onto wood boards. After a moment there were voices. He couldn't identify words, but recognised the sound of the footman's local accent, followed by a more well-bred, mannered voice, rising in the inflection of a question. The footman again, then manners, then the footman, and a third voice. It sounded agonisingly familiar. Was it Herr Stahl? Without words, it was impossible to tell for sure. Manners, the footman, and then the footsteps coming back. He pulled away. The door swung open.
'Herr Scharlach is not here at present,' the footman said, 'though he is expected back this evening. If the message is a package or a letter then I will pass it on…'
'It is for his ears,' Karl said, 'and his alone,' trying to sound assured. He thought he detected a momentary moue at the corner of the man's mouth, a tiny gesture of real irritation. Good.
'We will send a messenger for you on Herr Scharlach's return,' the footman said. 'Where will he find you?'
Karl kept his face calm and still as he tried to remember the names of any of the inns he had passed on his way into town. What was the place where Oswald Maurer was staying? 'The Lost Preacher,' he said.

THE LOST PREACHER'S beer was weak, the company in its front room subdued, and the conversation low. Karl held off eating in hopes of an invitation to dinner with the Oldenhallers but eventually his hunger got the better of him and he ordered a chop. When it was served he realised he should have specified the animal: it could have been pork or mutton, but he had a suspicion it was something unidentifiable the innkeeper had found floating in the river.
Oswald was sullen and withdrawn. Karl tried to start conversations about his history, the sights he had seen, and about Luthor Huss and his crusade, but with each opening the man raised tired eyes and slowly shook his head, or responded in monosyllables until Karl grew dispirited and stopped trying. Across the room another group of men in priests' robes sat in silence. Were these the men that Oswald was here to meet, and if so why didn't they retire to a private room to discuss their business? Or was it important that they were seen in public behaving as if they didn't know each other? Karl had only been in the service of the Untersuchung for a few months but in that time had seen people do stranger things - people paranoid about security, safety, and terrified that there were listeners and spies everywhere. Sometimes they had been right.
Slowly the others retired to their rooms upstairs, to sleep. Karl sat up until midnight, as the serving-boy swept the floor under his feet. Nobody was coming for him. He had no need to go to bed, but went anyway: the silence and stillness would give him a chance to think, and he still needed to clean the bandage over his gag, over his mutation.
He did not sleep, but lay on his bed, allowing his broken ribs to rest, and let his mind wander. It had been a strange two years since his first encounter with the followers of the Chaos gods, and the path of his life had twisted and turned so many times since then that if he tried to retrace the route in his mind he ended up feeling lost and confused. There was no point in looking back. The past was as dead as most of the people he had known there. Focusing on the future kept his mind clear, his sense of self unsullied, and his hatred sharp.
If only he knew what direction he should take. There were many ways he could set himself against Chaos. Herr Stahl's organisation was only one option, and it seemed to be raising more questions than it answered at the moment. Killing the beastmen this afternoon had felt good, almost purifying. He was still a soldier at heart, enjoying the tactics and chase of conflict. The intrigue and confusion that seemed to begin every time he entered a town or city was a distraction from his true task. Chaos lived here too, but it was harder to root out.
'It is hard to pull weeds in hard soil, and easy for them to regrow there,' he quoted to himself. That was from the Testaments of Sigmar, and originally about greenskins in the World's Edge Mountains, but it seemed to fit here.
A faint noise in the corridor outside his room distracted him. A mouse, probably, or the inn cat after one. He stared at the door. It was little more than a black rectangle against the room's white walls, but then something moved in the darkness and he saw the motion of the latch rising. It made no sound.
Karl lay still, watching through half-closed eyes, his hands around the knife he kept under his pillow. The shape of the door's outline changed as someone pushed it open from the other side. The hinges did not creak or scrape. For a long moment nothing moved, and then a head appeared through the gap, cocked to one side, listening. Karl breathed slowly, reassuringly. The rest of the silent figure slipped into the room, moving like a shadow.
Who was it, Karl wondered? The figure was nothing more than a silhouette. Not Oswald: this man was too short. Could it be Herr Stahl? The angle was tricky; if he pulled the pillow away and threw his knife the other man would have time to dodge or draw a weapon. Karl's instincts told him the man was a threat, his mind said he might not be. Best to wait.
The figure moved across the room, becoming a blur at the edge of Karl's vision. He was standing by the wooden dresser, moving.
Putting something on it? It was hard to tell. But if he moved, he would give away the fact he wasn't asleep.
There was a flick of movement, a gesture of some kind. Something light landed in a scatter-pattern across the bed. What the hell? He did it again. The smell of it hit Karl a moment later, lamp oil.
Karl threw himself off the bed as a third shower of droplets flew from the man's hand. He was grasping for a box - a tinderbox. Karl lunged towards him with the knife but it was dark and he was able to dodge along the wall towards the door. Karl jumped onto and over the bed, trying to block his exit.
He wasn't sure what happened next. There was a sound, the room was lit by flames, and he was on fire. His clothes were ablaze. An instant later he felt the heat begin to sear his skin.
In the sudden light he saw the face of the intruder, and recognised him. Not Herr Stahl, but the dock-worker from the Oldenhaller warehouse, the one who had responded to his gesture. What had caused this? What had he done now? He lunged wildly for the man but missed him. The brightness of the burning oil on his sleeve distracted him. There was a ewer of water on the dresser. He went for it, grabbing it with both hands and splashing it over his front, soaking his clothes, trying to beat the remaining flames out. There was too much. His hands were burning: there must be oil on them, he was spreading the blaze over himself.
The door slammed open and there was a shout: 'Karl!' He turned. Water hit him in the face, and then more liquid splattered his chest. In the door, Oswald was chanting, his hands held at a strange angle, the silver hammer he wore around his neck clutched in his fingers. Another attack? He launched himself at the pilgrim, and the room was plunged into darkness. All the flames had gone out. He stumbled in the sudden darkness and crashed to the floor. Oswald was there, picking him up.
'Come on,' he said. 'They'll be back. We've got to get out of here.'
Karl looked up. 'What happened to the other man?'
'He went out of the window.'
Karl glanced over, to the open window-shutters and the area of flat roof beyond. There was no sign of his would-be assassin. He slowly climbed upright, trying not to let his shattered ribs move, slowly becoming aware of an acrid smell in the air. 'What did you throw at me?'
'My chamber pot,' Oswald said with a certain cheer in his voice. 'Human urine is surprisingly efficacious as an emergency component in certain spells.'
The pilgrim, a spellcaster? Some priests had a little magical ability, but Oswald didn't seem the type. 'Who are you?' Karl asked.
'Later. You need to get out of town, and I know how.'
'How?'
'Trust me.'
'Trust is scarce and valuable in these parts,' Karl said.
'You trusted me with your name. I can repay that trust now.'
Karl looked into his eyes and saw something he recognised, something familiar. He picked up his pack and sword. 'Lead on.'

THE INN WAS quiet as they crept downstairs: either nobody had heard the commotion or nobody had thought anything of it. Outside the town was dark but watch patrols were moving through the streets and there were guards at the gates and on the wall. They were looking for someone. It was not hard to guess who.
Oswald led Karl through the town's backstreets and alleys, heading towards the shadow of the wall. The old preacher seemed to know what he was doing, or at least where he was going, and Karl held his peace.
They stopped beside a small house, timber-built, that backed onto the wall itself a hundred yards west of the gate. Karl kept watch as Oswald rapped on its door. The door opened a crack. Oswald said something in old Reman, and it opened further. The two men slipped inside, to where a single candle lit a single room filled with old furniture. Worn hangings decorated the walls. An old man with rheumy sleep-filled eyes fastened the door behind them, his night-shirt blowing briefly in the breeze from outside.
'Go back to bed, father,' Oswald said. 'We'll not trouble you for long.'
'Tell me what's going on,' Karl said. 'You were here to meet people. Yet now you're helping me escape.'
Oswald sighed. 'We don't have time.'
'There's an assassin on my tail. Convince me this isn't a trap.'
'The short version, then. I have the information I came for. The people I met this afternoon will help us escape. I don't know who tried to kill you, I just heard the commotion from your room. I don't know if we are on the same side, but your enemies are mine.'
'Who did you meet? Who will help us?' Karl demanded.
Oswald lifted a corner of the wall-hanging, revealing a wooden door four feet high set into the stone of the town wall. 'The people who tunnelled this. Dwarfs.'

THEY CRAWLED THROUGH and emerged in a rough hut on the other side of the wall, stone-dust on their hands and knees. Greetings were exchanged with the woken sleepers on the other side, hands shaken, filled water-bottles and bundles of provisions thrust into their pouches. A boatman was woken to ferry them across the river a few hundred yards upstream of the town, and they were away, walking northwards along the bare earth road, the moon Mannslieb sinking towards the horizon to illuminate their path.
'I'm sorry we couldn't bring your horse,' Oswald said.
Karl shrugged. 'No matter. It wasn't my horse.'
'No, I meant we could have ridden it.' They trudged on.
'Will they follow us?'
'They might. You are an Imperial criminal, after all, and they're bound to claim you tried to burn down the inn last night. Did you know the man who tried to kill you?'
'Yes.'
'Local?'
'Yes.'
'Then they'll take his side over yours. And I'm guessing he has powerful friends. So your business did not go well?'
Karl was silent. He had travelled to Grissenwald to look for answers, and instead had been given more questions. He had been lured into a trap. Did that mean it had been Herr Stahl who had given him up to the witch hunters in Nuln? If so, whether Stahl knew who he was or not, it meant that Karl's entry to his organisation was closed forever. But if they were the kind of people who sent assassins to burn people to death in their beds, it was possible they were not the kind of organisation Karl had anticipated.
Arson. An interesting style of assassination. Easy to make it look like an accident; no inconvenient crossbow bolts or stab-wounds in the corpse, and almost silent until the moment of ignition. But why hadn't the man stabbed him and then burnt his body? And why not just give him over to the authorities and collect the reward?
Because he was a mutant, and mutants should be burnt. But how much did Stahl, Scharlach and the dock-worker know about him?
Grissenwald and the rivers had disappeared behind them into the night. 'Where are we going?' he asked Oswald.
'West.'
'To where?'
'To wherever Luthor Huss has led his crusade. I have information for him from our allies among the dwarfs.'
'Can you tell me?'
Oswald looked over at him. 'I suppose. It makes few odds now. It's bad news. About the fulfilment of a prophecy.'
'What prophecy?'
Oswald took a deep breath. 'I don't know what you've heard but Huss isn't prowling the Empire looking for corrupt priests, and he isn't building a crusade to put the fear of the gods into the Grand Theogonist. He believes that the times foretold in the Testaments of Sigmar have come, and that we are facing a threat worse than any the Empire has faced before.'
Karl stared at the moon. 'And that at such a time Sigmar would come again to his people and save them.'
'A priest's son you truly are. Yes. And the twin-tailed comet has been seen in the sky, the sign of Sigmar. You knew that?'
Karl was silent. He had seen a two-tailed star himself, a little over a year ago, on the hardest day of his life. He had set the course of his life by it. He knew what it meant.
'Huss is searching for the reborn Sigmar,' Oswald said. 'If the comet signalled his birth, he comes of age this year. We heard a story from the World's Edge Mountains, of a young dwarf born to a lineage of great history, having extraordinary powers. There was a thought it might be him. We asked our allies among the dwarfs to find out more.'
'Sigmar was reborn as a dwarf?' It was an extraordinary thought.
'He wasn't. At least not that dwarf. The hold's high priest of Grungni examined him. A fearsome warrior, a future leader of armies, possibly a retaker of lost holds and a fulfiller of prophecies in his own right, but not Sigmar.'
'Where does that leave Luthor Huss?' Karl asked.
'I don't know.' Oswald closed his eyes, walking blind down the road ahead. 'I don't know.'

Chapter Five
IN STEREO



THEY TRAVELLED WEST, and saw evidence of the crusade long before they saw the crusade itself: flattened fields, rough-built shrines beside the roads, shallow-dug latrine ditches beside pastures used as overnight camps, villages where children ran screaming at the sight of a man in priest's robes. Since leaving Grissenwald - in fact since leaving Nuln, or Oberwil, or Schoppendorf the previous autumn - Karl had noticed a growing number of wandering preachers, pilgrims, monks, ranters, fanatics and flagellants on the roads of the Empire, but as he and Oswald walked across the Empire they met more and more, heading to join Huss, to hear him preach or receive his instructions.
Some of them claimed Huss was a messiah, some the forerunner and prophet of a messiah. Some claimed he was Volkmar the former Grand Theogonist, deposed by the usurper Johann Esmer who claimed he was dead; others claimed that Volkmar was dead, had been resurrected by dark magic, and Luthor Huss had been sent to oppose him. Several said they had been told to join him in a dream. One man claimed that Huss was himself Sigmar reborn, but he bore the scabs and rotted nose of a second-generation syphilitic and drooled as he spoke. Of those they questioned, none had news and none knew where Huss was.
The villagers were more helpful. Yes, the crusade had passed through a month ago, or a handful of weeks, or a week, or two or three days. They had seen Luthor Huss at its head astride a great warhorse, his warhammer on his shoulder. He had spoken to the head man, or stood in the centre of the village and preached a message of change and destruction for the unwary and the unreformed. Many had prayed, or sung, or wailed, or spoken in tongues. Some of his followers had bought food, others had begged for it, or for alms. Some had preached. One or two had stolen things. The temple had been crowded, the local priest terrified. The villagers had been left fearful of the powers of Chaos, fearful of the corruption of the church in Altdorf, fearful that the crusade might return.
In a couple of towns the story was different. Two weeks earlier the crusade had arrived at Kemperbad, pitching its camp outside the walls. It was a fierce, cold day. Huss had entered the town, seeking a meeting with Brother Florian Eggers, well known in the area for demanding high tithes and tariffs from local merchants, and selling indulgences and other documents of dubious religious provenance.
They had met in private for two hours. Then Huss had come out onto the temple steps, proclaiming that Brother Eggers had seen the error of his ways and was praying for forgiveness, but would appear shortly. He then began to preach a sermon of damnation and brimstone on those who used the holy church to profit themselves. As he reached the climax Brother Eggers appeared at the top of the temple's spire, and leaped to his death. Some said that he was aiming for Huss, who had to step back to avoid the impact of the suicide. Others said he was thrown from the spire by Huss's followers. Nothing could be proved. The crusade left the next morning, heading north along the Reik, towards Altdorf.
The stories told too of the crusade's followers. Anything from a few minutes to several hours later came the camp-followers: local farmers and priests bringing donations of grain, oats and sometimes meat and beer; traders with carts of food to sell; the priests of other sects and gods hoping to spread their gospels to the disenchanted; the sad relatives of crusaders hoping to persuade their loved ones to come home; and always, always mentioned, one lone figure wearing the garb of a witch hunter, riding a black horse, who said nothing to anyone.
Karl had marched with armies in the past. He recognised the signs of one on the march, could tell how long ago it had passed, and knew that it would only move as fast as its slowest member. From the signs it left, that wasn't very fast. Two fit men on foot should have been able to follow this crusade's trail, catch up with it and rejoin it in just a few days. Once or twice they saw the smoke of campfires on the horizon, or met stragglers who had dropped behind, ill or injured, who told them of Huss's progress. But the crusade remained out of their reach.

'DO YOU KNOW a man named Herr Stahl?' Karl asked on the fifth day. Oswald looked pensive.
'I knew a fat priest in Weissbruck called Father Josef Stahl. Is that the man?'
Karl shook his head. 'To be honest,' he said, 'I don't even know if Stahl is his name. He leads a group of agents with similar aims to my old employers the Untersuchung - and, it seems, the same enemies.'
'Tell me.'
Karl told him, from the description Frau Farber had given him, to his arrival in Nuln, the body in the pond, the trap set for him by the witch hunters, his escape and his search through the city. When he reached the description of the corpse in the beer-attic, and the handprint beside it, Oswald stopped him.
'A hand in blood? Like this?' he held up his right hand, fingers slightly splayed.
Karl nodded. 'A woman's hand. She wore rings.'
Oswald dropped his hand and looked away, shaking his head. 'Whoever Stahl and his crew are, they have powerful enemies. The Purple Hand.'
'Who?'
'A cult of Chaos worshippers. Followers of Tzeentch, The Lord of Change. They're said to span the Empire and beyond. They don't have ties to the crime-gangs, or to bands of mutants and beastmen like many cults, nor a desire to crush the Empire by force of arms. Instead they infiltrate and corrupt, getting their people into positions of responsibility in - well, anywhere. Temples, trade guilds, regiments. Even the witch hunters, it's said.'
Karl barked a laugh. 'I don't think so.'
'You don't?'
'It's Khorne's followers who have infiltrated the witch hunters.'
'You have a strange sense of humour.' Oswald looked at him. 'You've never heard of these people? Not when you were in the Untersuchung? They're an old cult.'
'No, never.' Karl was caught in thoughts of Nuln. 'So the hand-print by the corpse could have meant that the dead man was a member of the Purple Hand, or that the person who killed him was.'
'That's if the murderer would leave a mark to show their allegiance.' Oswald chewed his lip thoughtfully. 'The sign could have been placed there before the killing. Or afterwards, to show the cult was aware of the death, or to show the drop-point was not safe anymore.'
'Possible,' Karl said, 'but let's apply Occam's Broadsword to this and eliminate the unlikely.'
'Have you ever read Occam's writings?' Oswald asked. Karl shook his head. 'An interesting man. One of the first warrior-priests of Sigmar. He wanted to preach at the temple in Altdorf but the bishops, afraid of what he might say, tied the doors shut with a knot of great complexity. If Occam could undo it, they said, he would be allowed entry. Occam studied the knot, then drew his sword, sliced the tie in two, pushed the doors open and went in. Hence the principle: the direct route to a solution is most likely the best. Otherwise you spend your life picking at threads.'
Karl nodded absently. His father had told him the story many times and here, in the midst of this wildness and uncertainly, hearing it again gave him comfort. He touched the hilt of his own sword. Occam's solution seemed simple, but Occam had been shown where the knot was. He was still trying to find the ends of the cords that led to his own.

ON THE MORNING of the eighteenth day they found the crusade's camp, spread around a crossroads on the Altdorf road a few miles north of a shrine to Sigmar. 'There were few tents or carts visible, no structure to the camp, just a maze of tents, bedrolls and campfires, makeshift altars, banners planted in the hard ground, occasional tethered horses or donkeys, and huddles of men and women chanting, singing hymns, preaching, ranting, talking quietly, praying silently, cooking, eating, meditating. Wide fields of arable land stretched away on either side, and the Reik flowed clear and dark in its course half a mile off.
Karl estimated there were seven or eight hundred people in this huddle of humanity, many of them old, infirm or weak with hunger. Enough to scare villagers, but hardly an army to face down the hordes of Chaos or the Templar-knights of the Church of Sigmar, should they come head to head.
They threaded their way through the honeycomb maze of camps, tents and groups, the sounds of conversation and prayer, the smells of boiled cuts of cheap meat, stale bread, unwashed bodies, urine and filth. A slow parade of people made their way down to the stream at the bottom of the field to drink, wash and relieve themselves. Karl's eyes searched the crowds for a face he recognised, or who recognised him, among the muddy robes, filthy hair, shaven heads and grubby faces, but there was nobody.
Having been brought up in the church, spending so much of his life surrounded by the things of Sigmar, he found it strange to be made so deeply uncomfortable. But this wasn't the church. These people were Sigmarites but they were from the far edge of the faith: extremists, heretics, fanatics, zealots who lived for their beliefs and were prepared to die for them if necessary. He knew that if any of these people knew who he was, if a single one was to shout his name or declare him to be a mutant, the crusade would rip him to shreds in seconds.
Oswald abruptly elbowed Karl in the ribs. A few days before the poke would have doubled him over in pain but now he merely winced and glared at the man. Oswald didn't seem to notice.
'Shh,' he said.
Karl, who had not said anything in minutes, took a second to register that this was more than an affectation or a call for reverence. At the heart of the hubbub, under the blue-grey spring sky, it was as if they had walked into the stillness and silence of a marble vault. The noise of the crowd was still there, but behind them and somehow muted.
Ahead of them, in front of an altar made of piled logs with a heavy warhammer placed on top of it, a man knelt, his bald scarred head bowed in prayer. A heavy robe, coarse with wear and weather, covered his shoulders and back, hanging strangely over the plates of his armour. He wore a metal band around his head, studded, half-way between a crown and a manacle. His great hands, each big enough to crush a dog's head, were clasped before him in a pose of peace and power as he made supplication to his god. Two armoured men knelt either side of him, their poses of prayer echoing his, a sense of structured calm spreading out around him to touch everyone in the camp.
This was not a man, Karl thought. This was a force of nature, an elemental power, a storm, a flood given human form. His strength was that of boulders: immovable at rest, unstoppable in motion. This man could reshape the world.
Then the kneeling figure unclasped his hands, stood up and turned around, and the moment was broken. Luthor Huss was just a man. A tall man - Karl had a few inches on most men but he had to look up to Huss - and not a handsome one, but undeniably human, and familiar. Karl had met him before.
'Brother Oswald,' he said. 'I am glad to see you safe. You know my lieutenants, Dominic and Martinus?' He indicated the two armoured men who flanked him. Dominic was muscular and shaven-headed, his blue eyes unmoving and intense below his strangely scarred scalp. Martinus was slim and bony, his eyes dark pits in his sallow complexion, with bushy eyebrows and a shrubbery of thick hair on the back of his hands.
Oswald acknowledged them with nods. 'Brother Luthor, I bring the news from the Worlds Edge Mountains. There is much—'
'There is one word.' Huss's voice was the rumble of a landslide. 'Give me that word.'
'It is no. I am sorry.'
Karl detected a moment's pause, not for thought but for sorrow. 'I am sorry too,' Huss said, 'but part of me exalts. For if Sigmar has not been reborn, then perhaps the Empire's peril can not be as grave as we fear.' He clapped his hands to rub them together and the slap rang out across the camp. 'Have you eaten?'
'No, brother.'
'Then breakfast with me and tell me news from east of the Reik.' He paused, gazing down at Karl. 'This is your companion? He looks like he has seen a ghost.'
Karl realised he was staring, lost in memories. Luthor Huss was a ghost, a resonance from a past that Karl thought he had left behind and that he tried not to remember. Ten years ago, when he was in his early teens, a travelling warrior-priest had passed through Grunburg. His father Magnus, the senior priest of the town's temple of Sigmar, had invited the man to stay at their house and to preach at the temple. Karl remembered nothing of the sermon, but he recalled the dinner afterwards, his father and this tall man in fierce argument about man's will versus Sigmar's will that had lasted long into the night. The visitor's intensity and the strength of his emotions and his faith were vivid in his memories, though the young Karl had been more interested in the priest's warhammer. Now the same weapon lay on the altar a few feet away.
The connection was unexpected, vivid, and painful. Grunburg and his family were both a long way behind him. The old Karl Hoche would have reminded Luthor of the history that connected them, and Luthor would have asked him how his father was, and Karl could not answer that question any more. How had his father received the news that his son was a traitor, a heretic, a mutant and a servant of Chaos? He did not want to know that himself.
'I'm sorry,' he muttered, pulling his eyes away from Huss, and turning with an effort to Oswald. 'I'm not hungry. I will talk with you later,' he said, and walked away.

KARL WAS SITTING beside a fire, staring into its depths when Oswald came to find him an hour later. He looked up as the older man approached and sat down beside him. His mind was full of confusion and distress. He had not expected to have his past thrust in his face, and had not been prepared for it. He could defend himself against cultists and creatures of Chaos, but memories were another matter. Once again, he had become his own enemy.
Oswald dug in his pocket and brought out a piece of black bread wrapped around some hard cheese. Karl took it and gnawed it absently. He was too wrapped up in thoughts to be hungry.
'Excuse me for saying so,' Oswald said, 'but you seemed a little overwhelmed by Brother Luthor.'
Karl stared into the stony sky, following the track of a lone raven as it coasted from wind to wind on wide black wings. He could not look at Oswald, or meet his gaze. 'I wasn't overwhelmed,' he said. 'I was… he reminded me of someone.'
'There aren't many that say that,' Oswald said. 'One of a kind he is.'
'You made your report?' Karl asked and took a mouthful of bread so he couldn't talk for a while, making Oswald do the work. Oswald, it seemed, was happy to.
'He has my news now and I have his, and neither is good. He says that word is spreading and the crusade grows daily, but that makes it harder to move and feed - and to control too. He fears there are infiltrators and agents from other sects and schisms here, spreading their own doctrine and risking a split. The news from Altdorf is gloomy: Huss is excommunicated, declared an enemy of the church, barred from entering any temple of Sigmar, and there are rumours of Templars, holy knights, on the road, and a reward for the man who brings Huss down.'
He sighed and shifted his seat. 'And there is no word of the risen Sigmar, only false reports. Huss's greatest fear is someone else should reach him first, and guide him away from the path he is meant to follow. Or worse.'
'So he believes Sigmar has been reborn?'
'He knows it. He does not speak of it, but he has had a vision. Sigmar is here, in the Empire.' Oswald looked sideways at Karl, as if expecting a response. Karl took another bite. Oswald nodded at some silent inner thought.
'Anyway,' he said, 'I came to get you. He wants to talk to you.'
Half-chewed bread and cheese shot from Karl's mouth, propelled by shock.
'I can't,' he said. 'I can't meet him.'
'He wants to meet you.'
'Did you tell him who I am?'
'No, but I told him what you did, and now he wants to meet you.'
'Oswald.' Karl dropped the bread, its purpose forgotten, its taste ash in his mouth. 'You know who I am. You know what I am. How can I meet Luthor Huss? I am a thing of… of…'
'The other side? No, Karl. You look at yourself and you see your tragedy and your dishonour. I look at you and I see a man who went to fight two beastmen, single-handed, and saved a village because a stranger begged for his aid. I have been all over this Empire, and men who would do that are scarce, even for glory or money. You didn't do it for either of those, you did it because it was right.'
Karl wanted to deny it, to explain his complex reasons for the choice he had made, but found he had no voice. How could he describe the depths of his hatred for the things of Chaos, and its roots in the hatred of the thing that Chaos had made him, his sense of isolation, his frustration at the way things had gone in Nuln?
Could he explain the strange moods he felt, and his confusion as he found it harder to tell which were his thoughts and feelings, and which ones inspired by the seeds of Chaos in his blood? Could he admit that the reason he had accepted the old preacher's plea was that he had felt a desperate urge to kill anything - to rid himself of a little of the pain and suffering by making another being feel the same way?
He looked over at Oswald, confusion on his face. 'I didn't do it because it was right,' he said.
'Then why did you do it?'
'I can't say.'
'Well, if you have forgotten, then Luthor Huss is the man to help you remember.' Oswald stood up. 'He's waiting for you at the crossroads.'
Karl went to him.

ONE OF THE few things Karl remembered about Huss's visit to his house was how big to him, a boy of thirteen years, the warrior-priest had seemed. He had been a giant. The rest of the world had shrunk, but Luthor Huss was still a giant. The hand he held out to Karl was the size of a gauntlet. After a second Karl took it and shook it. It was like gripping a wrought-iron ring that has been warmed by the sun, and its size made him feel like a child again, shaking hands with an adult. How long was it, Karl thought, since he had last touched another human being? His fear of transferring his infection to another person was too strong. Huss's skin was old leather against his own. It reminded Karl of many things he thought he had forgotten.
Huss's eyes were dark and sharp. 'Oswald has told me much about you,' he said. 'A priest's son, a soldier, a warrior and a saviour. But he would not tell me your name.'
Karl looked around. The crossroads was away from the main camp, out of earshot but not bow-range. The four roads stretched away from the two of them, coming together over the flat land. Four cords meeting in a knot here, at this time. What skeins would be tied together in this place, Karl wondered, and whose broadsword would part them?
'My name is dangerous,' he said. 'The witch hunters claim I am a criminal, and worse. If they knew you had spoken to me, knowing who I am, it would give them the excuse they need to arrest you. My presence puts you in danger.'
Huss grunted. 'There are plenty who would see me dead with no excuse at all. I am capable of seeing off my dangers, though whether my crusaders are is another matter. But first, if I may not use your name, what shall I call you?'
Karl thought of all the names he had used and discarded along with their disguises, mannerisms, mind-sets. None of them were him. 'For now, Magnusson will suffice,' he said. 'When I know the rest, I will tell you.'
'Magnusson,' Huss said. 'Well, Magnusson, I wanted to speak to you of armies. Oswald says you were a soldier once, an officer. Tell me, what do you think of my crusade?'
Karl looked at the disordered camp and the dishevelled marchers, smelled the woodsmoke and the filth, heard the chants and arguments. He felt nothing but despair. 'Their faith is strong,' he said.
'Magnusson, you say much with few words. A rare skill in this world of talkers and time-wasters. Yes, their faith is strong. They believe in their cause with such intensity that they're willing to die for it. And if the Templars come for us, or we meet one of Archaon's armies, die is all they'll do.'
Karl nodded. Huss put the butt-end of his warhammer on the ground and leaned his rear against the head, like an impromptu stool. 'I never wanted this,' he said. 'I did not plan it. I left Nuln to follow in the steps of Sigmar, roaming the Empire, spreading the word of the true testaments. When two or three asked to walk with me, I did not say no. When more asked, I could not turn them away, having accepted the first. A few followers here, a few there, and I learn that I am leading a crusade to tear down the orthodox church and hang the Grand Theogonist from the high spire of the cathedral in Altdorf.' He sighed. 'It is not a burden I wanted, but I feel I must carry it. But I need men to help me.'
'I am less than a man,' Karl said bitterly.
Huss's dark eyes fixed him in their gaze. 'I remember,' he said. 'Oswald told me that you have lived through hell, and that you believe you have lost your soul.'
'What?'
'The part of you that makes you human. You believe you have lost it, I know not how.' Huss placed a heavy hand on Karl's shoulder. 'Magnusson, we stand at the crossroads and I wish with all my heart I could give you back your soul. I cannot. But if you pledge to walk with me on this crusade, I will give you power over men, and the power to save their souls.'
'What are you saying?' Karl asked.
Huss raised an arm to point at the field of men. 'Whatever Altdorf may say, this is not a crusade. It is a pilgrimage without a destination, led by a man who may be on a fool's errand to find the risen Sigmar. But we have powerful enemies and the Empire has powerful enemies, and the holy faith needs all the soldiers it can muster. I want you to train them.'
'Train them?'
'Not every one. Find the ones among them who have the strength and will to handle a weapon. Show them how to fight in battle, to defend their comrades and to trust them to do the same. I'm not expecting Templars from you,' he said, 'but if they want a crusade, then we'll give them a crusade.'
Karl hesitated. The offer was enticing. He found himself believing and trusting Huss: the man had a simple honesty that complemented his faith. But against that there was the discomfort he felt about being here, among these zealots, and the fact he knew his presence was putting them in danger. And he had trusted men of the gods before, and regretted it. But to be able to put together a force of men to fight Chaos and the ungodly… Huss had greatly tempted him.
'I need time to think,' he said.
'No, you don't,' Huss said. 'Stop listening to your head. What does your gut tell you to do?'
'It tells me to listen to my head,' Karl said.
'Then what does your heart tell you?'
'My heart…' Karl paused, considering the question. 'My heart wants to be at peace.'
'So do we all.' Huss stood and picked up his warhammer, brushing the mud of the road from its handle, then swung it up on to his shoulder. 'But when life gives you war, it's best to make warriors.'
For a moment there was no sound but the cawing of crows. Karl said nothing, staring away down the north road at a black shape on the horizon. A man on a horse. Huss followed his gaze.
'He's still there,' he said.
'Who?'
'The witch hunter. He's been following us for a month, watching where we go and what we do. We've sent emissaries telling him to ride with us and join us in the camp, guaranteeing he will come to no harm, but he will not even speak to them.'
Karl narrowed his eyes, bringing the silhouette into focus against the grey sky. 'Lend me a horse,' he said. 'He'll speak to me.'

WHILE A HORSE was found and saddled, Karl went back to Oswald, retrieved his pack and took what he needed from it: hat, cloak and shaving-knife. He walked down to the stream that flowed at the bottom of the field and several hundred yards up its banks, beyond a tangle of willows and brambles, so he would not be seen. He wanted some privacy for this.
The stream flowed fast and weedless over a bed of gravel and sand, about ten feet wide. The water was cold and clear, and sky was bright enough to show him a clear reflection of himself in the ripples. His hair had grown long and unkempt, his stubble almost to the length of a beard, the dirt of the journey still on his skin. He washed himself and shaved, checking the results. His face felt raw but clean.
Then he wetted his hair, slicked it down and studied its reflection. Its shape reminded him of the wings of some dark bird, too long and too wild for a figure of authority. He cocked his head, working out how it should look, gripped a handful of it in his hand, and carefully took the knife to it, slicing it off with a single movement.
It took a moment to register a curious pain he had never felt before, dull and abstract. Moisture dripped over his fingers. He lowered the knife, puzzled, and saw blood on it. Perhaps I nicked my scalp, he thought. No, this was a different pain. And there was quite a lot of blood.
He looked down into the stream and saw little swirls of red forming in the water, whipped away by the current.
He looked at his left hand, still holding the shank of hair he had severed. There was blood there too. It was on the hair. No, it was the hair. His hair was bleeding. He could see the blood flowing out of the cut ends, like sap from spring twigs, running over his hands.
That feeling of pain, he thought, kike when you slice a finger in cold water, it's numbed till you realise what's happened. He reached up and touched the area of hair he had cut. His fingers touched the severed ends and involuntarily he jerked his head away. It was like touching a raw wound. His hand came away covered in blood.
Chaos continues to change me, he thought. Random, purposeless and pointless, but each new alteration driving my despair, reminding me that my body and my life are not mine, not under my control. Even in this holy place, surrounded by the faithful, it will not leave me.
Alone, I am in hell. With a bad haircut.
He pressed his sword-cloth to the side of his head, waiting for the flow of blood to cease, so he could wash the dried crust from his hair and continue with his plan. The first time he had discovered the marks of damnation on his body it had sent him mad for weeks. With each new change he had become inured to the horror of the mutation, but that lack of fear did not lessen the hatred he felt towards the forces that were changing him, or towards himself.

HE RODE OUT along the south road. A dim sun was high in a heavy grey sky. When he was away from the camp, at a dip in the road, he put on the witch hunter's hat and cloak that he had stolen in Nuln. The hat was creased from where he had folded it to fit in his pack, but there was nothing he could do about that. He took care to tuck his hair up under his crown, so the lopsided coif and the scabs forming on the cut ends were not visible.
The dark figure and his horse stood in the road and did not move as Karl rode up. The witch hunter was of medium height, wrapped in a winter cloak that hid his uniform and reached up to cover the bottom half of his face. His head turned slowly to watch Karl's approach. Karl raised a gloved hand in greeting.
'Hail brother, well met,' he said. 'They told me I would find you here.'
The witch hunter lifted his hand slowly and pulled down the edge of his cloak to reveal his mouth and chin. His skin was pale and his face was familiar.
'Hail brother,' he said. 'Do you have any brandy or strong wine?'
'I have a little kvas,' Karl said, digging out his hip-flask. The witch hunter reached over for it and took a long slug. He handed the silver flask back, and was convulsed by coughing.
'You are ill, brother,' Karl said.
'I have been sick for three days,' he said. 'My head aches, my body sweats and my limbs are weak. But while the crusade does not move, I cannot move.'
'Go back to Alfwald and rest at the inn. I will take your place till you are well.'
The witch hunter shook his head. 'Your offer is kind but my orders come from Brother Karin of the Council, and I must obey: I watch the crusade. Besides, I believe I felt the infection begin to shift this morning. Why have you come?'
Karl straightened his shoulders. 'I am Brother Adolphus Schrader from the chapter-house at Kemperbad. Have you any news?'
'You're from Kemperbad? I sent you a letter as I passed through Diesdorf. Did you not receive it?'
'I must have left before it had arrived.'
'From Diesdorf? It's only a day's ride.'
'I ran into some trouble on the way.' Karl indicated his battered hat.
A silence, each waiting for the other to say something. The witch hunter narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. 'Do I know you?' he asked.
'Your face is familiar.' Karl said. 'Perhaps our paths crossed in Altdorf. Or some other time in Kemperbad?'
'I have been there only once before, on my way between Talabheim and Altdorf,' Rhinehart said, 'and I did not stop.'
'Do you have news for me to take back? Or orders?'
'No news. When I have some, I will communicate it to you in the usual way.'
What was that, Karl wondered? There were many similar questions that he wanted to ask, but if he did his pretense would be revealed.
Rhinehart looked up, and Karl followed his eyes. A dark shape was circling in the sky: the raven he had seen earlier, or possibly a different one. Rhinehart made a movement under his cloak and suddenly he had a full-size crossbow, drawn and nocked, aimed at it. He sighted down the quarrel.
'Out of range,' he said. 'Always just too far away. But one day it will grow incautious, or curious, or brave, and I will have a bolt through its head.' He lowered the weapon. His horse made a sound with its nose and moved sideways, uneasy.
Karl felt stymied. If he asked too much then he risked revealing his identity; if he asked too little there was no point in him being here. Common sense told him the latter was a better course of action than the former, but he had little respect for common sense these days.
'What of your special orders from Brother Karin?' he asked.
'What do you know of that?' Rhinehart demanded.
'Have you learned anything?' Karl asked again.
Rhinehart cocked his head on one side. 'I know who you are,' he said and raised his crossbow. Karl's hand went to his sword but knew it was a futile gesture: Rhinehart would fire before the blade cleared the scabbard, and the witch hunter was out of sword range. He let the weapon slide back, watching Rhinehart helplessly.
Rhinehart moved his horse forward a few steps, turning, so he could support his crossbow on the arm that was holding the reins. The weapon did not waver from Karl's heart.
This is it, Karl thought. I have reached my end. Is he going to arrest me or kill me here? He is ill; if we were to ride to the nearest town with a chapter-house I could easily surprise him and overpower him along the way. If I was him, I would kill me now.
'You bastards,' Rhinehart said, and coughed hard. There was a split-second where Karl could have leaped from his horse and maybe overpowered him, but there was something about Rhinehart's use of the plural that made him hesitate. He said nothing.
'You'll get nothing from me,' Rhinehart said. 'I've lost too many good brothers to your wiles and deceptions. I won't listen to you and I won't tell you another word.'
'I have no idea what you're—' Karl said.
'Shut up!' Rhinehart waved the crossbow. 'You're a travesty of that uniform. The man you once were would be ashamed of what you've become. Sneaking, skulking, listening and observing, without pride or purpose. I told Altdorf you were here, among the crusaders, and I suppose it was inevitable you'd try to recruit me too.' His horse was agitated, and he struggled to keep it under control. 'Go on, go back to your cloaked brothers. Tell them you got nothing from me. If I see you again I'll shoot you.'
'I'm going,' Karl said, turned his horse and rode away. Rhinehart's tirade had given him the information he needed - not about Brother Karin's plans and schemes, but about who the witch hunter had thought he was.
'Go back to your cloaked brothers,' he had said. Karl had met one of the Cloaked Brothers before, Andreas Reisefertig, a man of deception and infiltration, a ruthless, self-serving and amoral being. The Cloaked Brothers, Reisefertig had told him, were a clandestine sect of former witch hunters who had grown disaffected and frustrated with their Order's hidebound and dogmatic adherence to outmoded rules and standards. They were not a criminal organisation or a Chaos cult, but the Empire's forces did not recognise them, and that gave them the ability to infiltrate other groups, probing them for signs of corruption or sources of hidden knowledge. They were information-gatherers, putting the pieces together, working out the big picture. As far as Karl knew they did not make arrests, pass information to other groups or use their information to eliminate agents of the Dark Powers or block their plans. He did now know what game they were playing but it was a long one, and he did not like it.
Rhinehart had said there were Cloaked Brothers in the crusade. He had not considered that there might be, but it matched the way they would work. They would probably be close to Huss, maybe even his advisors: that was the Brothers' usual pattern. He should be warned.
Could Herr Stahl and his men have been Cloaked Brothers?
There was something else that Rhinehart had said. 'The man you once were would be ashamed of what you've become.' He had thought Karl was someone else, a former witch hunter, but the words had still rung true. The old Karl Hoche would be dismayed by the thing of Chaos that he had become. Or would he be? Oswald's words came back to him: 'You didn't do it for glory or money, you did it because it was right.' How many servants of Chaos had he killed in the last year? How many innocents had he saved? He had spurned their thanks, thinking himself not worthy of it. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps there was a sense of honour and pride to be found in what he was doing. Perhaps Oswald and Huss were right. He should try to find it, and this was as good a place as any.
Besides, he had always enjoyed the army life.
The crusade's camp rose out of the landscape before him, and he hastily took off his hat and cloak, stowing them in his pack. There was no telling what the sight of a witch hunter riding into sight would do.
It was mid-afternoon. No urgency to speak with Huss yet, and still much to do. He entered the camp, the horse picking its way carefully between piles of packs and blankets, campfires, exhausted flagellants, puddles, altars, dogs. 'Anyone who can use a weapon,' he shouted, 'anyone with military service or Watch training, anyone who's served as a temple guard or Templar, anyone who can handle themselves in a fight, gather in the field towards the stream, on the far side of the crossroads.' Out of sight of Rhinehart, he added mentally. He rode on through the bedraggled crusaders. Heads turned curious looks towards him. A few people began to clamber to their feet. 'Anyone who can use a weapon, anyone with military service…'

THE FIELD LAY wide and open, stretching down to the stream at the bottom of the valley, covered in low, verdant spring grass, dotted with occasional trees. He guessed there were two hundred people here, standing in loose groups, looking at him. Maybe half of them had brought weapons. He rode across the field twice, studying them, then halted his horse, stood in the stirrups and gave his first orders.
He made them form ranks and squares, watching to see who moved smartly and who dawdled or seemed confused. Then he dismounted and walked along the lines of men, women and children, looking at them in turn, tapping some on the shoulder. Then he told the people he'd tapped that they should go; they were not ready. That left a hundred and thirty.
He borrowed a two-handed warhammer from one of the priests and showed them how to hold it, how to swing it, how to use it to defend and parry. He charged a solid old oak tree twenty yards away, swinging the hammer as he ran, striking the trunk smartly three times so that the wood rang with the impacts.
He passed the hammer to the first man. 'Do the same, then give the hammer to the next person,' he said, and watched.
Anyone who dropped the hammer, or hit themselves with it, or didn't run at full tilt, or missed the tree, or tried a fancy move, or didn't follow his orders exactly, Karl shouted, 'Three!' If the person looked unsure of themselves, or struck the tree but Karl couldn't hear all three impacts from where he stood, or looked uncomfortable, he shouted 'Two!' The others he shouted, 'One!' Then he told the Threes to go away. That left just under ninety.
He asked if anyone was unwilling to die for their faith. Nobody left. He asked if anyone was not willing to die, gutted like a pig, staring as their slashed intestines poured from their belly, drowning as their lungs filled with their own blood, their limbs smashed and broken, in unimaginable pain, possibly for hours or days, hearing the screams of their comrades, dying alone and unblessed. That left fewer than eighty.
Finally he told anyone who had disobeyed an order to leave earlier that they should go. Nobody did. He went up to a boy of barely fifteen, standing in the ranks. 'You were tapped,' he said, and to the men either side of him, 'and you saw him tapped. None of you did anything. All three of you, go. There's no place for you here.'
Five other people left then.
He did a head-count. Seventy-one. The Grunburg town-guard was larger.
'Form two groups,' he said. 'All the people I counted as Ones, you are the first platoon, fighting with warhammers. Can any of you ride?' Right hands went up. 'Commandeer horses from the other crusaders. Recruit their owners as your grooms and squires. You're the cavalry section. The rest of you, the Twos, you'll be the second platoon, fighting with pikes.' Because any idiot can learn to use a pike as long as they can think like a soldier, he thought, and if we're defending ourselves against mounted men we'll need something with a bit of range. Bowmen would be nice, or crossbows, but they need money to buy, or time and skill to make and more of it to learn.
'Anyone here worked as a carpenter or an armourer, or ever used a pike before?' A few hands went up. 'First business, take the men to that copse over there. I spotted some pollarded ash trees there earlier. Get the wood for a pike for everyone. The rest of you, fall in.'
He drilled them till the sun set. When the pikemen came back from the wood, bearing long branches, he drilled them too. They were all very bad.

KARL PICKED HIS way between the campfires, speaking to a man here and there, congratulating them for good work, encouraging them, giving words of advice. He was looking for two men in particular: young, strong and silent, one with short-cropped blond hair, the other with shaggy curls like a spaniel's ears and a moustache that didn't suit him. He found them together.
'Brothers,' he said.
They looked up at him from their bowls of soup. 'A seat, brother?' the curl-headed one asked.
'No,' Karl said. 'I only have a question or two. You came this afternoon and did well, though I fancy you are more familiar with blades than with warhammers. When I made it clear that I was forming a defence force you both left, but you stayed at the edge of the pasture and watched the training.'
'What of it?' the blond asked.
'It's an idle thought,' Karl said, 'but were either of you witch hunters once?'
'What of it?' the other repeated.
'Who do you report to now?' Karl said. 'Where does the information you gather end up? Why shouldn't I tell Luthor Huss to expel you from this crusade tonight?'
'Four questions in all,' the blond one said. 'A man with a healthy curiosity.'
'But he's not a man, is he?' the other said. 'Yes, we are the people you think we are. And as to the question you don't want to ask, we know who you are too.'
'Leave us be,' blond said, 'and we'll leave you be. We might even be able to help each other.'
Karl stared down, feeling his face turn red. He felt overwhelmed. They reminded him of the only other Cloaked Brother he had met, Andreas Reisefertig, and he remembered how much he had disliked him. 'I doubt it,' he said, and walked away.



'THE CRUSADE IS full of spies,' Huss said, 'but I've never heard of these Cloaked Brothers. Are you sure they're a threat?'
More to me than to you, Karl thought, but he did not say it. 'I thought you should know,' he said. 'It seems that at the moment you may have more to fear from enemies within than enemies outside.'
Huss shrugged and pulled his cloak closer around himself. The night had turned cold. 'We need to be prepared to defend against both,' he said. 'How fares our army?'
'Badly,' Karl said, 'but give me some time and I believe I can make soldiers out of them. Tomorrow I want to start them on weapon practise.'
'That can't be done,' Huss said. 'We're moving out tomorrow morning.'
'Moving? Where?'
'Stimmigen,' Huss said. 'There are stories I hear from one of its villages, Lachenbad. They ring true. I want to hear more of them.'
'You think his words are worth moving almost a thousand men over a hundred miles?' Karl asked. Huss nodded.
'The crusade is my protection, and besides they believe as fervently in the cause as I do. It's a fortnight's journey, probably more. You can train them in the evenings once we've made camp.'
'It could be a trap to lure you away from Altdorf,' Karl said.
Huss regarded him with granite eyes. 'Then train your men well.'
'Stimmigen.' In his head Karl drew the route-map between their present position and the trading-town. A hundred and forty miles as the crow flew, probably closer to two hundred looking for ambush-sites, possible battlegrounds along the way. What he found did not comfort him. 'We go south through the forest?'
'There's no way south through the forest. We'll follow the river up a few miles to Worlitz, then take the Carroburg road west through the forest till we reach the River Teufel. Then we follow that south.'
'That route will take us close to Grunburg.'
'It'll take us through Grunburg,' Huss said. 'Why do you look worried?'
Karl tried to calm his expression. 'It's nothing. I have some history there.'
Huss cocked an eyebrow. 'Recent history?'
'A lifetime ago.'
' ''The past is a foreign country'',' Huss quoted,' ''filled with liars, traitors and things we have exiled''.'
Karl nodded. I am the exile, he thought, but could not say it.
Chapter Six
THE GATE



KARL ROUSED HIS recruits at dawn and put them through an hour of weapon-handling practice before they broke to breakfast, pack and pray. The crusade moved off around mid-morning amid chants and hymns, a shuffling mass of humanity, weighed down by the weight of their packs and their troubles. Karl guessed that many of them were undernourished, badly in need of a decent meal, or suffering from dysentery or St Anthony's fire. Every army he had ever marched with had had a proper support system: a baggage-train, cooks, regular supplies and the funds to buy more food if it ran scarce. But this was not an army.
He was glad to see his men were behaving like soldiers, marching with weapons ready, watching the road ahead and behind, keeping dawdlers moving. He watched them carefully, reprimanding two who were abusing an old priest who was clearly lame, and when he saw a pikeman throw an insult at one of his cavalry and the horseman swing at the footsoldier he took both their weapons and told them they were not fit to fight for Sigmar. Some people's first reaction to authority was to abuse it. He put the old priest on the now-spare horse and let him ride.
The crusade made camp that night at the edge of woodland. Karl called his force together and asked if any of them were tired. A few raised their hands and he let them rest while the others practised combat in twos and threes. Karl walked among them, giving advice, demonstrating grips, thrusts, stances and defences. He noted which of them showed natural aptitude, which of them were showing their comrades how to strike, feint and parry, rising naturally to places of leadership. He'd talk to them later and give them positions as officers, and their first orders.
Then he went to the men who had asked to rest, and told them to set guard-rotas for the night.
'The crusade doesn't need guards. Sigmar guards us,' one said.
'I saw an army wiped out because they didn't post guards,' Karl said. 'If we find Sigmar, he can take his turn on the guard-roster. Until then, you do it.'
After sunset, after meals had been eaten and prayers had been said, he sneaked away down the darkening road and made a wide circle around the camp into the woods. He sat among the dark branches, watching the slow traverse of the moons across the star-filled sky and listening to the scuffling of the nocturnal wildlife and the low sounds from the camp. At intervals he approached the camp from different directions, not taking any particular care to be silent.
All night only three of the guards challenged him. One was either oblivious or too scared to move, and the others were asleep at their posts. Karl crept up to each in turn and tapped them on the forehead, so that as they woke the first thing they saw was his face, mud-smeared, teeth bared, a foot from their own. Two of them screamed, one wet himself, and none of them fell asleep again. It was a poor start but at least none of them had fled in terror. Once they reached Worlitz he would begin to teach them on basic fortifications, the sort that a travelling army could throw up in an hour or two.
The rest of the night, he closed his eyes and thought about Grunburg. It was the small town where he had grown up; the place that for his early years had been his whole world. For the last few years it had seemed very small and very distant, and now suddenly it loomed huge on his horizon.
It would be much changed, he thought. The docks had probably grown again. His friends and contemporaries would be older, they'd have wives, husbands, children; have started businesses, maybe moved away. Who was the mayor now? Who was on the council? Who ran the town guard? Some people would have died too.
What of his family? Were his parents still alive? Was his father still the senior priest of the temple, or had he retired? He would be getting old. Perhaps he had been disgraced, forced out by the shame of his son who had become a mutant and a traitor whose name was reviled across the Empire. His mother too, how had she taken the news? And Marie, the woman he had loved and still in a corner of his heart loved now. What had happened to her? How was she? Did she still think of him, and if so then how? With fondness, sorrow, hatred? And would he find the answer to these questions, and did he want to?
It was not the first time Karl had wondered about such things, but when such thoughts came to him he preferred to push them away. He did so again, preferring to remember his old friends, playing in the market square, fishing from the docks, drinking in the town's taverns, celebrating birthdays and feast-days, good humour and happy memories.
He suspected that his homecoming would not find any of that.

WHEN DAWN ROSE he returned to the camp and lost himself again in the job of training men to fight. It might not be rebuilding the Untersuchung, or training agents for Herr Stahl's organisation, but he was creating a force of men opposed to Chaos and its works, and that was enough for him for now. And it was a distraction.
The next day followed the same pattern, and the one after that. In the evening, after the training session had finished, the sun had set, and the camp had raised its voice together in prayer, Karl made sure the guards were at their posts, and then sought out Luthor Huss. He found him at the heart of the camp, sat at the fire with Oswald and two others beside him. They greeted him and he sat down. Conversation was intermittent and inconsequential.
'What do you plan to do in Grunburg?' Karl asked Huss.
'Whatever Sigmar tells me,' Huss said, then laughed. 'Don't look concerned, Magnusson. I'm not planning to throw any priests out of windows here. We're passing through, that's all. I'll preach in the marketplace about the iniquity of the church, get donations, maybe meet the local priests and hear the news. We'll be gone by mid-afternoon.'
'We could have reached Grunburg this evening,' Karl said. 'Why didn't we?'
Huss reached forward and stoked the fire with the head of his warhammer, sending flames and sparks cavorting into the sky. 'To give them time,' he said. 'They know we're coming. We should let them prepare.'
'Prepare what?'
'Donations, I hope. We have no rich patrons, no coffers of gold to fund us and feed us. We depend on the charity of the citizens of each town we pass through. Farmers, millers, butchers, bakers, sometimes the temples too: they know we will ask them all to give us food, and often they do. The fact that we are nine hundred reputed madmen may help, but I fear our pickings in Grunburg may be slim.'
'Why? Aren't they generous people?'
'They are, but they have no gripe with the church. Their priests serve them well and keep them happy.'
'I am glad to hear it,' Karl said.
Huss regarded him carefully, as if to say: are you? Oswald watched them both but held his peace. Conversation lulled. The fire ebbed back to embers.
'I was thinking,' Karl said. 'There's a common to the north of the town. While you're preaching and gathering donations, my men could spend several hours training there. It would do them good.'
'No,' Huss said. 'We need you and the armed men with us as we enter the town.'
'Why?'
'Because it may not be donations that they are preparing for us. As I said, they have no argument with the orthodox church here. A crew of renegades, heretics, doom-sayers and preachers of a new faith may get a cold reception.'
You didn't last time, Karl thought. There was another silence. Huss regarded him, his eyes reflecting firelight, full of leaping light and darkness.
'You must face your fear, Magnusson,' he said. 'There is no other way to beat it. I can't force you to come into Grunburg, but I think you should. What is it that you're afraid of here?'
Everything, Karl thought. Myself. Old wounds, the type that Chaos does not heal but opens wider. Instead he said, 'I'm worried that you don't know what awaits us in the town. Haven't you sent scouts ahead?'
Huss laughed. 'Scouts? No, we leave those to the armies. Whatever will be there tomorrow, we will deal with tomorrow.'
'No scouts?'
'None.'
Karl sat very still. The words of the guard the day before came back to him: Sigmar guards us, he had said, and might have gone to his death believing it. 'Brother Huss,' he said, 'you told me that if Altdorf expected a crusade, you would give it a crusade. I am giving you crusaders; soldiers of Sigmar, to defend the faithful and fight for their beliefs. But soldiers need more than faith to support them: they need proper training, proper equipment and they need intelligence about who they will be fighting, the enemy's strength, the layout of the field of battle and more. Without these, you have crippled your army before it has struck a single blow.'
'You're right, of course.' Huss stretched. 'But we are an army that still has to beg for food from every town and village it passes through. Arms, armour, scouts and the rest will come with time. For now, all I ask is that you give me men who can fight.'
A log turned over, sending a final tirade of sparks into the night sky. 'Of course,' Karl said, and stood up. 'Brothers, if you will excuse me, I need to sleep. There is much to do tomorrow.' The others nodded their farewells and he walked away into the camp.

IT WAS AN hour's walk to Grunburg but there was bright moonlight on the road and even if it had been pitch dark he would still have known the route: he knew this countryside better than anywhere in the world. It felt familiar and frightening, the strip-fields and sheep-folds of his youth still here, the ruined estate-house of the Amsels, abandoned seventy years ago after plague took its owners, now a little more crumbled and overgrown but the same shape it had been for all his childhood, when he and the other Grunburg boys had dared each other to enter.
The walls of Grunburg rose up in front of him, the ditch and earth ramparts topped with a low stone wall and guard towers. The ramparts dipped to ground level in two places, for the town's two gates, but he knew their earth slopes too well to be fooled: that was where the watchmen were, warming around braziers and gossiping about local girls. There were other ways into the town, ways he had used many times as a teenager, sneaking out late at night to join friends in the hayricks of late summer, drinking, talking, spending time with farmers' daughters.
He clambered down into the ditch, wading through the ankle-deep mud at its bottom, and climbed diagonally up the steep bank on the other side. Under the grass, the old footholds were still there, and at the base of the wall were the projecting stones and gaps in the mortar beside one of the towers that served as grips and rests for agile young climbers. He was not so young any more, but the path was as old as the wall, as sturdy and as familiar. A second to recollect it, and he was over the parapet, onto the wooden walkway on the other side, ducking, peering around to see if he was seen. Beyond, the familiar shapes of the roofs and streets of Grunburg stretched away down to the river.
He crept down the stone stairs, to street level, then pulled the folded witch hunter's hat from inside his cloak, straightened it and put it on once more. The alleyway was dark and cramped. A hundred yards north was the school where he had learned to read and write, and played knights and ladies in the lunch-period. Fifty yards west, the parents of his childhood friend Fritz. South-west, the temple, and beyond it his parents' house. South, as near as a sigh, Marie.
It had all loomed so large in his mind for so long that now he saw it again, it felt curiously diminished, made smaller by reality. He walked down the alleyway, careful to keep his guard up: nowhere in the Empire were people more likely to recognise him, and nowhere would they be more aware of his story and the price on his head.
He took a cross-street, turned left towards the centre of town. Here was where Franz Beyer had been kicked by a horse, flying twenty feet, not a bone broken. That corner, the bakery of Frau Sommer, mistress of the Altdorfer pastry. Two years since he had been here: long enough for the details to have changed, but not enough for him to remember everything. The lamps were lit but the streets seemed empty, the house windows shuttered. Where were the people?
Footsteps behind him, and a voice: 'Brother!' He kept walking. The voice came again: 'Brother witch hunter!' He was seen. He had no choice now. He turned, tilting his head forward so the shadow of his hat's brim covered his face.
Two watchmen. He recognised them, but did not know their names. One carried a lantern, both had cudgels and whistles. 'Yes?' he said gruffly.
'Are you lost?' one of them asked.
Admit nothing; give away no facts. 'Where is everyone?' he asked.
'At the temple. Your colleague is there too.' One of them pointed south-west. 'The next street leads there.'
'Thank you,' he said, turning his back to them and walking away. Witch hunters in town were bound to attract attention; Grunburg, though large, was not large enough for a chapter-house of its own. What had the man meant by ''your colleague''? Another witch hunter? Why would a witch hunter come to Grunburg?
The temple had not changed, the white outline of its limestone structure ghostly in the moonlight, every window lit from within. The doors were open, though this was too late for a religious service. But it was the largest space in town, bigger than the chamber of the town council. They were holding a town meeting. Everyone would be there. That meant two things: he had to know what they were discussing, and he could not go in.
There would be men waiting by the door. He could see them as he approached: those who preferred to stand, or preferred the chill of the night air, or had arrived late. The rear entrance would be locked, as usual. But there was a another way in, less secret than the path over the wall, but just as inobvious to the locals. On the far side of the building, the priests' entrance, the way his father always used. He took a side street, walking the long, concealed way to the small wooden door.
It was shut, snug in its alcove. Everyone always assumed it was locked, but Karl knew that while anyone was in the temple, it wasn't. He checked the street in both directions, saw nobody and darted across into the deep shadows at the base of the white wall. The worn bronze of the door's handle was as familiar as the hilt of his sword, and it turned as easily in his hand. The corridor within was bright and empty. He went in, closing the door behind him.
Beyond the doors to the store-room, the sacristy and the stairs down to the crypt, the interior of the temple blazed with light. Someone was standing by the high altar, speaking in a rich accented voice that echoed effortlessly through the vaulted chamber. Karl recognised it, and crept to the foot of the short stairway that led up to the passage's exit into the nave, behind the pulpit, out of sight of the congregation.
He peered over the top of the stairs, four chairs were set in front of the altar. In one was Barthold Meyer, the mayor, exactly as Karl remembered him. Next to him was Odo Rothstein, captain of the town guard. In the third chair sat a man Karl did not want to recognise.
In the two years since Karl had left, his father had grown old, bent, tired and white-haired. He looked like a man who had lost everything, and was now lost himself. Karl forced himself to look away.
The fourth chair was empty, its occupant on his feet, speaking. Evidently Brother Erwin Rhinehart had recovered from his illness, and unlike Luthor Huss he had not waited until the morning to enter Grunburg.
'…each day they become more fanatical, as every crank and doom-sayer in the Empire flocks to join them. I have seen with my own eyes that they are training with weapons and becoming an army. The point is no longer whether Luthor Huss is a man of peace, it is whether he can control his followers, and I fear he cannot. Your most prudent course is to shut the gates to these men. There is little harm in asking them to go around your town, and much good may come of it…'
Karl had heard enough. He crept away down the corridor, back into the silent town, trying to ignore the many memories that brushed past him as he made his way to the wall, through the countryside and back to the camp. The guards were asleep, and he slapped each one awake with hard blows born of frustration. How could Huss have been so unprepared?

AT DAWN HE, woke his three officers and called them to council over. A breakfast of porridge and herbs.
'Huss doesn't know this?' asked Gottschalk. A former local priest from a village just south of Nuln, he was tall, lugubrious and dogmatic, wanting to assimilate each piece of information before making a decision, unlikely to leap to conclusions or come up with inspired tactical schemes on the spur of the moment. That was why Karl had put him in charge of the pikemen, whose purpose was to take orders and react to things. He also had a body muscled like a statue of Sigmar; he looked like a leader of men even though he didn't always think or act like one. Gottschalk brushed his long unwashed hair from in front of his eyes. 'You will tell him about it?'
'Yes,' Karl said with patience. 'Though I don't know if he'll listen, and if he does I don't know if he'll accept it. He's strong-headed.'
'So what do we do?' Lars Kuster asked, pushing forward. He had been a Templar once, in the Order of the Fiery Heart, but had left for reasons he would not discuss with anyone. Karl suspected there might be a price on his head too. Kuster seemed restless, though not nervous. He was probably eager for a fight. Tall, rangy, scarred, at home in the saddle; Karl had wondered at first why Huss had not put this experienced warrior and servant of Sigmar in charge of training the troops, but had realised quickly that the man needed a superior to rein him in.
'We wait to see what happens,' Karl said. 'Our role is to defend the crusade, and Huss in particular. Under no circumstances do we attack. Even if we're attacked and fight them off, we regroup and dig in. At the moment we exist on the edge of the law. If we give them any excuse, the witch hunters or the militia will have us declared enemies of the Empire and call in the nearest army to put us down.'
'What if Huss directs us to attack?' Otto Pabst asked, stroking the handle of his warhammer. Of the three officers, Karl had to admit that Pabst was the mistake: a good soldier, a strong leader and a reasonable tactician, but an aggressive fanatic and a follower of the Malleun Heresy, believing that Sigmar should be remembered only as the bearer of the mystic hammer Ghal Maraz that contained the true spirit of god-hood. Malleun heretics believed the true Ghal Maraz had never been recovered after Sigmar's death, and the one now carried by the Emperor was a replica. Of course Pabst would be a superb hammer-bearer. Of course, too, he would be quietly, zealously insane.
'Huss will not give such an order,' Karl said. 'He is not a fool, nor suicidal, nor wishes for martyrdom. The men are simply not ready for combat against a force that has training or experience; they'd be cut down like wheat at harvest. If attacked we defend, nothing more. And you take your orders from me, not from Luthor Huss.'
Pabst and Kuster exchanged a look. Karl caught it, and felt a sinking feeling. As a lieutenant in the Empire's army he had been used to leading men who were used to being led. This was a different type of command, and much more difficult. The only people these men respected were priests, visionaries or Sigmar himself, or dead heroes. If they were to obey him in the heat of battle— he stopped his thoughts. Pray to all the gods he would never have to lead this rabble into battle.

HUSS HAD RECEIVED Karl's news with a grunt, and had not asked where he had learned it or whether it was trustworthy. Now as the crusade shuffled towards the distant shape of Grunburg, Karl and his men following on foot a few yards behind Huss and his advisors at the head of the column, he hoped he was wrong. At this distance the gates appeared to be open, a gap in the line of the walls, though he could see no travellers on the road.
The road widened as they drew closer. Karl studied the walls. There were people there, too many for an ordinary guard patrol. Many of them were in uniform. He thought about walking forward and mentioning it to Huss but it would only have drawn strange looks from the others; his eyesight was more acute than most men's, and they would only have questioned his report or asked how he knew.
He calculated bow-range and crossbow-range from the walls, and wondered if they were walking into a trap. The crusade moved slowly on towards the gates.
At about two hundred yards, the limit of crossbow fire, a figure dressed in black stepped through the opening and the heavy oak barriers swung closed behind him. Karl heard the thunk of heavy wooden bars being slid into their grooves behind it. The town was sealed to them. Huss raised his hand and the crusade came to a slow stop and an uncomfortable, expectant silence.
'Magnusson!' he shouted.
Karl came forward. 'Sir?'
Huss didn't turn to look at him. 'Analysis?'
'The man in black is Erwin Rhinehart,' Karl said, 'the witch hunter who has been following us. No sign of troops, other than defenders on the walls.' He shaded his eyes with one hand. 'The Grunburg militia is handy with crossbows but we're out of range. They're not going to attack us, they just want us to go round the town.' As I told you two hours ago, he added under his breath.
'No chance they're forming up troops behind the gate?'
'Very unlikely. They don't have the force of arms. But if you disagree I can order the pikemen forward to resist a charge?' He suspected that if faced by thundering horses and riders bearing lances, the pikemen would break and run until their lungs gave out, and he suspected Huss knew it too.
Huss shook his head. 'No. But we're going through the town. You're the strategist. How do we do it?'
Karl felt rage rising in his throat. An insignificant force of men, with a handful of days' training and weapons they'd made themselves, and Huss was asking him to storm his home town's gate? He opened his mouth to reply, to tell Huss some of the realities of warfare, but before he could speak he heard a voice, distant but assertive and commanding, from the figure outside the gate.
'Luthor Huss!' Rhinehart proclaimed. 'Grunburg is closed to you. Take your retinue and go around the town.'
Retinue. A nice touch: accurate, yet belittling.
Huss took a step forward. 'You do not speak for Grunburg,' he declared, and his voice rang across the fields, echoing off the distant walls. 'You are a lackey, the lapdog of a lapdog of an idolatrous Grand Theogonist who grows fat in Altdorf. If Grunburg is closed to me and my brothers, then let the mayor of Grunburg tell me so. Or its high priest, Magnus Hoche.'
'I speak for them.' Rhinehart's voice was strong and calm, with a hint of nobility in its accent. 'I speak for the town. Your business does not lie here. Pass around.'
Huss drew breath. 'No man controls the temples of Sigmar: not you, not the high priest, not the Grand Theogonist. We are men of Sigmar and we wish to give thanks and praise in this town's holy place, and to bear witness to its sacred relics.' He hesitated, then sotto voce: 'What relics does the temple have, Magnusson?'
'Sigmar's ring, the jawbone of Saint Florian and the head of the gryphon killed by Saint Karl the Unbowed.' His name-saint.
'Sigmar's ring, the jawbone of Saint Florian and the gryphon's head of Karl the Unbowed,' Huss declared. Karl smiled at the man's perfect timing; it was as if he had paused in reverence to the objects he was about to name.
'Go around the town. You may not enter.'
'You cannot deny entry to a priest of Sigmar. That is the law.'
'You are an excommunicant, not a priest. Go around the town.'
'You are no lawgiver, you are the mouthpiece for a false leader. If I hear it from the mayor or the high priest, I will go round. But not from you.'
'I speak for them.'
'And when the taxes rise, will you speak for them?' Huss boomed. 'When the relics move to greater cathedrals, and the village shrines are closed, will you still speak for them? When the temple lies unrepaired because the gold has gone to Altdorf, will you still speak for them? And when your leader is exposed as the idolatrous sham he is, will they let you speak for them then? Stand aside, Erwin Rhinehart. Open the gates. The keepers of the true faith would enter.'
The words were a slow explosion, a wave spreading outwards, leaving a strange shocked, fragile calm behind it. Karl felt their power, recognising the potency he had felt the first time he had met Huss, beside the makeshift altar at the camp south of Worlitz. He could sense the strength the crusaders took from their leader's words, and could guess at the reaction on the other side of the wall: uncertainty, intimidation and fear.
'Stay here,' Huss whispered. 'When the gates open, bring the men forward at a walk.' He strode deliberately away towards the town, his warhammer held in both hands, each stride paced like a slow heartbeat.
There was a flicker of movement from the wall. Karl could never say what drew his attention to it, but then what draws an owl's eye to the scuttling fieldmouse amid a field of waving grass, or a pike to the shaded scales of a stickleback as it hides in the gravel at the bottom of a stream? He did not know, and it did not matter. But he saw it. Someone on the wall had moved. Someone had fired a crossbow.
Karl flung himself forward, sensing the path of the quarrel through the air, knowing its target. No time for analysis, nor even thought or instinct: just the certainty of what he had to do. Huss was ahead. The bolt was in flight. He threw himself at the warrior-priest, knocking him forward and sideways, out of its path.
Huss fell. Karl didn't.
The bolt took him just below the heart. In a split second he felt it strike the metal of the silver flask he carried there in his breast pocket, the engraved metal absorbing and cushioning the blow, and then he felt the shock as the steel penetrated through, and into his body.
He dropped. The ground was cold and hard, and the impact twisted the bolt in the wound. He lay, shocked, unable to move. Somewhere there was shouting. Had Pabst or Kuster given the command to charge?
A second later he felt strong arms around him, cradling him, lifting him up into the air. 'An interesting strategy,' Huss said in his ear, 'but I believe it has done the trick. Come on, Magnus's son. It's time you saw your father.'
Karl let himself be carried, feeling the strength in the warrior-priest's arms and the beating of his heart through his plated armour. Or was that his own heart? Was the warmth he felt his blood? Against him, Huss's chest swelled.
'Open the gates!' the priest shouted. 'I carry a son of Grunburg! Open the gates and let him in!'
He carried Karl down the road towards the town. Ahead of them, the wide oak gates swung open.

THERE WAS A cart just inside the gates. Its boards were rough under Karl's back as it jolted through the streets, Huss sitting beside him. From time to time he caught sight of the edge of a building, a facade looming over the street, and he guessed they were taking him to the temple of Shallya. It made sense: he needed healing. The Shallyan temple was small, with only one priest. Perhaps nobody would recognise him there. Perhaps his father need never know he was here. Huss had hinted that he knew who Karl was, but did he understand what danger Karl was in here?
Huss's hand was reassuring on his shoulder, the morning sun warm on his eyes, his blood warm across his chest, seeping down across his ribs, soaking through his clothes. He was dimly aware of Huss leaning forward to the driver, saying something, but the rattle of iron-rimmed wheels on cobbles drowned the words. A moment later the cart veered, changing direction.
Huss bent down to him. 'They were taking you to the Shallyan shrine,' he said, 'but I told them that as a servant of Sigmar, your fate was in his hands. You strive to be a true warrior, but there is too much in your heart. Cleanse yourself at the temple.'
Karl closed his eyes and lay back, accepting his fate.
Priests and town guards carried him into the body of the temple, to the curtained-off area of marble benches at the back where the sick and the wounded would come to receive the priests' care and the god's blessings. Some of the priests were murmuring chants and prayers in low voices.
Karl felt light-headed and weak. His arms and legs were growing heavy, and his fingers were cold and numb. He could barely move, and did not want to.
Hands stripped away his clothes, cutting through straps, ties and buttons to expose his bare chest and its scars. He felt a knife at the bandage he wore around his neck, over his mutation, and thought: yes, cut it, witness my shame and finish my life, here in this holy place of my father. This is how it should be.
'No,' Huss's voice said. 'Leave that. It is a symbol of his devotion.' The knife went away. Karl felt he should care, but did not know which way.
Someone moved the bolt in the wound, testing its depth, and he felt fresh blood gout from the wound. Someone said, 'Ready?' and someone else said, 'Yes.' The prayers grew louder, Huss's voice among them. Someone pulled, hard. The bolt resisted. Someone else took hold of it. Huss said, 'On ''Sigmar'': in excelsis gloria Sigmar.'
The bolt was torn free with fiery agony. Karl tried to double up in pain but hands on his shoulders and legs prevented him. The prayers reached a crescendo. Karl squeezed his eyes tight shut, inhaled hard, filling his lungs to keep from screaming. He felt weak, exhausted, but he knew that he would live.
Someone pressed a bandage down over the wound. Someone said, 'Don't move.'
Someone said, 'That silver flask saved his life.'
Someone said, 'The spirits in it must have helped to keep the wound clean.'
Someone said, 'It's as if the wound's healing already. Praise Sigmar.'
Someone stood beside him and said nothing at all.
Karl opened his eyes. His father was staring down at him with a gaze full of love and horror.
Someone held a cup of something sweet and salty to his lips. 'Drink this,' Huss said, 'to replace the blood you lost. Everyone else, leave him with Father Hoche. And I must speak with the mayor and the captain of the guard.' He held back the curtains and the priests left one by one. Karl was alone with his father.
Neither of them spoke. Karl tried to move, feeling the cool temple air on his chest and the cloth dressing there, held down by the weight of blood it had absorbed. The priests' chants and Sigmar's power would have healed much of the damage; his body and its mutation would do the rest. Strange how two such opposed forces could work together in this way.
His father made a noise. Karl turned his head with an effort to look at him, grown so old since they had last seen each other. There were tears in his eyes.
'You recognised the flask you gave me?' Karl asked.
'I recognised you. How could I not?'
'I am not so changed, then?'
His father made no reply, but Karl knew the answer.
'I have changed. Body and soul, and against my will. What they say of me is not true, but I am a different man to the son you raised. I travel with Luthor Huss, I fight against Chaos, but…. Forget me, father. Your Karl lies dead in the Reikwald Forest. I merely bear his body.'
'You know it is not true.' His father's voice was a whisper. 'I see it in your face. You are still my son.'
'And you are still my father. But for both our sakes, you should forget me. Tell mother to forget me as well. Think of me as one dead.'
The old priest's eyes filled with tears and he turned away.
'Mother?' Karl asked.
'She died,' he said. 'She died of grief within a fortnight of the first handbill being posted. She could not understand why you did not return, did not write or send word. And then she learned, and it killed her.'
Karl was numb. The blood he had lost made him feel weak and distant, and there was an unreality to this conversation that made it hard to believe. His mother dead? She had been dead to him for months.
Her physical death seemed to make no difference. This was not the time to consider her death or mourn for her. There would be time for such thoughts tomorrow.
'And Marie?' Karl did not want to know, but he had to ask. 'What of Marie?'
'She left two days after your mother's funeral. There was nothing for her here, the jilted fiancee of a traitor and a… a…'
'Where did she go?'
'She did not say. Nobody knows.'
He hated to think of this woman he loved, because it hurt too much. She had fled out into the Empire, alone, terrified, her reputation destroyed, fearing that she might be infected too. She had been caught in the slipstream of his own fall, and had fallen too. And now she was out there somewhere.
Would their paths cross? He hoped never. He could not bear it.
'Karl,' his father said, 'is it true? What the handbills say?'
The question he had dreaded, and feared for so long. Now it was here, the answer seemed simple: the truth. 'I was a member of the Untersuchung, that's true. We were not Chaos worshippers, but those who ordered our destruction were. Now I hunt them and their kind, but they have powerful friends. Even among the witch hunters.' He looked at his father's face, fearing disbelief but finding only trust.
'Are you - mutated?' Magnus asked.
Karl dropped his gaze, unable to meet his father's gaze, the white hair, the waxy skin and frail features that he had brought about. 'I am. It infests my body like weeds in a cornfield. Chaos has given me strength, but I use that power to fight against it. One day it will overwhelm me. Father, I—' He could barely admit it to himself, but this was his father. 'I fear I am weakening.'
'My son.' Magnus reached towards him. Karl tried to move away.
'No! Don't touch me! Please!'
His father recoiled, his expression shocked.
'You must not touch me,' Karl said. 'I am a thing of Chaos, and I hate myself for it.' He paused. 'Forget me, father. I am outside the law, but I am not beyond justice, I know. One day I will answer to it. But I pray not till my work is done. Father, you won't give me away?'
'He already has,' said a voice. The heavy velvet curtains ripped back and Erwin Rhinehart stood framed by their brocade edges, his sword drawn but held low. 'Despite your scars, there is quite a family resemblance. I had only to see your father to realise who you were. Karl Hoche, you are under arrest. Don't move.' He laughed. 'And now we can take Huss for harbouring a known follower of Chaos. I should thank you for this.'
Magnus made as if to stand aside, and Rhinehart gestured at him with his sword. 'You too, Magnus. I heard you consorting with this abomination. Prove your loyalty to the father-church and I may not order you burned.' He tossed over a length of cord. 'Tie his hands.'
Karl looked up into his father's pleading eyes. The old man did not know what to do; had probably not known since the witch hunters knocked on his door eighteen months ago asking where his son was. Like Karl, he must have played out this encounter in his head a thousand times and, like Karl, now that he was in the middle of its reality he still had no idea how to react.
Karl lay on the marble slab, and watched as his father picked up the cord from the floor. He was weak, naked apart from a pair of breeches and a bandage, and weaponless. His sword and throwing-daggers lay in a pile of clothes on a side-bench yards away. His hands moved over the cold slab, seeking anything he could use.
His fingers touched something. A little knife with a little blade, used for cutting clothes and opening veins, left tucked beside his thigh. He grasped it and with a titanic effort wrenched his body upright into a sitting position.
Rhinehart laughed. Karl flung the knife - it wasn't balanced for throwing and twisted awkwardly. Rhinehart swung his sword, striking it out of the air, and it clattered across the floor. But it had distracted him for a second, and in that second Karl was on his feet, grasping the blood-soaked cloth on his chest, unfurling it and twisting it. He felt dizzy and unstable. Sigmar help me, he prayed. All the gods. All the powers of the universe. Everything in me, help me. Help me save my father.
From such good intentions are tragedies born.
'Pathetic,' Rhinehart said.
Karl whipped the end of the cloth at him. A flick of droplets sprayed across the room, landing red and wet across the white marble slabs.
'Tainted blood,' Karl said. 'Cursed blood. Chaos blood.' He whipped it again. Rhinehart looked shocked, turning to protect his face from the splatter.
There was enough strength in Karl's legs to run a few steps and he used it, launching himself across the room. Rhinehart raised his sword defensively and backed away. Karl charged him, flicking the cloth at his sword-hand. Rhinehart flinched his wrist and the blade away, and Karl was on top of him, pushing him back into the heavy curtain. Fabric ripped away and they plunged to the hard stone of the floor.
Karl pressed the blood-wet cloth into Rhinehart's face, rubbing wide red smears across his skin. Rhinehart was scrabbling against him, lashing his head from side to side, trying to avoid the contamination, kicking and bucking. Karl's weight held him down.
The cloth was unfurling. Karl grabbed both ends of it, pulling it tight across Rhinehart's face, so the witch hunter's features pressed through it like a shrouded corpse. The man was breathing fast, making whimpering sounds, his movements panicked and desperate. It was easy to overpower him.
Karl pressed his face against the sodden cloth so his mouth was next to Rhinehart's ear. 'My blood is on you,' he said. 'My infectious blood. What would your colleagues do to you if they heard of this? Quarantine you? Purge you? Burn you? Stop wriggling.' He moved his legs so he sat astride the terrified witch hunter, his knees pinning the man's arms to the floor. 'You are not a man like Theo Kratz, who would accept his fate as a servant of Sigmar and sing as they lit the bone-fire under him. You are a pragmatist. You believe in the greater good, as I do, and you do not want to die yet.'
Rhinehart struggled. Karl kneeled more heavily on his arms. 'Stop it,' he said. 'I am not going to kill you. I would not kill an innocent man, and I will not kill in the temple of Sigmar.
'So I will let you live. Tell them what you want about me, but if you say even one word against my father I will write to Brother Karin and tell her exactly what happened here. She may hate me but she knows I am a truthful man.'
Karl pulled the cloth tighter. It was pressing into the man's throat. 'Do you understand?'
Rhinehart nodded, fast and frightened.
'I will bind you and gag you. When you are found, claim the blood is your own. Let the crusade leave town safely. After that, your course is your own again. But never forget this.'
Rhinehart nodded again. Karl removed the blood-soaked cloth. Under it, Rhinehart's eyes were screaming white holes in the vivid crimson of his skin.
'Father, throw me the cord,' Karl said without looking back. It landed beside him. He cut it in half and bound Rhinehart's hands at the wrist and tight across the fingers.
A gag. He looked around the room. His father stood back against the far wall, bewildered and helpless. There were his clothes, but he needed something better. Then he remembered he already carried a gag.
He undid the bandage around his neck, took it off, and unfastened the leather ties on the wooden gag that kept his second mouth silent and still. Rhinehart's eyes pressed further out of his head. The second mouth moved, flexing in its freedom, licking its lips.
'You're not going to put that in my—' he said, and Karl did. The wood was slimy with saliva, pock-marked with teeth-marks in the hard piece of beech Karl had used to fashion it. Rhinehart resisted it. Karl forced. It slipped between his teeth, and Karl tied the cords behind the witch hunter's neck. Rhinehart closed his eyes tight. A tear, born of rage or fear, slipped from below his eyelid and slid across his skin, drawing a clear path through the drying blood.
The witch hunters had infected him, Karl thought. This was only justice: an eye for an eye or a mouth for a mouth. He left Rhinehart helpless and squirming on the floor, stood up and turned to face his father.
The old priest was staring at him, his mouth frantic with the syllables of subvocalised prayers and wardings. His father had looked scared before, but now he was terrified. Karl wanted so much to run to this man and hold him, reassure him that he was still his son, that whatever had changed it would always be true. But it wasn't true. He was Karl Hoche the traitor-criminal, the Chaos thing, also known as Hans Frei, Leo Deistadt, Magnusson and many others, a man with so many identities that even he could not remember them all. The one identity he desperately wanted more than any other, his father's son, was closed to him forever.
'Father, we must leave,' he said. Magnus Hoche shook his head.
'This is my temple. My place is here.'
'Father, come with me. It's not safe for you to be here when they find the witch hunter. There will be questions.'
'I cannot come with you.' The old man sat down heavily on one of the bare wood benches. 'I had learned how to live with the memories, and the fears, and the stories. And now I know they are all true.'
'They are not all true.'
'The worst is. I did not believe it before, but you are… You have that…' He pointed at Karl's neck. 'I have borne so much. I cannot bear any more. Go. Please, Karl. Go.'
Karl looked down at his body. 'I am naked, father.'
Silently his father took off his priest's robes of office, the dark fabric loose and thin in his hands, and passed it to him. Karl pulled it on. It was not a good fit: too tight and short. He fastened its belt and turned its collar up high, buttoning it to hide the disfigurement on his neck. He needed another gag for it, and another high-necked jacket.
'Go,' Magnus said. 'I can do no more for you.'
'You can pray for me,' Karl said, rooting through the pile of blood-soaked clothes for his possessions. His father made no reply and when Karl looked up the old man was turned away from him. He wanted to go to him, to comfort him, to touch him one last time, but he knew he could not.
He left, stepping over the tied figure of Rhinehart, pulled the torn curtains closed behind him and went to find Luthor Huss.

Chapter Seven
MORNING SUN



HUSS WAS OUTSIDE the chambers of the town council, in the sunlight of the street, talking to the mayor and two of the council. As he approached, Karl could hear the discussion was intense but not unfriendly. The closing of the gates had been meant as a show of peaceful resistance. No order to fire had been given. The matter was being investigated. The mayor sounded almost apologetic.
Huss saw Karl coming and turned to introduce him to the mayor. 'By Sigmar's grace and the skill of your high priest, the wound was not serious and my arms-master is already recovering. Brother Magnusson, this is Herr Meyer, the mayor…'
Karl turned away so the mayor could not see his face. 'Brother Luthor, we must leave.'
Huss looked across at him, surprised. 'Magnusson, there is much to do here. The people of Grunburg have opened their gates to us, we should not run off so soon.'
'We have urgent business in Lachenbad.'
'Nothing is more urgent than spreading Sigmar's word to the faithful.'
Karl pulled Huss aside by the arm. 'You trusted me to make an army for you,' he hissed, 'now trust me in this smaller thing. We must leave. Immediately.'
Huss looked him in the eye. 'Very well. You can explain as we go.'

IT WAS NOT that simple or that fast, but the core of the crusade left within half an hour, and stragglers were still rejoining them until late into the night. There was no sign of Rhinehart, no pursuit from the town guard, so if the alarm had been raised it had not happened until long after they had marched out of the south gate. Perhaps his father had helped to keep the bound and gagged witch hunter concealed.
Karl walked at the head of the crusade with Huss, the two men silent and contemplative, revisiting every moment of the time he had spent with his father. It left him feeling drained and miserable. His father had seemed such a fraction of the man he remembered, and he knew he was the cause. Did Magnus still love him, or hate him, or both? How was it possible to have so many different feelings about one person?
The familiar countryside flowed past and away one step at a time. Huss kept his silence for the first mile or two, then hefted his hammer onto his shoulder and sighed. 'Can you tell me now why we left in such a hurry?' he asked.
Karl was silent, thinking how to explain. 'I should tell you who I am,' he said.
'I know who you are,' Huss said.
'You do? Since when?'
'Yesterday. When I realised why you had called yourself Magnusson.'
'Oswald did not tell you?'
'Oswald did not, and I did not ask. I judge a man by his actions, not by his name or his rank - or by the number of handbills that offer rewards for his head.' Huss paused. 'So that's why we had to leave. You were recognised?'
'Yes.' Karl said. 'But not by the townsfolk. The last time I was in Grunburg I looked very different. No, someone else. Erwin Rhinehart overheard my conversation with my father and tried to arrest me.'
Huss looked shocked. 'Did you kill him?'
'No, but I delayed him. He'll be after us - after me in particular, but my presence in the crusade makes you all targets.'
'What about your father?'
Karl thought of Rhinehart's blood-smeared face. Now the heat of the fight was out of him, he wondered if the punishment he had given the witch hunter had been fair or honourable. The man was scared of the effects of Chaos, he knew that, but the chances of him becoming a mutant himself were slim. And it was necessary to give him a hold over the witch hunter, to stop him from harming Magnus.
'He'll be fine,' he said.
Huss stared ahead, down the long straight road. Sheep were grazing on the grassy hillocks of the common-land, their winter fleeces heavy and ready for shearing. 'You may endanger us,' he said, 'but you should stay with us, at least until Lachenbad. We will see what happens there.' He sighed, and looked up at the sky. 'A strange time, when mutants work to fight Chaos and the Grand Theogonist undermines his own church. The world is turned upside-down,' he said. 'We do what we can. It is all we can do.'
'Can we really change it?' Karl asked. 'Can we do anything to change the world's course?'
'We will see,' Huss said. 'At Lachenbad, we will see.'

WHEN KARL GAVE the order for his recruits to form into their sections that evening, there were gaps in the ranks and a lack of enthusiasm. Perhaps the encounter outside the town had made some of the men realise that their training was not just for show, that they would almost certainly be required to fight soon. A few of the men who turned up were enthusiastic and eager to practise more, ready for their first battle; the others, Karl felt, were mostly there to see if it was true he was walking and talking half a day after being shot in the heart.
The meal that night was of better quality than usual: evidently the merchants of Grunburg had been generous with their supplies. He devoured his portion speedily: his body's supernatural healing always made him ravenously hungry - not just with his own mouth but with the second, possessed orifice in his neck. Its pangs were hard to endure but he had learned to resist them. On occasional nights they would become unbearable and he would have to feed the ghastly thing or be crippled by pain, but this was not one of those times.
Something else gnawed at him. The crossbow shot from the ramparts of Grunburg - that had not been an accident, a chance misfire or a case of nerves. The bolt had been aimed to kill Luthor Huss and, given the range, by someone with great ability. But who in Grunburg would want to do that? Even Erwin Rhinehart had only argued to close the gates against the crusade. And why would anyone want Huss dead? To make him into a martyr, perhaps, and provoke a greater uprising? It wasn't an outlandish idea.
But, he thought, it's just another of those questions that will have no answer; another one for the heap. And then he thought: no. There are Cloaked Brothers in the camp, the gatherers of information, compiling truth, report and rumour in equal measure as they try to compile their great theory of the nature of Chaos. They might know, and if they did know, they might tell him. Perhaps.
First he had something he needed to do. There was a copse of trees near the campsite, and though many had already been felled for firewood - the smell of their burning sap filled the evening air - he would find what he required there. He sneaked away.
In the undergrowth someone was scourging himself, whipping his flesh raw with brambles, and against a tree an older priest was receiving succour from a younger disciple. Karl moved silently past them and they did not see him.
Why was it always about the flesh? Its sins, its pleasures, its mortification, in an unending cycle. These were supposed to be men of faith, filled with the spirit of Sigmar, concerned only with holy thoughts. The reality of the flesh dragged them all down to levels of corporeality and earth, just as it dragged Karl down. The flesh always won over the spirit or the will: the philosophers said that an ideal could not be killed with a sword, but you could just as easily kill all the men who believed in that ideal. And now he was training godly men, people of words, creeds and soul, all the things of the head and the heart, to fight.
He found an ash tree and broke off a section of branch thicker than his thumb, slicing the bark off it and whittling the ends to a taper, then used the point of his knife to make holes through the wood to attach a leather thong or a cord so he could tie it on. He didn't have any. When they reached Auerswald he'd find a cobbler, tailor or chandler and buy some there. Until then, if he kept a bandage around his neck, the wooden gag would be held in place.
He reached up to the left side of his neck and pulled the lips of his second mouth apart. The teeth were clenched and a faint growling sound came from its throat - from his throat. With one hand he prised the teeth open, and with the other he pushed the wooden plug into place. It was a struggle, but it slipped in. He moved to clamp a hand over the mouth, but the mouth had spat the plug out first. It fell to the ground, amidst shadows. The mouth made a sussurrating noise between its clenched teeth.
'S-s-s-s-sigmar,' it said.
Karl froze. It had said many things in the past, its whispered obscenities filling his ears and mind during long dark sleepless nights, but it had never said the name of a god before, not even one of the awful quartet of Chaos Lords. Part of him wanted to silence it, in case someone heard its muttered babble, but he knew that if it had chosen this moment to speak such a word of importance, there must be a reason.
He crouched among the low bushes, the fresh-cut piece of ash damp against his hand, its scent like unripe pears sharp in his senses, and listened.
'S-s-sigmar,' it said again. 'Sigmarrr… isss here.'
Here? In the crusade? Did it mean Sigmar himself, the gods' agents, or was this random babbling?
Huss had said the same words a few days before, he remembered. In the past it had repeated things that he had said, or that people had said to him.
'Taaake word to Allltdorf,' it said.
Had anyone said that to him? He didn't think so. It had never spoken coherently before, or prophesied, or had dialogues with him, as the multiple mouths of Chaos-beasts in stories did. Mostly it spoke gibberish, streams of filth and obscenity, vile but incoherent. If it could think at all, it was a pitiful, idiot thing. He prayed it never infected his own mind.
'What word?' he said out loud.
'Njawrr'thakh 'Lzimbarr Tzeentch!' it spat. Gibberish and the name of its foul god. But it had answered him. Or was he going insane? Was it driving him mad?
He waited, sat on his haunches, for it to say something else. He could feel the tip of its tongue moving over its lips, an alien sensation that still unsettled him. It seemed to be settling. Perhaps it was safe for him to replace the gag and return to the camp. He stood up and raised the wooden plug to his neck.
'Onnne will bennnd and two will brrreakkk,' it said with sudden finality and bit down on the wood. He forced it into place, clamped his hand down over it, and walked back across the fields, the night air full of the smell of spring grass, dew and unwashed holy men.
One of the sentries stopped him, rising from the darkness with a warhammer held ready. 'Identify yourself,' he said.
Exactly as he'd taught them. Karl smiled. 'Magnusson,' he said.
'Enter, brother,' the guard said, and then, 'Have you hurt your neck?'
'A squirrel bit me,' Karl said.
'A squirrel?' The man sounded puzzled. 'Why would it do that?'
'It must have thought I was nuts,' Karl said, and walked past him into the camp.

THE LAST PRAYERS of the evening had faded away and most of the crusade had settled down to sleep. A few fires were still alight with small groups of men clustered around them, talking about the usual things that men discuss in such places and times - points of doctrine in the writings of the Grand Theogonist Yorri VII, the greatest martyrdoms of history, which saint they fancied most, whether Sigmar had truly been reborn, and how soon they would be arrested and executed as heretics. Karl picked his way among them, scanning each group for the faces he wanted. Something told him they would not be asleep; they would be moving between groups, blending in, listening and absorbing information. It was what they did.
He found them in a group near the last large fire, in discussing crusades and heresies. He tapped the nearer of the two on the shoulder, and the man turned his shaggy dog-haired head to look up at him. 'I need a word,' Karl said.
'Speak it,' the man said.
'Not here.' He led them away to an edge of the camp where no guards were posted, where they would not be overheard. There was a dead fireplace here, its ashes and branch-ends still glowing red in the occasional breeze. They sat around it on the trod-down ground.
'I need information,' Karl said. 'I'm prepared to pay.'
'We don't need your money,' the blond said. 'Besides, you couldn't afford us.' His companion gave a barking laugh.
'A word can be worth a thousand crowns, they say,' he said, 'if it's the right word. And you said you only needed one.'
'For a start I'd like to know your names,' Karl said.
'Aw,' the curl-headed man said, 'don't begin by asking us to lie to you.'
'Surely your dealings with Andreas Reisefertig taught you that?' blond asked.
'True.' Karl smiled ruefully. These two reminded him of Reisefertig the Cloaked Brother he had met last year: their conversational tricks, twisting words and language, playing games with trust, always working to keep the upper hand, showing a hint of something and then whisking it away. It was an art that Karl found difficult to keep up with and these two, with the way they spoke lines alternately, were clearly practised at it. The trick was to absorb the flow of everything and then filter it later, to work out what was substance and what was as clear and empty as water.
'What do your travelling companions call you?' he asked.
'Better,' blond said. 'My friends call me Lutz, and him Dagobert.'
'Well, Lutz,' Karl said, 'can you tell me who fired at Luthor Huss from the walls of Grunburg?'
'Can I tell you?' Lutz said and Karl immediately regretted his choice of words. 'Of course I can tell you. The question is whether what I told you would be true. It's possible that I know the answer, but would lie to you for some reason of my own, or possible that I don't know but would make something up.'
'He might even make something up and be accidentally correct,' Dagobert said, 'which would be very amusing with hindsight, should any of us live long enough to have any.'
'More to the point,' Lutz said, 'why should we tell you? When we last met I suggested we might work together, and you spurned the idea. Now you're back. What's in this for us?'
Karl sat back, arms folded, knowing what was coming. 'You wouldn't ask that question if you didn't already have an answer for it.'
Lutz laughed out loud. 'Ah, now this is the game as it should be played,' he said. 'Yes. We have questions too. Answer for answer, then, and no deceits or dissembling. Agreed?'
'Agreed,' Karl said. 'Who shot at Luthor Huss?'
Dagobert glanced at Lutz. 'You could have asked Huss himself that. He knows.'
'Huss may know his name, but you would know the reason.'
'What do you suspect?'
Karl chose his words carefully. 'There are sects who believe that with Huss dead this crusade would disappear. Others believe that Huss martyred would be more powerful and less fallible than Huss alive. Some want to prevent Huss from finding the reborn Sigmar, if such a man exists. All I know is that whoever fired at Huss aimed to kill him.'
Lutz nodded. 'It was a man named Friedo Baum. He claimed his crossbow misfired, and the Grunburg guard captain took him at his word.'
'But you know better,' Karl said.
'We do. Baum's brother lives in Kemperbad, where he is employed by the Oldenhaller trading family—'
'Oldenhaller!' Karl said. 'Tell me about the Oldenhallers.'
'An answer for an answer was the deal,' Dagobert said. 'Our turn to ask.'
Karl grimaced. 'Very well,' he said.
'Tell us why you want to know about the Oldenhallers,' Lutz said.
Karl told them about what had happened in Grissenwald, careful to keep the details obscure, with no mention of Oswald, dwarfs, the Eider or Herr Stahl.
'These certain gestures you made and observed,' Dagobert said, 'what were they?'
'An answer for an answer,' Karl said. 'Oldenhallers first.'
'Ah, the Oldenhallers,' said Lutz. 'An old trading family, with outposts and cousins up and down the Reik. They are - what's the best word? - unscrupulous. They are not Chaos worshippers themselves, so far as we can tell, nor do they have direct ties to any of the major cults. On the other hand they are happy to do any bits of business that come their way, particularly if it'll curry favour with important and powerful people. Sometimes that means dirty business for the Empire, sometimes it means foreigners, sometimes it's people with muddier intentions. They keep their bread buttered both sides, the Oldenhallers.'
Karl had no idea what that meant, but wasn't going to interrupt. Lutz paused, exchanging a look with Dagobert.
'About a fortnight ago,' Dagobert said, 'word came through the Oldenhaller network upriver, probably from Altdorf, that influential people felt Luthor Huss was making a nuisance of himself. The implication was clear enough. We assume Baum received word of this from his brother.'
'So it was an ordered assassination,' Karl said, 'but you can't tell me either the client or the motive.'
'We didn't say that,' Dagobert said.
'But we will,' Lutz said. 'A free answer: we don't know. Not something we admit often. Now our turn to ask: show us the hand-gestures you mentioned.'
Karl lifted his right hand to touch his left ear with the little finger. Then he raised his left hand to stroke his hair back. It felt coarse and oily against his skin. Lutz watched him, then looked at Dagobert and raised his eyebrows. Dagobert gave an almost imperceptible nod in response.
'What?' Karl said.
'Is that a question?' Lutz asked.
'Yes. No,' Karl said. He felt frustrated: he wanted straight answers, but felt he was revealing more than he was learning, and despite their promises of truth he still wasn't sure he could trust these Cloaked Brothers. They seemed so smug and assured, as if they already knew the answers to the questions they asked, whereas he was still lost in the dark. In their world information was the only currency that mattered: if he gave away too much with his questions, he would have nothing left to use for answers. But he needed to know, and soon.
'I'm looking for a man called Herr Stahl,' he said. 'I met him in Nuln, where he led a secretive sect. I was told he left the city on an Oldenhaller boat called the Eider. He was the man I was seeking in Grissenwald. He may be travelling with a man called Herr Scharlach. Do you know who they are, and where they are?'
Lutz and Dagobert stared at him, their faces still, eyes unmoving. Karl guessed they were working hard to appear so calm, and desperately wanted to know why.
'Herr Stahl or Herr Scharlach?' Dagobert asked.
'Either of them.'
'Herr Stahl is in Altdorf, and that is not his real name,' Lutz said.
'Herr Scharlach does not exist,' Dagobert said.
'How can you know these things?' Karl asked.
'You're asking out of turn,' Lutz said, 'and it is a question I cannot answer for you, not here and now. But I know that last year Andreas Reisefertig asked you to consider joining the Cloaked Brotherhood. The invitation remains open. There is a place for you among us, Karl. You are a good man, and you risk being led astray. Join forces with us, and you will understand how we know what we know.'
'I thank you for the invitation but we do not think alike,' Karl said, 'and we do not work alike. Andreas was a twisted man who would have let a whole army be massacred if it helped his research. I could not do that.'
'And we all know how that turned out,' Dagobert said. There was a pause while he swigged from a water flask. 'Karl, has it occurred to you that most people in the Empire believe what's printed on the handbills, that the Untersuchung were followers of the Chaos gods?'
'I know that. Of course.' Karl thought hard. Why had they mentioned that, and why now? Were they trying to distract him from getting to a greater truth? He tried to work through the strands of ideas, weaving the new information into the woof and warp of what he already knew, but Lutz interrupted him.
'Our question. When you were in Nuln, did you come across a corpse?'
'Two,' Karl said. There was silence, and Dagobert and Lutz looked at him reproachfully. He relented. 'One was the body of a former Untersuchung agent, shot and dumped in a pond. The other was a man I didn't recognise, his head beaten in.'
'Medium height, flecks of grey hair, ''Karl Franz'' across his knuckles?'
Karl nodded.
'Damn!' Lutz said. 'Damn and damnation!'
'One of yours?' Karl asked. Dagobert shot him a look.
'Is that a question?'
'Only a rhetorical one.' He could guess the answer. 'My turn. How do you know Stahl is in Altdorf?'
'Because you told us he sailed down the Reik.'
Karl scowled. 'Try harder.'
'Very well.' Dagobert shifted his posture, flexing his legs. 'You said Stahl was the leader of an organisation in Nuln. You may not have heard that the Emperor called a great meeting in Altdorf. It is known as the Convocation of Light. All his generals, all the elector counts, the heads of all the Colleges of Magic, leaders from other countries, even kings from the dwarfs and the elves are there. They are discussing the threat from Archaon and the armies of Chaos forming in the north.'
'It seems unlikely Stahl would be on the guest list.'
'Hear me out. At the same time, many other groups have called similar convocations. Our own brotherhood, for example, is also meeting in Altdorf at the same time to discuss and work out how we should react to the Convocation's decision.'
'And,' Lutz cut in, 'there is movement among the Chaos cults too. A truce has been called. Factions and sects that have been at each others' throats for centuries - Slaanesh worshippers and disciples of Nurgle, Tzeentch's followers and Khorne's fanatics - have agreed to meet under the greater banner of Chaos. Their representatives, their high priests and leaders are moving towards Altdorf. We do not know what they are planning. We assume it's a meeting, a Convocation of Darkness to rival the Emperor's, but details are scarce.' He paused, wetting his lips with his tongue. Karl read the signs of nervousness on his face or body, and they did not seem to be false. 'With Archaon to the north and the cults like a canker at the heart of the capital, this is the biggest threat the Empire has faced since the last Incursion of Chaos. Possibly bigger.'
'So you're saying Herr Stahl has gone to Altdorf for a meeting of his organisation, or to infiltrate this second convocation?' Karl asked.
'Something like that,' Dagobert said. There was a note in his tone that Karl did not like. He stored it away for further examination. 'Karl,' Dagobert said, and Karl looked up. The man's tone of voice had changed again, as if the self-aware, supercilious tone of his questions and answers had dropped away like a scab, revealing new pink flesh below. 'Karl, this is important, vitally important, to our cause and to yours too. If you hear anything about this Convocation of Darkness, if you learn anything that sounds like it's related to this in any way - please bring it to us.'
'Only if you promise to share your information equally with me,' Karl said, 'and I feel you will not make that promise.'
There was a silence. Karl took it for agreement.
'Are you a worshipper of Chaos?' Lutz asked suddenly.
'No,' Karl said. 'Has Sigmar been reborn?'
'We don't know,' Dagobert said, 'but a number of groups including ones aligned with Chaos believe that he has, and are looking for him. This crusade is the most visible, but far from the only one.'
There was another silence.
'I feel we are almost done,' Lutz said. 'We have one more question, and that will bring us square and fair and finished.'
'Were you responsible for the death of Andreas Reisefertig?' Dagobert asked.
Karl stared at him. The night was dark and moonless, even the stars blocked by cloud and there was no firelight, but he could see every detail of the man's face: its tense expression, eyes focused and intent, mouth taut with anticipation. Reisefertig's death was history to Karl, but clearly it still mattered to his listeners. 'He brought it on himself,' he said.
'That's not an answer.'
'It's all the answer I'll give. One last question, if you'll permit it?'
Lutz grunted. 'We'll hear the question. Whether we answer is another matter.'
'How many lies have you told me this evening?' Karl asked.
Dagobert grinned. 'One, if you count this answer.'
A lie and a paradox. Karl hated them. 'I counted three,' he said.
'What about you?' Lutz asked.
Karl smiled. 'Goodnight, gentlemen. You go away clockwise. I will go anti-clockwise.'
He turned and walked away around the camp's perimeter, thinking about the evening's conversation. The news about the two great convocations in Altdorf was disturbing, but something else worried harder against his mind.
Why had they mentioned that the Untersuchung were seen as Chaos worshippers? Abruptly it came to him: Frau Farber had said that the letter she had received from Nuln had asked if she wanted to continue the work of her old organisation. Perhaps the writer had not meant hunting down and exterminating cults, heretics and traitors, but something more sinister. Perhaps the writer had believed the witch hunters' propaganda. Perhaps it had been an invitation to join a cult.
On the other hand, Dagobert and Lutz had as good as admitted to him that they had lied all through the exchange. Some of what they had said had fitted in with what he had known, but much of it had been filled with holes and deliberate omissions. There was one point they had been definite about, even though he could not understand their logic in reaching it: Stahl was in Altdorf. Karl was no longer sure that he wanted to join the man's organisation, at least not until he knew more about it, but he had questions that he wanted Herr Stahl to answer.
A figure rose up in front of him, out of the night. Karl's sword was drawn and thrusting faster than his conscious thought. The figure leaped backwards, tripped and staggered, and Karl recognised the ungainly gait.
'Oswald!' he said.
Oswald failed to regain his balance and collapsed, landing on his arse. Karl stood over him, sword pointing at him.
'How much did you overhear?' he said.
Oswald stared at the tip of the sword hovering near his face, and Karl saw his adam's apple move as he swallowed. He didn't say anything.
'Come on. I can tell if you're lying,' Karl said. 'I was in the Untersuchung, remember.' Though the Cloaked Brothers had been good at masking the outward signs of their inner duplicities, he thought. He had only caught them in two direct lies, but they dealt in half-truths, elision and avoidance. He glared down at Oswald. The last thing he needed was another faction in the camp, with unknown allegiances and loyalties.
'Why were you listening?' he demanded.
Oswald tried to creep backwards away from the sword. 'Brother Huss,' he whispered.
Karl lowered his weapon. It made sense: even though he had saved Huss's life earlier that day, the man still wanted to be sure of him. If their roles were reversed, he would have done the same thing. 'So you heard it all?' he asked. Oswald nodded.
'Walk with me a while,' Karl said, sheathing his sword. Oswald scrambled to his feet, brushing wet earth off his robes. 'So have you heard of this Convocation of Light?'
'I heard that it had been called, and convened. More than that, nothing. Slow down, please.' Oswald was falling behind, picking his steps carefully and deliberately, as if unable to see clearly. Karl stopped and looked back at him, then at the ground. There was plenty of light, and he could see every footprint and tussock. He had not noticed the older priest was so close-sighted.
'Do you believe what the brothers said about the Convocation of Darkness?'
Oswald shrugged. 'I don't know much of the ways of Chaos. But it seems to me that if the Cloaked Brothers wanted you to leave the crusade, telling you that Herr Stahl was in Altdorf would be a good start.'
'True. But they also asked me to join them. Either one could have been a bluff. They're difficult people to fathom.'
'Perhaps they have another reason for asking you to go to Altdorf?' Oswald suggested. Karl stopped, the words his damned mouth had spoken in the woods in his mind. 'Take word to Altdorf,' it had said. But what word? And where or who in Altdorf? Was it urging him to join the second Convocation? He dreaded the thought of returning to Altdorf. It was a place that held nothing but bad memories and associations for him: dead friends, smashed dreams, imprisonment, betrayal and pain.
'Leave me. I need to think this through,' he said and Oswald nodded. 'And don't spy on me again. I understand Huss's reasons, but I tend to over-react when surprised.' He tapped the hilt of his sword and was going to say more, but stopped. Oswald was peering into his face, his expression puzzled and fearful.
'Karl,' he said. 'Is there something wrong with your eyes?'
Karl shook his head. 'Nothing. My sight is clear. Why?'
'It's just—' Oswald looked away. 'There is something in your eyes.'
'What? Blood?'
'Fire,' Oswald said. 'A faint glow, like embers or the shine of an animal's eyes reflecting firelight. The first time I saw it I thought that's what it was, but now I see you here I know it's more. You should be careful at night, Karl. This is a camp full of superstitious men and zealots. I can live with your secrets because I know what kind of man you are in your heart, but others…'
Karl was silent. Hair that bled was one thing, but this was another, and much more dangerous. He knew his senses had been growing more acute, and cursed himself for not realising that no gift of Chaos came without its price.
'Tell nobody. We will talk again soon,' he said. Oswald bobbed a nod and walked away, treading his careful path through the darkness between extinguished fires and sleeping crusaders, towards the bivouac where Luthor Huss and his lieutenants slept. Karl watched him go, then crept through the camp, squinting through half-closed eyes to find his way, to his bedroll. He lay down on his back, staring up into the night sky. Below the still clouds, the silhouette of some dark bird swept above the camp on wide silent wings. He put his hands over his eyes, and a red radiance filled his sight, as if he was staring at the morning sun through closed eyes.
Thoughts raced through his mind: too many for rational consideration. He had seen and heard too much today, and had had too many old memories awakened. He wished he could sleep: a few hours of escape into safe oblivion would do much to restore the equilibrium of his troubled senses. But he could not.
Chapter Eight
MANTRA



THEY HAD MARCHED for three more days and the weather had become steadily worse: wetter and colder. Spring flowers dotted the dark edges of the old road with splashes of white, yellow and purple, and the thick white blossom of the may-trees disguised their long thorns. Now and then a tall chestnut stood beside the road, its candle-like pillars of blossom beginning to emerge. The Empire ought to have been beautiful at this time of year but the rain darkened and dampened everything, including the spirits of the marchers. It slowed their progress and made their nights sleepless and miserable.
After the first day, when one of Huss's lieutenants cast an augury and declared that the weather was not going to break for the rest of the week, word went out from the leadership that each night they would stop at a village, finding accommodation and sleeping space in temples, halls, barns, cottages and anywhere with a roof and amenable occupants. Anything was better than sleeping outdoors.
Despite the conditions, the crusade continued to grow: a handful of bedraggled men and women every day; some fanatical, some desperate, some clearly insane. Nobody was turned away. Karl reckoned their numbers were over a thousand now. His defence force had also grown, though it was still less than eighty men, badly equipped and ill-prepared for fighting. The rest of the crusaders had grown used to seeing them and no longer treated them with hostility or fear. Sigmar was a martial god, after all, and it was right for his followers to come bearing not peace but warhammers.
On the third night after Grunburg they stopped at the village of Rottfurt, at a point where the road forded the River Rott, a minor tributary of the Teufel. The village's fields and farms spread out across the valley and the community seemed prosperous, contented and reasonably welcoming. The thousand tired crusaders had entered through the gate in the wooden stockade, and while Huss negotiated with the local landowner and the priest, the others were left to find their own places to eat and sleep among the close-packed houses within. Karl called Kuster over to him and instructed him to commandeer the outbuildings of a farm he had seen on the other side of the narrow river at the bottom of the valley, a few hundred yards outside the village. It would give the guard force somewhere to graze their horses and to practise their weapons drill till nightfall and evening prayers.
Kuster accepted his orders and rode off with the other horsemen, splashing through the river towards the farmhouse. Karl watched him go. The man was a good officer, and of the three divisions the cavalry were shaping up the fastest. The pikemen too were coming along nicely, working as a unit, understanding that unless they fought together they were nothing. They were beginning to look like soldiers too, if you ignored their lack of uniforms and their habit of breaking into plainchant in the middle of drills.
The only people who worried him were Pabst's brigade. He had watched them drill night after night and his sense of unease had grown. Their morale was high and they had taken to calling themselves the Hammers of Sigmar. Their zeal and their appetite for combat were both strong, but their coherence as a unit was not growing as it should in a young unit. Karl had spoken to Pabst about it twice, but there had been little change. On top of that, Pabst seemed to be relishing his position as an officer too much.
Belatedly Karl had realised that when he was selecting the troops, he should have asked if any of them wanted to die as martyrs in the service of Sigmar, and weeded those men out too. Prospective suicides and people with a death-wish were often fanatical fighters, but they made very bad soldiers. Pabst wasn't just a bad officer, he was a dangerous one. An army's strength lay in its ability to work together. Without that, with Pabst in charge, they were nothing.
And me, Karl thought, am I part of this army too? He didn't feel it. Though he enjoyed the role Huss had given him, the training of men and the ordering of their lives, he knew it was a vestige of his past, the army officer he had once been, comfortable in its old familiarity. It was not part of who he was now, and had nothing to do with the task he had sworn for himself. Fighting for Sigmar, being around men who believed passionately in their cause and in the corruption of the Empire that he knew existed - it was energising, but their calling was not what called to him.
Following the crusade any further was not a part of his fate. He had a death-wish of his own, and he knew it was a death he would have to seek alone. Magnusson, the commander of Luthor Huss's soldiers, was as much a false role as Hans Frei had been. He had to be true to himself. And that meant leaving the crusade.
Besides, he knew that staying with Huss was dangerous. People here knew who he was, and Erwin Rhinehart knew too. Though perhaps Rhinehart would assume he was intelligent enough to realise that and therefore he would have already left the crusade… Karl caught himself, and shook his head. That was a game of bluff and double-bluff worthy of the Cloaked Brothers, and he had more important things to think about. Like Brother Pabst.

ONCE THEY HAD settled into the farm buildings, the cavalry in the main barn with their bedrolls close to their horses, the rest of the men dispersed among cow-stalls, sheep-pens, empty grain stores and dilapidated sheds, he called the three officers together. They sat in the wide doorway of the barn, watching the men practising their drills in the rain.
'What happens when we reach Lachenbad?' Gottschalk asked.
'Lachenbad?' Karl asked. Gottschalk shook his head, dislodging raindrops. 'Everyone knows. Huss is leading us there. He believes Sigmar's there.'
'If that's what he believes,' Karl said, 'then he hasn't told me.'
'What if Sigmar is there? Will he lead the crusade? Will he lead us into battle against the Grand Theogonist's forces? Or the armies of Chaos?'
'Brother Huss does not believe that Sigmar is at Lachenbad,' Karl said. 'And he is a leader wise enough not to make plans on the basis of supposition and rumour. The reborn Sigmar could still be a baby. If he even exists.'
Kuster made a ''hmph'' sound in the back of his throat. It might have been a cough.
'That's not why I called you together,' Karl said. 'Brother Pabst, I'm asking you to step down as leader of the Hammers of Sigmar. Brother Kuster will take over. He has the military experience and understanding that we need to bring the men together.'
There was a startled silence broken only by the patter of the rain.
'You cannot do this,' Pabst said.
'I will order you if necessary.'
'Listen to me, whelp,' Pabst said through his teeth. 'You have no authority. I am a warrior and a priest of Sigmar, eleven years in his service, since my sixteenth birthday. Who are you? Nothing. You don't even wear his symbol, and you carry a sword not a hammer. You are no servant of Sigmar, and I do not follow you.'
'My authority comes from Luthor Huss,' Karl said. Pabst spat onto the barn floor. 'I swore no oath to Huss,' he said. 'The men serve me because they share my faith and my fire. Try taking command of them. We will see who they follow, you or me.'
Karl looked across at Kuster, seeing quiet apprehension in the cavalry leader's face. He knew he had an ally there. Gottschalk was waiting to see which way this argument blew before saying anything.
'Very well,' he said. 'We will see. Call them.'
Pabst stood and slung his warhammer over his shoulder. The movement reminded Karl of Luthor Huss, and he wondered if that was deliberate. Without waiting, Pabst stepped out into the rain. 'Hammers of Sigmar!' he shouted. 'Fall in!'
The thirty warhammer-bearers left their training bouts and practise swings and walked forward to form a square. They looked cocky, sure of themselves, but the square was ragged. Karl stood behind Pabst, and drew his throwing-knife from his belt.
'Hammers of Sigmar!' Pabst began. Karl jabbed him in the small of the back with the point of the knife, hard but not deep. The pain stopped him and he began to turn, angry. Karl was ready.
'Hammers, who do you serve?' he shouted. 'Pabst or Sigmar?'
'Sigmar!' the cry went up. Three or four brandished their weapons in the air.
'Then Kuster is your new commander. He will teach you to fight like true warriors of Sigmar. That is all.' Karl glanced at Kuster. 'Take over.'
Pabst glared at him furiously. 'You're scum, Magnusson,' he said. 'You're some vile thing. Sigmar does not know you.'
Karl ignored that. 'You have a choice,' he said. 'Join the Hammers of Sigmar as an ordinary soldier, rejoin the crusade, or go away.'
Pabst's eyes were ferocious, his face drawn tight, his knuckles white and drawn on the shaft of his hammer. For a moment Karl thought he might attack him.
'I will fight,' he said. 'By Sigmar, I will fight.' He stalked away onto the field to join his comrades, where Kuster was already putting them through some basic drills. Karl watched him go. Gottschalk came over from where he had been observing in the barn, out of the rain.
'Was that wise?' he asked. 'He'll try to spread dissent.'
'We need every fighter we can get,' Karl said. 'It wasn't wise, but it's safer than the alternatives. He's a loose boulder. We need to make sure he can't roll too far, or people will get crushed.'

KARL LAY IN the barn's hayloft, listening to the horses breathe and the men snore, and watching the sky lighten through cracks in the plank walls. The rain seemed to have eased during the night. He had spent most of it thinking of Marie, her face, her voice, her laugh, the pain and confusion he had inadvertently put her through, wondering what had become of her, where she might be, and what might have been. He had reached no answers and it had not eased his mind, but it had passed the time.
He heard hoofbeats. Very faint, just audible over the rain on the roof and the sound of the swollen river, but definite.
Several horses on the road, approaching at a trot. More than several.
It was still dark inside the barn and he was careful to keep a hand over his eyes as he crawled between the bodies of his sleeping comrades towards the wall, to peer through one of the larger cracks. The sight chilled his bones.
He recognised the column of figures on horseback, their armour and their bearing, and he recognised the banner that their standard-bearer carried, and the symbol on their shields. It was a great golden cat poised to spring, jaws and talons exposed.
Thirty members of the Knights Panther were riding down the road towards Rottfurt, the steel of their half-plate armour and weapons gleaming in the dawn light, their horses and their faces magnificent in splendour. The Knights Panther: one of the Empire's oldest and most elite Templar regiments, its allegiance sworn equally to the Empire and the Church of Sigmar. It had been members of the Knights Panther that Karl had exposed as worshippers of the blood-god Khorne two years ago, bringing the regiment's centuries-old reputation into opprobrium. The Knights Panther had reason to hate Karl Hoche.
Karl crawled back across the hayloft, took Kuster by the shoulder and shook him. The big man was awake in a second, eyes scared, hand grasping for a weapon. 'What?' he said.
'Wake your men, and get them armed. The ones who have armour should put it on. Get someone to rouse the ones in the other building. Tell them to stay low, out of sight and listen for orders.'
'What's about?'
'What we've been training for,' Karl said.

KARL STOOD INSIDE the half-open barn door, watching through the rain as the Templars rode the last hundred yards towards the closed gates of Rottfurt. There had not been room for all the crusade's numbers inside the village and many were sleeping under makeshift shelters outside the rough wooden walls, but the mounted knights paid them no attention. Some of Huss's followers had woken and noticed Kuster stood next to Karl. Behind them, the men were dressing and preparing their horses with apprehensive care.
'What are they doing here?' Gottschalk whispered.
Karl made no response, watching as two of the knights dismounted and approached the stockade gate. He leaned forward, straining to hear over the sounds of the men behind him, and the three hundred yards of river and rain-soaked pasture that separated the farm from the village. 'They seemed to be asking for the head man. After a while he came. From the way he moved and stood Karl could tell he was tired and on the edge of panic.
One of the Knights Panther said something, but his face was turned away and Karl couldn't catch it. The head man nodded. The second knight replied, and though the words were faint, the movements of his mouth distant, Karl could understand it.
'Open your gates. We are here to arrest Luthor Huss and two of his cohorts. Give them to us and we will leave you and the rest of the crusade in peace.'
'Luthor Huss is his own master,' the head man replied, and Karl thought him brave or possibly foolish. 'I will speak to him and send a reply.' He stepped back through the gates and unseen hands closed them to the knights.
'Look,' said Kuster. 'At the back.' The voice jolted Karl from his concentration and for a second he was confused. Then he saw what the old Templar had meant. At the back of the column of Knights Panther were two figures that looked out of place. Their mounts were not heavy warhorses, and they wore sombre black uniforms and tall black hats.
Erwin Rhinehart, and Theo Kratz.
'Where did they come from?' Kuster asked.
'Auerswald, probably,' Gottschalk said, joining them. 'It's a couple of hours by road but they probably set off before dawn.'
'No, they came from the north.' Kuster paused, thinking. 'How did they know we were here?'
'Rhinehart knew our course. There are spies in the crusade,' Karl said, 'and renegades among us. I know of one man here who has a price of two hundred and fifty crowns on his head.'
'Who would that be?' Gottschalk asked. Karl gave him a sideways look and a scowl, and he shut up.
'What are they doing here?' Kuster asked again.
More importantly, Karl thought, what are we doing here? We should be in the village, inside the stockade, protecting the heart of the crusade, not out here. Instead I let my guard drop and now we're as useless as defenders. There's only one place to cross the river, and the Knights Panther can block it with just a handful of their men.
He cursed himself for a fool.
Behind them men were beginning to enter the barn through the rear entrance, bringing their weapons. Karl turned to them. 'Horsemen, mount up in the yard at the back,' he said. 'The rest of you, form into your groups here. We don't know what's going to happen, so we must be ready for anything. Don't let them see you and don't make any movement until I give an order.' He turned back to stare through the rain.
'How will you know what's going on?' Kuster asked.
'When it happens, we'll all know,' Karl said.
He watched as the knights waited. If they were impatient, if the cold rain trickling inside their armour made them restless, they gave no sign of it. After a few minutes the stockade gate opened again and a priest appeared, wearing full robes and carrying a warhammer. Karl recognised him as one of Huss's lieutenants, Brother Martinus. He spoke to the two knights who still stood there.
'Brother Luthor sends his greetings, and wishes to know on whose orders and what charges he is arrested,' he said. The knight paused for a second, then walked slowly back to his horse, undid a saddlebag and produced a document. He carried it back and passed it to the lieutenant, who disappeared inside. The gate shut, and the waiting started again.
'How can you tell what they're doing?' Gottschalk said.
'I have the eyes and ears of a—' Karl started. He was going to say, ''hawk'', but then his eye caught a familiar black shape wheeling in the sky above the village, and he recognised it. 'A raven,' he finished.
The village gate reopened. The lieutenant emerged. 'Brother Luthor does not recognise the truth of the charges laid against him, nor the authority of the man that lays them,' he said. 'He desires an hour to discuss his position with his council.'
'What of the others named in the warrant?'
'They are not here to answer. One hour?'
'Luthor Huss must surrender himself.'
'He desires an hour.'
'Now.'
The lieutenant stepped inside and the gate closed. The two knights returned to their horses and climbed back into the saddle. The gate did not move. Evidently Huss was taking his hour whether it was granted or not.
Rhinehart and Kratz rode up to the front of the column, and there was a brief discussion. The rain grew heavier, drowning out their voices. The first of the knights rode a few paces forward, facing the bare face of the village's stockade and drew his sword, holding it aloft like a man ready to charge.
'Hear me, people of Rottfurt and honest crusaders!' he declared, and his voice carried clearly across the river to the farm. 'We seek only three men among you. Give them to us and we will leave you. Deny us, and we will take them by force.' He paused, to let the words sink.
'We seek Luthor Huss,' he said, 'on charges of heresy, consorting with the allies of Chaos, and protecting an enemy of the Empire.
'We seek Lars Kuster on charges of foul murder and desecrating a sacred place.
'We seek Karl Hoche, the mutant, traitor and servant of Chaos, whom Huss has knowingly sheltered in this crusade, bringing danger of damnation to you all.'
The three names hung in the air like shrouds. Nobody moved in the barn. Karl listened for sounds of horses in the yard behind the barn, to detect Kuster's reaction to the declaration of his crimes, but nothing came. There was no outcry, no response at all. The crusade did not give up its own.
Outside the stockade, Erwin Rhinehart stood up in his stirrups. 'You know Karl Hoche by another name,' he shouted. 'You know him as Brother Magnusson.'
'Here!' Pabst was pelting down across the pasture towards the river, his robes swirling around him. 'Magnusson is here! In the barn! Kuster too!' He stopped and pointed back.
Karl swore aloud. The man must have been standing outside, watching and hoping for something like this. Gottschalk had been right, and now the loose boulder had rolled too far to be pulled back.
The lead knight turned his horse and gave an abrupt order. Fifteen of the mounted Templars broke away from the column, riding two abreast down to the ford in the river. The front four carried lances. Karl watched them, feeling sick. Now the moment had arrived, the thing he had trained these troops for, he had been betrayed. Suddenly he was in as much danger as the crusaders. He could not think abstractly about their fates. He was too involved. He was the target, not them.
The crucial thing was to get himself and the soldiers to the village. The village was defensible; there were stocks of food there, it could withstand a siege. But how? He needed a strategy, and the advice of Huss and Kuster.
The first of the knights was half-way across the river.
'Attack!' Kuster yelled from outside, and horses thundered past the barn. Karl ran to the doorway, watching as the small pack of horsemen galloped down the pasture, their riders already whirling their warhammers. He swore again. So that was how Kuster had reacted. So much for coherence and fighting as a unit. It was undisciplined, unplanned, suicidal, disastrous - but he had to admit it was glorious to witness.
For a moment he thought that Kuster might pull it off. The Templars were at a disadvantage, hampered by the narrow ford and slowed by the water and the mud of the riverbank, facing a slope, unable to form up or charge. Some lowered lances, others tried to back off or wheel their horses round.
The crusaders were at full pelt, the damp air resounding to their shouts, their robes and their horses' manes and tails flying. Pabst, in their path, threw himself to one side to avoid the assault. He did not make it. One of the riders caught his head a blow with a hammer that lifted him off his feet, sending a spray of blood into the air. He tumbled and lay still.
The two forces closed on each other.
It was an insane strategy. It might work.
He had reckoned without the horses. They were priests' horses, accustomed to pulling carts or carrying men of Sigmar from town to town. They were not used to facing walls of armoured riders holding lances at their throats. They did not know how to respond.
Two turned aside. Two pulled up short; one tried to and fell, throwing its rider down in a cartwheel of limbs in front of the line of knights. One reared, tossing the man on its back to the ground. Two charged on. One of them was Kuster.
His horse staggered, tossed its head and died, collapsing, a lance through its chest, its life-blood pouring out. Kuster leaped from its saddle, his hammer spinning in his hands, striking the man who had killed his mount before he touched the ground. The knight fell sideways, landing hard. Kuster spread his feet and whirled his hammer around his head, catching another knight in the back with a clang of steel. The other Templars backed away, dropping their lances, drawing swords, circling, blocking Kuster from Karl's view.
Kuster's companion screamed, half crushed under the body of his dying horse. The other horsemen backed away, reforming, riding back into the attack with hammers ready. They had never done this before, and it showed. The Templars' blades flashed, fast and assured, and men and horses fell.
Karl saw Kuster reappear. He had scrambled across the river and up the far bank to give himself an advantage in height. Two Templars came at him, their horses' hoofs spraying water around them. Kuster swung early at the first one, striking his horse just above the eye. The animal dropped, throwing its rider forwards, and Kuster brought his hammer back, taking the knight off into the river with a great splash. He sprang back up the bank, ready for the second knight, staggered, and fell face-first into the water. He did not move.
Karl looked up. Half-way between the village and the river, Erwin Rhinehart raised his crossbow and pulled back its string to prepare another shot.
On the near side of the ford, the last of the crusade's cavalry had fallen. Four riderless horses moved across the muddied pasture, and a fifth galloped away trailing loose reins. By Karl's count five of the Knights Panther had been unseated, three of them permanently. Two of those had been Kuster's victories. The knights reformed and began to ride back up the slope towards the farm buildings.
'Form up!' Karl shouted and his voice sounded hoarse. 'Pikemen first! Arrowhead formation! Hammers of Sigmar, fill in behind them!'
'In here?' someone asked.
'Outside!' Karl ordered.
'Are we going to fight?' Gottschalk asked.
'No. We're going to the village, to rejoin the body of the crusade. But they won't attack us. You're a defensive force, that's what you've been trained for. Kuster forgot that. And we're going to work together this time, damn it!'
'Are you—' someone started.
'No!' Karl lied. 'Would Huss have let me near the crusade if I was? Would he have let me train you? Who do you believe, Luthor Huss or—' what had Huss's phrase been? '—the mouthpiece for a false leader?'
There was a general hesitation among the men.
'Go on, move!' Karl roared. It might not have been the same charismatic tone of command that Luthor Huss used, but they moved.
Outside, the rain grew harder. The raven he had seen earlier swooped low over the village and landed on the gate, furling its wide wings and giving a mocking caw. At the back of the column Erwin Rhinehart raised his crossbow, sighted along it, and shot the bird dead.

ANYONE WATCHING FROM the Rottfurt stockade would have seen the body of men taking up position outside the farm on the opposite side of the river. The forty pikemen were arranged in a V-formation, their long pikes raised, the arrowhead shape pointed down the hill. Behind them, rows of hammer-bearers brought up the rear. They would not have seen Karl Hoche.
Karl crouched low among the hammer-bearers, a borrowed leather cap pulled down over his mane of hair. He peered out through the massed bodies. The Templars at the bottom of the slope had not moved, but were observing.
'March,' he said to Gottschalk beside him.
'March!' Gottschalk instructed. The band of tightly packed men began to move forward. There was silence apart from the slow squelching of feet and the pelting of rain.
'Get them to sing something,' Karl said.
'What?'
'Something off-putting.' Karl racked his memory. He had heard so many hymns and prayers in the last few days but none of them seemed appropriate. Then it came to him. 'The Hymn to the Glorious Dead,' he said.
Gottschalk did not give the order; but began the ancient chant, and the men picked it up. The soldiers and priests among them knew the old Reman words, the others recognised the rhythm of the cantillation and followed the tune. The alien syllables and the curious formation of the notes coming from deep in the singers' chests soared out across the meadow. It was strange and yet familiar, and curiously peaceful. Rest now, it told the fallen. Your sacrifice is acknowledged, your valour praised. We honour our dead and our enemies' dead. We thank you for your bravery. As long as we live we will not forget you, and when we die we hope to lie beside you.
Karl kept low among his soldiers as they moved towards the river, hating himself for this subterfuge, and tried to peer out. He could not see the Templars. Had they moved aside? If they blocked the ford, all was lost: he would be found and tried, the village would fall, Huss would be arrested, the crusade would falter, the reborn Sigmar—
Stop being so self-obsessed, something told him. Think of the glorious dead. Think of Kuster, lying face-down in the stream. Think of the other dead defenders who fell for their faith, doing what you taught them to do - to follow orders. Think of Schulze. Think of Pabst, who may have tried to give him away but did not deserve to die for it. Think of Braubach.
He stopped and let the mantra of the chant fill his mind. As he did, over the voices of his men, he heard another chorus complement theirs, swelling the sound. The Knights Panther had joined the chant, mourning their own dead, commending their spirits to Morr, speeding their souls to the afterlife. Two groups of men, divided by doctrine but united by their devotion to the same god and the same cause, gave thanks for the lives of their comrades together.
As they reached the river, the Templars moved aside to let them pass. Karl briefly wondered why, then guessed that the knights were probably letting them retrieve the bodies of their cavalry. The arrowhead formation broke briefly as the men moved across the ford: overnight the rain had raised its level and the current broke hard against their legs. Karl was careful to keep his face turned away from the Empire's soldiers. On the muddy shallows of the far bank he saw Kuster's body, the crossbow bolt in the back of his head and trickles of blood still flowing from it, swirled away by the stream. They could not leave him here.
'Give me a hand,' Karl said to the man next to him. They lifted the corpse by its hands and feet and hefted it up the bank. His body was heavy and limp, and streams of water ran from his clothes to soak the ground.
Karl glanced up. The knights behind them were still chanting, but were beginning to follow the last of the pikemen at a respectful distance. In front of the group, outside the gate, the rest of the column sat where it was, watching them approach. Their voices were raised in the chant for the dead. They had not moved yet.
The group of crusaders began to walk slowly up the slope towards the stockade, still chanting the Reman words of the hymn. Karl pulled his head down and concentrated on carrying Kuster's dead weight.
Above them, on the road, he heard hoofbeats, and Kratz's voice raised in a shout: 'Charge them, damn you! Charge them!'
'They are priests and peasants,' someone replied. Karl risked a glance: an older man with a dark, pointed beard, riding in the second rank of the column. The Templars' leader, he guessed.
'They are protecting criminals!' Kratz insisted.
'They are carrying pikes,' the calm voice said. 'I will not risk men and horses against them.'
'They're going to reach the village.'
'Then we will have them trapped. And I remind you, we have warrants for only three of them. It is not our job to attack the innocent.'
'What are they saying?' Gottschalk said in Karl's ear. Karl shook his head and kept his head down. The village was close now. From inside its walls Karl could hear a new sound. The crusaders too had taken up the hymn to the glorious dead. And it was glorious.
Kratz shouted something, lost in the rising sound of the chant, and there were more hoofbeats, moving along the road.
Karl peered forward through the pikemen. Kratz and Rhinehart had ridden forward and stood outside the village gate, weapons drawn. The arrowhead formation was only thirty yards away now.
'What do we do?' Gottschalk asked.
'You're in charge. If I speak they'll hear me,' Karl said in a low voice. Gottschalk looked alarmed, then resolute. The body of men drew nearer to the two witch hunters.
'Lower pikes!' Gottschalk commanded and the front two rows brought their long weapons to bear, the long shafts and sharpened points projecting outwards like the spikes of a chestnut shell. The arrowhead had developed barbs. They continued forward at the same inexorable pace.
Kratz and Rhinehart did not move. Karl could feel their eyes scanning the soldiers, looking for a face they recognised, a familiar broken nose, anything that might tell them where he was.
'Karl Hoche! Show yourself and we will let your comrades enter!' he heard Kratz shout above the sound of the chant.
Would any of his men crack? Surely some of them must have doubts about him, or some of the Hammers of Sigmar resent his treatment of Pabst? Was their loyalty and their trust as strong as their faith?
'Where are you, you Chaos-loving bastard?' Rhinehart yelled.
The wall of pike-tips pressed against the witch hunters' horses. 'Hoche!' Rhinehart shouted as the pressure of the weapons forced his mount away from the gate, pushing him and Kratz out of the way. It was slow and peaceful, as if the men of Sigmar and the chant had formed a giant hand that was carefully moving the witch hunters aside.
'Wheel!' Karl shouted. 'Hammers to the gate, pikemen outwards!'
'I hear your voice, Hoche!' Rhinehart shouted. His voice sounded hoarse, ragged and stressed. He lifted his crossbow and fired into the mass of men. Two places from Karl, a dark-haired hammer-bearer gasped and dropped, the bolt protruding from his eye. The chant faltered for a moment. Rhinehart was reloading. The Templars sat on their horses, watching. Then he heard the scraping of a wooden crossbar being drawn back and the village gate swung open. The Hammers of Sigmar began to push inside.
'I'll carry him, brother,' one of them said, taking Kuster's arms from Karl.
'Thank you,' Karl said. He watched the last of the hammers enter, and the pikemen follow. The outer row of pikemen held steady, like a shield around the entrance, preventing Rhinehart and Kratz from getting close. Rhinehart had finished reloading and had his crossbow raised.
'Fall back!' Karl shouted. Rhinehart heard him, saw him and aimed at him. There was hatred in his eyes. Karl threw himself backwards and sideways, through the gate, rolling across the road. A bolt buried itself in the mud beside him. As the last pikeman slipped through the gate Rhinehart spurred his horse into a charge, hurtling towards it, but powerful hands slammed the wooden barrier closed and slammed the crossbar home. Only Rhinehart's oaths penetrated the heavy elm planks.
Karl looked up to see who his saviour was. Oswald stood over him.
'You need to speak to Huss,' he said.
Karl staggered to his feet, trying to shake the stress of the last few minutes out of his head. 'You mean Huss needs to speak to me.'
Oswald shook his head. He looked grave.



THE SMALL BUILDING was dilapidated, little better than a shed. It stood against the palisade, about fifteen yards from the gate. Outside the hut members of the crusade huddled, talked in low voices and waited for word. Brother Dominic stood on one side of the door, Brother Martinus the other, both silent. There were holes in the ceiling and a loose canvas curtain over the doorway. It looked inhospitable, uncomfortable, dark and gloomy.
'He's been here since he saw Kuster killed,' Oswald said quietly. 'He wanted me to open the gate and let the Templars in. I told him to wait until you had spoken to him.'
'Is that all you can tell me?' Karl asked.
'I've tried talking to him,' Oswald said. 'He won't answer me. Nor his lieutenants.' He indicated Dominic and Martinus. They did not acknowledge it. Oswald looked at Karl, shrugged, and pulled aside the canvas mesh. They went in.
Inside, the air was damp, earthy and still. Luthor Huss sat huddled in one corner, his warhammer in his lap. His head was lowered and his eyes closed. He said nothing. Karl sat down on the bare earth floor in front of him.
'Luthor, it's me,' he said. 'I brought the pikemen and the Hammers of Sigmar to the village.'
Huss did not look up. 'How many more dead?' he asked in a voice heavy with sorrow.
'One.'
'One too many.'
'We can defend ourselves now. They can hold us to siege.'
Oswald touched his arm. 'The village has no water-source except the river,' he said, 'and very little food. We could resist a siege for perhaps a day, maybe a day and a half.'
'I will give myself up,' Huss said. He did not move. 'Karl, give yourself up too. Brother Oswald, Brother Dominic and Brother Martinus can lead the crusade from here.'
'We can fight them.'
'I cannot fight them.' He was still staring at the floor. 'No longer. I did not ask for this. I did not want a crusade. I did not ask these men to die to protect me. I cannot carry this burden any more.'
'Luthor,' Karl said, leaning towards him, 'you must. You cannot stop now. You are too close to finding Sigmar.'
'I will find him in the afterlife.' Huss raised his eyes and they were full of hopelessness.
'He exists, Luthor. Many people believe it, and not just the—' he gestured to the doorway '—the cranks and fanatics who follow you. Chaos worshippers believe it, and are looking for him too. Luthor, imagine what will happen if they find him first!'
'Brave words,' Huss said, 'from the man who has brought down the witch hunters on me. I am declared excommunicant, heretic, protector of criminals and a partner with the forces of Chaos. I have never wished for a martyr's death, but it seems one has found me.'
'Claim you didn't know about me,' Karl said. 'Blame—'
'Blame me,' Oswald said quietly. 'I brought him to you. The fault and the crime is mine.'
'But I did know. And even if I can convince them that I didn't, heresy is still a capital offence,' Huss said. He held out a piece of folded parchment with a broken seal on it. Karl opened it and squinted at the words in the faint light. It was the warrant for arrest which the Templars had given to Brother Martinus. Its sentences included Huss, Kuster and himself. He stuffed it in his pocket.
'Ignore it. This is too important,' he said. 'You must go on and find Sigmar.'
'How? In a place surrounded by Templars?'
'I don't know. Give me ten minutes to scout the place. I'll make a plan.' He nodded to Oswald and together the two men left the hut.
'What do you have in mind?' Oswald asked.
'Just keep him talking,' Karl said. 'Talk about Sigmar, or about Dominic and Martinus. You heard what the Cloaked Brothers said. Huss has to find the reborn Sigmar. I'll be back soon.'
Oswald disappeared back into the hut. Karl walked away, then dug the arrest warrant out of his pocket and looked at it again, then pulled his pack off his shoulder and rummaged through it till he found a square of folded parchment at the bottom, where it had been since Nuln. He unfolded it and reread the familiar words: 'Come to the Oldenhaller quay on the docks at ten bells, where I will await you. Faithfully, Herr Scharlach.'
His first impressions in the hut had been correct. In the light of day there was no doubt: the signature on the warrant was unfamiliar and illegible, but the handwriting was identical to the note.
'No such person as Herr Scharlach, my arse,' he said under his voice. He had questions for the Cloaked Brothers.

IT TOOK KARL LESS than four minutes to walk around the stockade, examining the defences, and the signs were not good. Rottfurt was not large, and its few lanes and alleys were stuffed with scared crusaders. The villagers had retreated into their houses and barricaded the doors, frightened of what was happening to them and their community. The walls looked solid from the outside but would not withstand a single attack with a battering ram. He would have to trust that the Templars' leader would keep his word about not attacking innocents.
He went in search of Lutz and Dagobert. He found their travelling companions in the village shrine, but they had not seen the two men since the previous night. Neither had the people who had been sitting around the fire with them four nights before. The men of the Hammers of Sigmar had not seen them, nor had Brother Dominic. Karl walked through the village, his eyes scanning the crowds of dark-robed travellers for a familiar head with short-cropped blond hair or a man with spaniel-like curls. There was no sign of them.
He climbed onto the base of the stone monument in the centre of the village, commemorating those who had fallen during the Great Incursion of Chaos, and shouted, 'Brother Dagobert! Brother Lutz!' There was no response from anywhere in the village.
They had gone. Nobody could say where, but they were no longer with the crusade. For a second Karl wondered if they had found accommodation somewhere outside the village, but there was none apart from the farm.
What had they known? And where had they gone?

HE PUSHED THE canvas to one side and re-entered the dark hut. Huss had not moved. Oswald squatted beside the leader, and looked up as he came in.
'Here is the plan,' he said. 'The village has two gates. All through the day we'll sound an advance, open the gate, move out a few yards, wait for the Templars to ride round, then retreat. A quarter-hour later we do it again with the other gate. By nightfall they'll be tired out and frustrated.' He paused. Huss had not reacted. Talk as if it's already decided, he thought. Don't give him a choice or a way to back out. I'm not asking his permission, I'm telling him how it will be.
'At dawn, Brothers Martinus and Dominic will open the village gates and invite the Templars in, explaining that you and I have fled in the night. They will lead the crusade slowly westwards, spreading Sigmar's word. They're strong enough, and they have learned well from you.'
Huss raised his head and looked at him with bleary eyes. 'Meanwhile we hide in a fruit-cellar until the Templars leave? We become fugitives, wasting our lives fleeing from justice?'
'No, we leave in the night.'
He sighed. 'The Templars may be tired but that won't make them stupid. They'll be watching both gates.'
'There's a third way out, a crawl-through under the fence into a thicket of bushes. The local boys use it to get out at night.' He'd known there had to be one. A thin coin to a small boy had been all it took to learn where it was. 'You take fifteen of the Hammers of Sigmar and make all speed to Lachenbad. Go cross-country, as the crow flies. Make it hard for horsemen to follow you. You can be there before tomorrow evening, without the crusade to slow you.'
Huss gave him a despairing look. Karl kneeled in front of him, grasped him by the shoulders and shook him. The man felt limp. 'Find Sigmar!' Karl said. 'The gods sent the vision to you, nobody else! If Sigmar has returned then it is for a purpose, and you are part of that purpose. And you sit here in the dark, feeling sorry for yourself. Be a man. Be a leader. Be your god's right hand. Right now you're just pathetic.'
Huss was silent but he shifted his warhammer in his lap, gripping its handle. It was a small movement, but in the right direction. 'What then?'
'Find Sigmar. Rejoin the crusade; they'll wait for you at Auerswald. Lead them to Altdorf, to the Convocation of Light, the Emperor himself. And put the fear of Sigmar into the Grand Theogonist.'
'The Templars will catch us. They'll send armies to stop us.'
'If Sigmar's will is that you do this thing, then they won't.' Karl stared across at Huss, not believing his own words, hoping that Huss would.
Huss shifted his seat. He seemed suddenly restless. Then he looked up.
'What aren't you saying?' he asked.
'I'm not coming with you,' Karl said. 'My fate calls me in a different direction. And this way the Templars must split their force to follow us both. I have to go to Altdorf and, Sigmar willing, I will see you there.'
Huss looked at him. 'Very well,' he said slowly. 'Give the orders. We have much to prepare.' He pulled himself to his feet and looked across the darkened room. 'Karl, is there something wrong with your eyes? It seems—'
'Only a reflection of the fire in my soul,' Karl said, making a joke of it, wishing it was a joke.
Huss cocked an eyebrow at him.
'Your soul, you say?' he asked. 'You found it again?'
Karl shook his head. 'No. But like you and Sigmar, I now know where it lies.'

THE NIGHT WAS dark, the crescent moon hidden behind scudding clouds. Men in dark clothes crept out of the crawl-through below the stockade and gathered in the shadow of the stockade, staying low. To the east and west, the Templars' fires burned on the road and shadowy figures moved in the night.
Whispered directions were given, a line of poplar trees on the horizon given as a rendezvous, and Huss and his guards set off in twos and threes. Karl stood in the shadows and watched them go. He'd give them a few minutes, then set off north.
There was a scuffling from the tunnel, and a muttered oath. Karl recognised the voice. It was Oswald. The old pilgrim crawled out and clambered to his feet. He was carrying a pack.
'Huss has gone,' Karl whispered. 'You're too late.'
'I'm coming with you,' Oswald said. 'Huss's orders.'
'I don't follow Huss's orders,' Karl said.
'I do.' Oswald shouldered his pack. 'Are you going to get going, or stand here till the Templars hear us?'
Karl grimaced, ducked into a drainage ditch that ran between the fields, and began the long walk to Altdorf.

Brother Karin,

While it is true that I have thrown Erwin Rhinehart out of my path twice, you should not hold it against him. It was not his fault: I am simply the better man. I have such respect for him. He is a diligent servant of Sigmar and a fine member of your Order, true to his god and his vows. He lacks the zealous single-mindedness of Theo Kratz, but that gives him adaptability, and an ability to see a way through obstacles that many would miss. How he has changed in the last year and a half. How have we all.
I envy the simplicity of your perspective. As a witch hunter, you see the world in black and white, just as Kratz and Rhunehart do: everyone is either innocent, or a servant of Chaos. As a follower of Khorne you see things in red and black: the strong and the weak, the conquerors and the doomed. Neither viewpoint allows for anything in between. For those of us whose understanding of life is more complex, it seems that the course of the world is set with obstacles, and there are many trying to steer its course between them - or onto them.
Black and white, red and black. What then is the white and the red, the perspective you cannot see, the path you cannot acknowledge? I remind you that white and red are the colours of the Reikland, my home and my former regiment. Perhaps it is my fate to show you that the path of the world is not set in absolutes, that sometimes alliances and compromise can be valuable things. Though I admit I would sooner see you dead.
You proved last year that you would give your life for Khorne. Would you still?

Karl Hoche

Brother Karin looked up. The bright sunlight from the open window spilled across her skin, making it look unusually pale. 'Did you read this?' she asked.
'No, brother.'
'Did anyone else?'
'No, brother.'
'Good.' She stood up, crumpling the parchment in her hand. 'Bring a flame.'
Chapter Nine
PRAY FOR YOU



ALTDORF WAS FULL of memories. Karl knew each street from the people he had been with the first time he had walked down it, what they had talked about, what he had learned. Now all his companions were dead, and he had no friends left in Altdorf.
Oswald seemed caught up in private reminiscence of the city too, responding to questions with grunts or shakes of the head. Twice he caught Karl's arm and steered him wordlessly away from entering a particular street or a certain square. Karl did not ask why.
The huge city felt busy, and there was a tension in the air. The streets, markets and taverns were crowded with servants in the liveries of the Empire's great households, and prices were higher than he remembered. The Convocation of Light had left its mark on the city.
There was always a fuss in Altdorf even if one or two of the Empire's elector counts were within its walls. For all fifteen to be there at once, together with royalty from Bretonnia, Estalia, Tilea, Norsca and Kislev, was a rare event, and they had all brought their retinues. It was a grand affair, and the capital of the greatest empire the world had ever seen was determined to make the most of it.
The Convocation of Light had broken up several weeks before, the various electors, kings and assorted leaders returning to their respective territories to raise armies for the forthcoming war against the hordes of Chaos gathering in the north of the world. Most of them had left their wives and families behind in the capital, to continue enjoying what many people were describing as the greatest social event the city had hosted since the Emperor's coronation twenty years ago. Every minor noble, disenfranchised duke, or lordling with aspirations had flocked to the capital, dragging their wives and eligible offspring, hoping to make the most of it.
Here too were mercenary captains touting for business, representatives of trading families offering to supply troops and armies in the field, dwarf armourers looking for deals to equip new troops with the finest in modern weaponry, and opportunists looking to buy, sell, beg, barter or swindle whatever they could. Bishops and priests were here too: it seemed that every wandering mendicant, friar, visionary and flagellant who had not joined Luthor Huss's crusade had come to Altdorf to sleep in the gutter and cry their various messages of doom and salvation from any empty street corner, of which there were very few. The roads in every direction were crowded for miles.
Karl and Oswald were able to find a small room on the top floor of a whitewashed boarding house on Bremerdamm, on the edge of the docks. It was half the size they expected, for twice the usual rent, and its few sticks of furniture appeared to have been dredged out of the Reik, or some cellar where woodworm and worse had feasted on it for years. At least it was in the east end of the city, near the fish-market and far from the palace, the cathedral and the teahouses clogged with nobles and gossip. In the slums life continued more or less as normal, and men did not peer curiously at strangers' faces in the street, hoping to find a nobleman, a potential bit of business, a mark or a gull.
'So what are your plans?' Oswald asked, sitting cross-legged on his bed. The cheap straw mattress crackled and rustled as he moved, and had a strange odour of horses.
Karl lay back and gazed at the bare beams and lathe of the ceiling. Late afternoon sun struggled to make its way through the filthy glass in the one tiny window.
'Gather information,' he said.
'How?'
'I need to find Herr Stahl, or whatever his true name is. He's connected to the Church of Sigmar, probably close to their links with the Templars and witch hunters.'
'Has it occurred to you that he might be a witch hunter? A new division, perhaps? That would explain how Theo Kratz found you so fast in Nuln.'
Karl considered it. 'It hadn't occurred to me. But would he have been recruiting new members?'
'That could have been a lie to draw you out.' Oswald tugged a protruding piece of straw from the mattress and used it to pick his yellowed teeth. 'You don't still want to join his organisation, do you?'
'No.' Karl sat up and swung around, his feet on the floor, digging in his pocket for the scrap of whetstone he carried, spat on it and began to sharpen the blade of his throwing-knife. 'I want to find out who he is, what he's doing and what his goals are. I want to find out what really happened in Nuln, and Grissenwald. And in Rottfurt.'
Oswald shrugged. 'Isn't it time you let these things go, and looked ahead? A great drama is unfolding before us. Fate will find a role for you if you knock at the stage door.'
'What?'
'An over-stretched analogy. I apologise.'
'I take your analogy,' Karl said, 'but I will use it to refute it. There's a pattern running through things. I can feel it, but I can't describe it, nor how it all fits together. Stahl is a part of it, and I think Huss and Sigmar are too. And the witch hunters who have been following me. It's as if I am playing a role in a script that has already been written and the outcome decided. I have free will to do what I want, except to declare that the play is over and it is time for another to begin.'
'As if you are simply a pawn in a game of chess that has been going on for centuries?'
'Yes.'
'And we go round in circles,' Oswald said, 'back to the plots of Tzeentch, the schemer and the changer of ways, and his followers the Purple Hand. Be careful, Karl. Take no action rashly, and watch your back.'
Karl stretched. 'And what are you going to do?'
'A little shopping, some tea and tittle-tattle with some people I know, a few prayers in the cathedral, try to avoid being arrested and burnt by witch hunters…'
'If that's all,' Karl said, standing, 'you can help me with a couple of errands.'

THEY HAD BOUGHT fresh clothes, hats and shoes, a cloak, and lengths of plain cloth. Karl had chosen two thick neck-scarves and acquired some leather boot-laces. Now they stood in the Konigplatz, near to the rubble and broken bases where the huge statues of the emperors had stood until the gunpowder treason on Hexensnacht a few months before. Karl looked across the cobbles to the front of The Black Goat inn, swathed in scaffolding, and remembered earlier times, other incidents, back in the days when he was a junior officer in the Reiklanders and the Goat was his regiment's unofficial base in the capital.
He jingled his purse in one hand. It was too light for his comfort.
'Living with you is proving expensive,' he said. 'It took me a year to build up that purse, and at this rate it'll be empty by the end of the week. Unless you feel like covering your share of food and rent?'
Oswald looked apologetic. 'I depend on the kindness of strangers. There's not much money in the travelling priest business.'
Karl looked askance, but decided not to mention Oswald's room and large supper in The Lost Prophet in Grissenwald. If the old pilgrim preferred to keep his secrets and his funds to himself, that was his business. He glanced up at the sky. 'We're losing the light,' he said. 'I should head back to the room before people can see my - you know.' He gestured at his eyes. 'I hate this,' he said. 'I hate the loss of control, the loss of my sense of who I am. How can you know who you are if you are always changing?'
Oswald pursed his thin lips. 'How much money do you have left?'
'Less than I did this morning. Less than eighty crowns.'
'Follow me.' Oswald set off towards the university district to the west. Karl followed reluctantly.
'We can't just spend the money, we'll need it to pay expenses, bribes…' he said.
'Sigmar will provide.' Oswald said, and then was silent as they passed through streets that became less and less crowded, and less and less wide, until finally he stopped and said, 'Here we are.' He pushed open a narrow door made of some heavy stained wood, decorated with an inlaid pattern of lumps of coloured glass in a circle, and walked down three steps into the small room below.
Karl's first thought was that they had stepped into an apothecary's shop, or a spice dealer. Shelves lined two of the walls up to the high ceiling, each one filled with glass jars, and a chest stacked with small drawers filled a third. At a table in the centre, a bald man sat hunched with an eyeglass, tweezers and a pair of scales, putting carefully measured pinches of blue crystals into individual silk bags. He looked up, removed the eyeglass, and put down the tweezers. The hunch, it seemed, was permanent.
'Praeparus,' Oswald said, and it sounded like a title, not a name. 'I am in need of silvered glass lenses that protect the eyes when burning potassica and magnesia.'
The man regarded him for a long moment. 'Are you a student at the Imperal College of Gold Magic?' he asked. 'You don't look to me like an alchemist. Or a student.'
'I am not, Praeparus. At the temple I tend the undying flame, and its brightness hurts my eyes. A friend recommended…'
'How is it that you call me Praeparus, then?' the man said sharply.
'My friend told me to address you so,' Oswald said simply. For another long moment the man said nothing, only looking at him, then called, 'Sigismund! Silvered lenses!' An apprentice appeared from the inner room, used a footstool to reach a high drawer, and produced a silk bag. He passed it down to his master, who handed it to Oswald.
'Seventy crowns,' he said. Oswald nudged Karl.
'Pay,' he said.
'Seventy crowns! I could buy a horse for that! Aren't you going to haggle?' Karl asked.
'No,' Oswald said. 'Pay.'
Karl paid. The few remaining silver and gold coins glinted at him from the bottom of the purse. Oswald led him outside. The bald shopkeeper did not move from the table, but Karl felt his eyes on them until the door with its strange pattern had swung closed behind them and they were back on the street.
'This had better be worthwhile,' Karl said.
Oswald opened the silk bag and a frame of wire and glass slid onto his palm. Karl had seen scholars and the infirm wear similar things across their eyes to help their sight, but the round crystal lenses in these frames were coated with a film of silver, like a mirror.
'Try them,' Oswald said and Karl did, fitting them with difficulty over his broken nose, adjusting the arms of the frame around his ears. Through the silvered lenses the street and the old pilgrim appeared darker but no less sharp.
'Can you see?' asked Oswald. Karl nodded: he saw.
'You've heard that eyes are the mirrors of the soul?' Oswald said. 'With these, your eyes become mirrors of the world. I guessed that with the sharp senses you boast of, you would be able to see clearly through the silvering.'
'I can. Thank you,' Karl said.
'Wear them after dark and they'll hide your eyes,' Oswald said. 'In the day, they're almost as conspicuous as your eyes are at night.' He looked around at the emptying street. 'So do you start your work tonight?' he asked.
'No,' Karl said. 'You do.'
'I do?'
'We need to find Herr Stahl. To do that we need to learn who issued the arrest warrant, and on whose authority. That will lead us to our man.'
Oswald looked reluctant. 'You can't do this?'
Karl laughed. The sound was cruel, even to his own ears. 'Oswald, can I stroll into the Grand Theogonist's palace, the Templars' barracks or the chapter-house of the witch hunters and ask if they recognise a seal? My face is too well known, my reputation spread too wide in this city. It must be you.'
'I've never done this,' Oswald said. His face was a mix of worry and dread.
'Gone disguised? Worked undercover?'
'Lied.'
'I'm not asking you to lie,' Karl said, 'Just don't tell them the truth.'
He reached into his jerkin pocket, produced the creased warrant of arrest that Huss had given him back in Rottfurt, and tore off the bottom part of it. 'Show them this, with the signature and the seal on it. Ask them if they recognise it, and if they do then ask if they can vouch for the authenticity of signature and seal. If they ask where it came from, tell them your master would only tell you that the matter is confidential.'
'What if they ask who is my master?'
'Tell them that you serve Sigmar. If they press you,' Karl thought for a moment, and smiled, 'tell them Brother Karin Schiffer requires the information for an investigation. Go first to the office of the Grand Theogonist, and if they don't know then to the Templars, and lastly to the witch hunters. I will wait for you in The Hog's Head tavern on Marienstrasse.'
'Why the Grand Theogonist first?' Oswald asked.
'Because his people are the least likely to arrest you on the spot,' Karl said. 'The day is dying. Come on.'

OSWALD GAVE A last unhappy look over his shoulder and stepped into the shadow of the doorway that led to the west wing of the Grand Theogonist's palace, where the head of the Church of Sigmar and his staff had their residences and offices. Karl, standing further down the street on the other side, watched him disappear and waited a minute to see if he would emerge. A skinny priest came out with an acolyte on either side, his hand on one of the youth's shoulders, but there was no sign of Oswald. Karl glanced at the darkening sky, turned and walked eastwards, keeping his eyes narrowed. It would soon be dark, and he would have to stay somewhere well lit, wear the lenses, or return to their room.
Damn my eyes, he thought. My eyes, my hair, even my voice is no longer under my control. What do I have left that I can call my own? What is left for me to trust? And if I cannot trust myself, how can I trust other people, or ask them to trust me? Even Oswald. He seems like a good man, and he is willing to risk his life to help find the information I need. But he has lied to me, and not a lie I asked for. He is trying to appear a good, honest follower of Sigmar. Who is he really? Is he this moment betraying me?
He did not go to The Hog's Head. Instead he walked past the pool of lamplight from the tavern's door and waited at the far end of Marienstrasse under a lockmaker's sign. The last light of day ebbed from the western sky, and the last traders closed their shutters. Karl closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting his other senses and instincts take over, to tell him about the city's energy this evening.
The clack of people's heels on the cobbles grew fewer, either hurrying away to get home before one of the city's famous fogs blew up the river, or heading more slowly to the temples, guild houses, taverns and banqueting halls that made up the city's nightlife. For those who disliked the bustle, brassiness and prices of the Street of a Hundred Taverns, The Hog's Head was a cheaper alternative that offered the same watered beer and the same chance of getting knifed or having your purse cut, but without the crowds. It attracted a clientele who knew what they liked, and mostly they liked discretion. Its booths were deep and dark, and sound travelled badly through the thick pine partitions.
Karl could smell the dark beer and pork-and-cabbage stew, the occasional note of tobacco, the low hum of conversation. He ignored it, stretching his senses to take in the buildings around. What of them? Fanned leather from the saddlemaker in the next street, oil and metal from the knife-sharpener, the smoke of coal fires, the aroma of twenty different suppers: potatoes, mutton, a pottage of roots. Not many spices used in this part of town.
There was something sharper on the wind. It smelled like lime and tasted like metal. The very air felt coarse. Karl breathed slow and careful, not moving, letting it fill him. Colours flickered behind his eyelids: reds, oranges and blacks. His ears sensed conversations from every direction, unable to make out words but gleaning the tone that underlay every one. Expectation. Anxiety. Tension. The city was waiting for something to happen, something explosive. He did not know what, and he felt that nobody else did either. No, someone in the city must know, must even be planning it. It was his job to find them.
He opened his eyes and Oswald was there at the far end of the street, walking towards the door of The Hog's Head. Karl slipped the lenses out of his pocket and put them on, then stepped out of the shadows. Oswald noticed the movement and changed his direction. Karl tipped his head towards the tavern entrance, but Oswald kept coming. Idiot. It would be better if they entered separately, less dangerous for both of them. They were twenty yards apart.
'I found him,' Oswald said. Anyone could have heard him.
'Well met,' Karl said loudly, quickening his step. 'To the tavern.'
'You'll never guess,' Oswald said. Karl grabbed his arm, pulling him around. He didn't think anyone was watching but this was Altdorf and you could never tell.
'Shh,' he said, but Oswald's news would not wait.
'Your Herr Stahl's a bloody witch hunter,' he said.

THEY WERE IN the tavern. Oswald had a cup of cheap sweet wine, and Karl had a pint of dark beer. Its taste reminded him of the Untersuchung.
'Keep your voice down,' he said for the third time.
Oswald nodded an absent-minded acknowledgement. 'So the three of them are glowering down at me, their eyes demanding everything they're not saying, and it's all I can do not to bolt…'
'You didn't recognise any of them?' Karl asked. The lenses were pinching his nose, and he raised a hand to adjust them. They had drawn a couple of odd looks from the tavern's patrons, but nobody had mentioned anything. The Hog's Head was the kind of place where people who asked questions could end up with a new frown three inches below their usual one, cut through their windpipe. Besides, he didn't want Oswald to see his eyes.
'No, no,' Oswald said. 'But you know witch hunters, the uniform is enough to put the fear of Sigmar in you. But they take one look and identify it and suddenly they can't do enough for me, do I have any more questions, is there anything else I need, do I want to make an appointment for my master to see Lord Bethe himself.'
'Who's Lord Bethe?' Karl asked.
Oswald swirled the wine in the cup and swigged. 'You don't know? He's the Lord Protector. One of Johann Esmer's appointees after the death of Volkmar. One of the Senior Council of the Order of Sigmar. Your man Stahl is his secretary and advisor, except here they call him Brother Heilemann.' He paused. 'Is Lord Bethe involved as well, you think? If he is, you have some serious enemies.'
Karl drank, savouring the dark taste. 'I don't think he is,' he said. 'Stahl always acted as if he was in charge of something, not like a secretary. He may have superiors, but he's used to giving commands and making strategy. Not the actions of a lackey.'
'So how are you going to find Herr Stahl? Walk into the chapterhouse and ask for an appointment?' Oswald gestured to the pot-boy to bring the wine-jug for a refill. 'That'd be hazardous.'
'I'll do what I was taught to do,' Karl said. 'I'll wait.'
'You haven't struck me as the waiting kind,' Oswald said.
'And you, Brother Oswald, haven't struck me as the priestly kind,' Karl said.
Oswald's reaction was minute. A man who wasn't looking for it would have missed it. Karl was looking, and saw the tensing of the muscles around the eyes, and the way a natural hand-movement suddenly became deliberate and conscious.
'What do you mean?' the older man said. The nonchalance in his voice was, Karl thought, just a little too careful. This was a man who is practiced in deception, perhaps even trained. He waited until the pot-boy had recharged his friend's cup and gone back to the bar before speaking again.
'I mean many things,' he said. 'Secret missions to the World's Edge Mountains, knowing secret escape routes through town walls, these are hardly the business of an ordinary priest of Sigmar. And then this afternoon, the shop with no sign was no apothecary, was it? It deals with the students at the Colleges of Magic, selling them the ingredients and components for spells and research. These—' he patted his pocket '—are alchemist's glasses, aren't they? Yet you knew it was there, entered it without fear and addressed the owner as ''Praeparus''. Even he found that remarkable, coming from a priest.'
'What of it?' Oswald said. He hadn't touched his wine.
'Only that there's little love lost between the priesthood and the wielders of magic, since the elf Teclis revealed to men that the power of spells was derived from the winds of Chaos that blow across the world.'
Oswald tried a smile. It didn't work very well. 'Can we discuss this somewhere else?'
Karl shook his head. 'We're safe enough here. Very few words ever leave The Hog's Head.'
'But you know that priests cast spells.'
'Some spells, yes,' Karl said. 'But they do it through incantation and faith. I'm a priest's son, I know the magic of Sigmar and the other gods doesn't use component ingredients, so I'm curious that you're so familiar with magic shops. And that reminded me of the inn in Grissenwald, where you doused me with your own piss—'
'I'm sorry about that.'
'Don't be. You saved my life. But although I've seen my father use the same spell, you didn't cast it as a priest would.' He paused to let his eyes wander the room, checking for observers or listeners, but found none. He said, 'Brother Oswald, I believe I am not the only man at this table under a sentence of death.'
Oswald said nothing. The noise of the rest of the tavern was like a curtain around them, isolating them and granting them anonymity.
'I would hazard that Oswald isn't your real name, and you were never ordained,' Karl prompted. 'You've done a remarkable job of disappearing. I congratulate you. Which magical college were you apprenticed to?'
Oswald lowered his head, and his thin hair drooped around his face. Karl sat unmoving, watching, sensing he had said enough for now. Something fell to the table: a drop of moisture, then a second dropped into his ignored cup with the faintest of splashes. The excitement of entering the witch hunters' building had gone and Karl's words had pushed the old man one step too far the other way. Silently, Oswald was crying into his wine.
Karl waited for him to finish. It took a while. Finally Oswald dug a rag out of one of his sleeves and wiped his face dry and clean with it.
'I am sorry,' he said. The words sounded choked, and he took a mouthful of wine to clear his throat. 'I had— I mean, it's been… I had almost forgotten that Oswald was not the name my parents gave me. I have grown so accustomed to being a priest that I had almost forgotten I had been anything else.'
'Which college?' Karl asked again.
'Gold,' Oswald said. 'The lore of metal.'
'Hence your knowledge of alchemy,' Karl said.
'Yes. Well, no,' Oswald said. 'I was apprenticed to the University College of Nuln and studied battle-magic there until I was sixteen. My tutors thought enough of me to recommend me for a place here in Altdorf. They wanted me to specialise in theories of metallurgic magic, and it's true I had some skill in that area, but it didn't interest me.' He paused. Karl didn't say anything but watched and listened, letting the man tell his own story, looking for breaks, holes or things concealed. So far he hadn't spotted any.
'People - well, people who know of these things - think of golden magic as you do, the science of metals and alchemics, and it's true that dominates the college. But there is another side to it. Just as gold dominates the minds, desires, wills and fates of mankind, so gold magic can do the same, if it is properly channelled. This was what interested me. My tutors indulged me. I learned much. My power grew. But as it grew, I found myself falling victim to the same human failings I was studying - greed, arrogance, a desire for more power and more knowledge. None of these things are rare among wizards, and so they went unremarked. But before long I felt the other side of such things.
'I was serving with the army, as all acolytes of the Gold College are required to do. We were around Erlach, engaged against a force of Chaos warriors that had emerged from somewhere in the Wasteland, nobody knew where. They had a sorcerer with them, and as the battle raged he and I fought a private war, his magic against mine. It was my first encounter with Chaos in any form. As we pushed incantation and invocation at each other, I suddenly realised that we were using the same forces. And while my understanding of them had more breadth and depth, his was simply clearer. Magical ability came naturally to him, because magic is inherently a thing of Chaos.
'I had been taught this, of course, but I had only understood it rationally, not with my heart. This time, the first time I had seen Chaos magic used, it hit me like a club in the gut. Afterwards I lay in my tent to regain my strength and I was shaking with terror. I realised I had spent the last few years unknowingly embracing Chaos. Its patterns and its knowledge were in me, through the golden magic I had learned. I am not,' Oswald spread his hands wide, 'a strong man. I do not have the powers of self-possession that you do. It was not a question of whether I would fall the first time I felt the temptation of power, ego or gold. I had been tempted and I had fallen, and I was falling still. There was only one thing I could do to save myself from it. I fled that evening.'
'How long ago was that?' Karl asked.
'Twenty-five years. Twenty-six this summer,' Oswald said. 'But the warrants for renegade magicians never lapse.'
'Memories fade faster than papers,' Karl said. 'There will be few who remember you, and fewer who would recognise you now.'
Oswald shook his head. 'These are wizards. Their minds are trained to remember. But you are right: I felt safe entering the Grand Theogonist's palace and the witch hunters' chapter-house because I knew there would be none there who remembered me. You were right about one thing though,' he said, and signalled the pot-boy to bring more wine. 'I never was ordained. I follow Sigmar and praise him in my heart, but I am not his priest. Not in the eyes of the church.'
'Neither is Luthor Huss,' Karl said, 'and he's about to meet Sigmar.'

OSWALD SNORED ALL night. As dawn light crept through the window of their attic room, Karl picked up a bundle of loose clothes he had laid out the night before, glanced at his sword but left it where it lay, and noiselessly left the room, heading out into the still-empty streets of the Empire's capital. He needed to find a place to observe the entrance to the witch hunters' chapter-house where he could wait a while - all day if necessary - without being seen.
The Altdorf chapter-house stood to one side of the cathedral square at the centre of the city, the simplicity and cleanliness of its stark white architecture in contrast to the spiked granite grandeur of the Cathedral of Sigmar that it overlooked. From the front it did not appear much larger than some of the courts, Imperial offices and regimental headquarters that shared the frontage of the square, but it stretched far back, its rear stretching into two wings in a T-shape like the warhammer of the god whose name it bore.
Its main entrance gave onto Hauptstrasse, one of the streets that radiated away from the square to span the city like the spokes of a wheel. At one side a much smaller doorway was set in the wall of a narrower street to one side, and an alleyway around the back of the building led, via a brick passage, to the servants' entrance. The trick, Karl thought, would be to find a place where he could observe the comings and goings through the main entrance, and ideally the end of the side street too, and yet not be spotted doing so.
He ran through options: hire a room in a house overlooking the entrance; buy a street-trader or costermonger's barrow and make his pitch nearby; organise a system of shifts between himself and Oswald, each using the time they were not on duty to don a new disguise; pay street-urchins to do the watching for him. He rejected them all for taking too long, costing too much, being unreliable or too risky. It was an old truism, but the best place to hide was often in plain sight.
He slipped down the side street and into the deserted alley of the servants' entrance, where he slipped off his jerkin and exchanged it for one he had bought for a few coppers yesterday, ragged and dirty His trousers were still muddy from the road. A leather cap kept his unruly hair under control. His boots were military, but there was no time to do anything about that.
He bundled the clothes into his pack and limped out of the alley a changed man: older, hunched, weaker and more nervous, wearing the silvered glasses that he had bought yesterday. One of his throwing-knives was tucked unobtrusively in the sleeve of his left arm. He made his way slowly down the street, to a place about twenty yards beyond its entrance. From here he could see the street and the doorway. He laid down his pack, sat on it, and spread a red handkerchief on the ground.
'Alms!' he cried to the few passers-by. His voice was cracked, with the trace of a western accent. 'Alms for a soldier blinded fighting for the Empire!'
He sat there all day, and made eight shillings. The first hour was quite interesting, watching Altdorf as the city woke up and stretched, coming alive for the new day. The next two were boring. After that the waiting became contemplative, meditative, and the interruptions - insults from citizens, threats from other beggars claiming he was on their pitch, the rare tinkle of coppers dropped onto his kerchief - as regular, temporary and ignorable as waves breaking over rocks. He sat and thought.
His night had not been restful. Oswald's snoring had distracted his thoughts, and under its bandage his damned mouth had gnashed and gnawed against its gag, as if it had something urgent to say. The ash was almost bitten through and he would need to find a replacement soon. Perhaps iron. It could try gnawing its way through that. Perhaps it would break its teeth. He had no interest in anything it might have to tell him.
So Oswald was a former wizard of the Golden College, afraid of his own powers, and a wanted criminal. Coming to Altdorf made him a doubly brave man, or possibly foolhardy. Karl thought back to his days on the crusade, and his worries about letting his safety depend on anyone with a death-wish or on a quest for martyrdom. More importantly, were his motives as clear as he made them out? Was it possible he was working for anyone apart from himself or Luthor Huss? Perhaps even the Purple Hand. He had seemed to be well informed about them, and a former wizard had no business knowing the workings of Chaos cults.
Witch hunters came and went. A few of them looked familiar. At around ten in the morning he saw Brother Karin come down Hauptstrasse and enter the building, the silver buckles on her uniform glittering with the day's clear sunlight. The last time he had seen her, the fires of a burning army camp had been reflected in her eyes. She did not even notice him, but went straight in. He could sense she had changed, but her strength of character was not just undimmed, but unleashed. No more reflected glory for her. If he was to survive and bring her to justice - whether Imperial or Sigmar's own - it was crucial that he always stayed one jump ahead of her and her witch hunters.
Morning slipped into midday, and midday stretched into afternoon. A sausage-vendor came past and Karl sacrificed two of the shillings on his cloth in exchange for a schnitzel wrapped in a piece of thick bread. Every so often he took a bite at it and chewed thoughtfully. Passers-by seemed to object to seeing a beggar eat, and for a while the coppers stopped dropping.
The question, he asked himself, was what Huss was going to do if he located Sigmar. A lot depended on whether the reborn god was a child or a man. Would Huss want to use him as a weapon against the organised church, or against the forces of Chaos in the north? If the latter, how could he convince the Emperor and the Grand Theogonist to take him seriously?
In fact, Karl thought, it would be enough if Huss announced that he had found Sigmar. The nature of godhood was unprovable, and Huss's word would be enough to convince most people. Not that Huss would knowingly commit a fraud of that kind against the people of the Empire and the Church of Sigmar… would he? No, surely not. But for the first time Karl understood why Huss had led the crusade on his peripatetic route across the Empire: the people of the villages, market towns and river-ports had seen him, heard him preach, felt they knew him. If it was a choice between his word and that of the remote, distant and disliked Grand Theogonist, who never left his palace in Altdorf and who had already raised the tithes this year, Huss would find the support and believers he needed.
While the Convocation of Light went on, the logical thing to do would be to bring Sigmar to Altdorf and present him to the Emperor. But Huss was an excommunicant and a criminal, and his associates were damned by association: the appearance of thirty Templars was evidence that the Empire wanted to erase Huss and the threat he posed. The chances of the church and the army letting Huss and his putative Sigmar within five miles of Altdorf were low, let alone granting him an audience with the Emperor. And if those weren't enemies enough, Karl feared the attention of the witch hunters and the corruption he knew lay at their heart. He did not trust the Cloaked Brothers. And the mention of the Purple Hand worried him. He had not seen much trace of their work, but they were like cockroaches: if you see one, his mother used to tell him, you know there are twenty more.
Afternoon dissolved into early evening. Perhaps, Karl thought, his logic had been wrong or Oswald had been misled, and Herr Stahl was not associated with the person who signed and sealed the warrant of arrest after all. How close had the handwriting been? He would wait until seven bells, and then admit the day had been wasted. He was hungry: one sausage all day had not been enough, and his stomach was growling. His legs hurt and his throat was sore from the repetition of his beseechings. Begging was surprisingly hard work.
Then Herr Stahl stepped out of the chapter-house, wearing the robes of a priest of Sigmar. Karl almost started forward. With one eye he noted the insignia sewed over the man's breast, denoting that he was attached to the Order of Sigmar as a cleric and official. So not actually a witch hunter, then. Oswald had been wrong. On the other hand Brother Karin had been in the same role when Karl had first met her; Stahl could still be senior within the Order, or have considerable influence with what appeared to be a minor rank. With another part of his brain Karl registered that he had not seen the man enter the building, only leave. Either he had spent the night in there or there was another, hidden entrance. Neither boded well. But mostly it was a sweep of emotion, too many to analyse, that Stahl was actually here.
Stahl looked both ways down the street, for a second he stared at Karl but looked away without blinking, the effortless gaze of a man assured in his superiority. He turned and walked into the cathedral square, moving north towards the river. Karl scooped up his handkerchief, threw the remains of his sausage to a stray dog that had been hanging about the street since mid-afternoon, swung his pack onto his shoulder and followed.
Chapter Ten
SOMETHING GOING ON



KARL FOLLOWED THE man he knew as Herr Stahl through the twilight streets. Storekeepers were shuttering their shop-fronts, merchants made their way home from the north of the city, socialites left their houses or lodgings to head out to parties, dinners, the city's social round. Beggars mostly stayed where they were, slumped in doorways and alleys.
They crossed the Reik over the Altbrug. Traffic on the river was light but the water seemed sluggish and heavy, roiling and choking downstream towards the sea, cluttered with silt and flotsam. Karl cast an eye upstream, wondering if he might see the Eider moored somewhere, but it was an idle chance. He had thought about searching the waterfront for the vessel but Altdorf's docks were simply too large to make the job feasible. Ahead of him, Stahl did not look right or left, but kept on down the wide street, heading towards the north gate. As he walked he pulled a thin cloak from under his robes and unfurled it around his shoulders. The priest of Sigmar disappeared into anonymity, becoming just another figure on the street.
They were headed for the Konigplatz, Karl realised. By this time the daily market would be packed up, the barrows and trestles stacked in neat piles and the traders and pedlars long gone, but the square's other function would still be in full effect: the place where the coach-lines from all over the northern Empire dropped their passengers and picked up new ones. So was Stahl leaving or was someone arriving?
Karl hung back, keeping Stahl in view but not so close that the man would be able to guess he was being followed. He glanced around the street on the offchance that someone else was tailing Stahl, or possibly tailing him, but the evening crowds gave nobody away. He felt reasonably confident.
Stahl entered the square and walked quickly across towards the north side. Karl watched him with a sinking heart as he headed towards the scaffolded front of The Black Goat inn. Twice earlier in the day he had noted men in the white and red colours of his old regiment walk past. If soldiers from the Reikland Pikes were in the city then their officers would be too: officers who would be staying at The Black Goat and who would recognise Karl on sight, disguise or no disguise. He dropped a few more yards further behind his quarry.
Stahl didn't go into the inn, but walked a few yards beyond it, to where one of the coaches of the Wolf Runner line was parked. It had fresh horses in the traces and looked ready to leave. A crowd of people stood around, carrying luggage and trunks, saying goodbyes, taking their places on board, leaning on the wall, watching. Stahl turned to face the throng and with a slow, deliberate movement raised his right hand to tug on his left ear.
A tall man who Karl had not noticed detached himself from the throng, walking towards Stahl as he ran his left hand backwards through his hair, pulling its dark strands out of shape. He looked nondescript: there was nothing in his dress or appearance to draw attention to himself. A very professional job. Karl was reminded why he had been impressed with Stahl's organisation in the first place.
Stahl and the stranger shook hands and exchanged greetings and pleasantries. The new man's accent was curiously nondescript: he could have been from anywhere in the Empire, as long as the upper classes were there. They walked away to the east, into the mercantile district.
Karl kept an eye on them as he walked swiftly over to the boy holding the reins of the lead horse. 'Where's this coach going?' he asked.
'Middenheim.'
'Is that where it's come from?' The boy nodded.
Middenheim, the fortress city on the rock, the place that the northern god Ulric chose for his followers to build their stronghold. More than four hundred miles north of Altdorf, Middenheim was said to be impregnable, proof against any siege - and right in the path of Archaon's route south. Karl made a note in the margin of his memory, tipped the boy a few coppers and walked on after Stahl.
The two men seemed deep in a discreet conversation, their voices low and dropping lower whenever they passed someone. Karl strained his senses, focusing his hearing on them, blanking out all distractions. They were talking about people, he realised. Probably catching up on news and acquaintances, though he could hear there was a note of seriousness, almost anxiety, to their tone.
Deep in the mercantile district the two men turned into a cul-de-sac in between the high houses. At the end of the narrow street was a dilapidated temple, its white frontage peeling and discoloured by green and black lichens. The wooden doors were weather-beaten and iron bars had been fastened across. Long streaks of rust ran down from them like stalactites. Distinguishing marks had been removed, along with much of the lead from the roof, but from the wavelike crests across the door-pillars and the scallop-shell patterns Karl guessed it had been dedicated to Manaan, god of the sea and sailors. A strange thing to find in the middle of Altdorf. Perhaps the cult had thought there would be purpose and profit in building a temple to a god much invoked by the traders of the Reik in a prosperous merchant area like this. If so, they had been wrong. Altdorf had never been a comfortable home to foreigners, or their gods.
Stahl and his companion walked up the short flight of steps to the door, and knocked. Karl hung back at the entrance to the street: another man entering the road now could only be heading to the same place and would be hailed, even if Stahl did not recognise him at once. But he watched and listened, focusing all his attention on the end of the street.
The door opened a crack. Stahl paused a second and said something. Karl closed his eyes, trying to give their strength to his ears, to catch the password. He failed. It had sounded foreign, with too many syllables. He watched, frustrated, as the door opened, the two men entered and it closed firmly behind them.
Perhaps he could knock on the door and stab the guard in the eye before he could raise the alarm, the man's blood spilling…. Karl fought the thought down. He could recognise its source; it felt as though it had been tinged in red. It had not come from his own mind. Beneath its bandage, under its gag, his second mouth writhed, possibly in pain or in joy. He remembered that he had received the wound it had grown from in a place not unlike this, in the port-city of Marienburg, and he had almost drowned. Manaan was no friend of his.
What kind of people would choose such an abandoned temple as a meeting-place?
The mouth gnashed.
'Take word to Altdorf,' it had said, back in the woods after Grunburg.
With a feeling like nausea, like physical sickness, Karl realised he knew what it had meant, who Herr Stahl was working for, and how to give the password.
He walked down the cul-de-sac, his feet echoing on damp flagstones. The steps were loose, the limestone pitted by years of rain and the piss of vagrants. He knocked hard, thumping his hand into the iron bars across the door. Each blow hurt, and he took satisfaction in the pain.
The door opened, and in the slow instants as the dark crack widened Karl knew he was damned, utterly and irrevocably. His mind was still his own but his soul belonged to Chaos. The fact he was prepared to do this proved it.
A figure stood inside the door, unmoving. It said nothing.
Karl untied the bandage around his neck, and snapped the leather thongs of the gag with his hands, dragging it away from him. He stood still and silent, filled with sorrow and the agony of his unholiness, waiting.
'Njawrr'thakh 'Lzimbarr Tzeentch!' the mouth said.
'Enter, friend,' the doorman said.

THE INTERIOR OF the temple was dark, lit by a few small oil lamps set in small alcoves on the walls. There were around forty people inside, standing in between the double row of dust-covered pews, facing the steps up to the apse where the altar had once been. They were either silent or talking in low, cautious whispers, their feet making hollow shuffling sounds on the tiled floor. Many wore hoods, but there was not enough light to show their faces. Karl sensed no trace that he knew any of them. Fabric had been hung over the windows to hide the light from eyes outside.
By the altar-place, in front of a rough cloth-covered table with a wide, shallow golden bowl and two candles on it, Stahl and his visitor stood, looking back at the crowd. Karl was reminded not of priests but of politicians before a council meeting, or officers about to brief their troops. He stepped back, into the shadows of the rear wall, slipping the gag back into his second mouth, and ducked his head so he was less visible.
Someone was there already. He sensed them rather than saw them. The other person nodded their head, and Karl acknowledged the gesture, hoping they wouldn't speak to him.
'Have you come far?' they asked and Karl was surprised to hear a woman's voice. Her Reikland accent was soft and familiar, and for a moment he thought: Marie. It wasn't her. Pretty enough, almost attractive, dark hair in soft curls falling down to her shoulders, but not Marie. He looked away, watching the room, and said nothing. He could feel her eyes still on him. The silence between them was awkward. Karl began to think about how he was going to get out of here. If only he had not left his sword behind in his room.
Up at the table, Stahl raised a small bell and rang it with a high, tinkling sound that cut through the conversations. Silence fell. He stood for a moment, his gaze sweeping the room.
'Brothers and sisters,' he said. 'I thank you in the name of all the rites and transmutations for your pains in coming here. I am sure your journeys have been dangerous, and there is greater danger in having so many of the primarchs of our organisation in one place at one time. This will be the first and last meeting of this kind. From now on, you know your meeting-places and contacts, and you must not breach them.'
The gathering murmured its agreement. Stahl stepped back and the newcomer from Middenheim took his place. For the first time Karl was able to get a good look at him. He was in his mid-forties, just shy of six feet, with brown curly hair tending to silver at the temples. He was watching the people in front of him with an expression that Karl could not place, but looked uncomfortably like appetite. Without a word he reached down to the table in front of him, picked up a knife and, holding up his other hand, slowly sliced a line across its palm.
He clenched his fist for a long second and opened the hand again, raising it, fingers slightly splayed. Blood covered it.
A blood-purple hand, like the one Karl had seen beside the corpse in Nuln. Fresh blood ran freely from the cut and trickled from his wrist into the golden bowl in front of him.
'At the appointed time we shall rise from our secret places,' he said.
'At the appointed time we shall rise from our secret places,' the cultists responded. The words were unfamiliar but had the rhythm and cadence of a creed. Karl heard the voice of the woman beside him, intoning the words as if she was breathing them, as if they were as vital to her life as breath. He didn't know them and so he kept quiet.
'Chaos will cover the land and we, the chosen servants of Chaos, shall be exalted in His eyes.'
'Chaos will cover the land and we, the chosen servants of Chaos, shall be exalted in His eyes.' The woman glanced up at Karl, her eyes questioning his silence. He thought for a moment about removing the gag from his second mouth but it had given him away to the forces of Chaos once before, and he would not make that mistake again. Instead he pointed to his mouth, which could have meant anything, but the woman seemed to take it as an excuse and turned away, focusing her attention to the man leading the - the chant… the prayer… the oath… the spell?
'Hail to Tzeentch, Changer of the Ways.'
'Hail to Tzeentch, Changer of the Ways.'
'Njawrr'thakh 'Lzimbarr Tzeentch!'
'Njaivrr'thakh 'Lzimbarr Tzeentch!'
'Brothers,' he said, 'and sisters. It is a great day, but greater ones are at hand. We are here with two purposes: to do what we can to affect the outcome of the Convocation of Light, and to arrange our own, a meeting that our enemies are calling the Convocation of Darkness.'
His hand was still outstretched. Blood continued to fall from his wrist into the bowl.
'Despite what you all may think, the first purpose is subservient to the second. The alliance we are here to forge must be strong enough to survive the year ahead, though it will be pulled in other directions by the other powers of Chaos.
'I know that dealing with our Chaotic kin is an unpleasant prospect, but we must bond with these people because together the clans of Chaos are stronger. Also because we know that in matters of treaties, negotiations, alliances and planning we are stronger than they are, and therefore we will lead them, whether they know they are led or not.
'The same truth holds for our brethren in Tzeentch. I know that in tavern rooms and cellars, hidden chapels and dark alleys across this city, every cult leader is saying these same words to a roomful of the faithful, but in our case I know it to be true. We are the Purple Hand.' He thrust his outstretched hand forward, and droplets of blood splashed across the bare wood floor. 'We are the Purple Hand, and we have already infiltrated their numbers. We know their plans and we have already thwarted them.
'There is one hornet in the ointment, and it still has its sting. I learned on my journey that the followers of Khorne are not with us. It is not because they do not believe the reborn Sigmar is a threat. They do. They believe him to be the finest warrior the Empire has produced in two millennia, and they wish to see his forces clash against Archaon's. Blood—' he paused and looked around the room, '—for the Blood God, and hell for the rest of us.
'This is why some of our number are not here. I have charged them with a greater task, to thwart those whose heads would be best used as part of their lord's skull throne. Luthor Huss has found the one he calls the reborn Sigmar, and is leading him to Altdorf. We know our lord Tzeentch has planned these times for millennia, and though his plans are not made clear to us, we know that history must take a certain course, and we must steer it along that course. And we will do it as we do best: by persuasion, deviation and assignation. We know our target, and we will convince him that our path is the one he must follow.
'So we will do this. The history of the Purple Hand is long and hidden in shadow, but we know it and we take strength from it. The followers of Tzeentch shall lead the Convocation of Darkness, and the Purple Hand shall lead the Tzeentchians, and when the last warrior of Archaon and the last warrior of Sigmar have choked their life-blood out on each other's swords, our master has foretold that we are the ones who shall rise to glory and control this Empire in the name of The Lord of Change.
'Go now, my children. There is much to do, and little time. You know your roles, your duties, and the will of our Lord. Our day is coming. Hail to Tzeentch, Changer of the Ways!'
'Hail to Tzeentch!' the congregated answered. The speaker stepped back. Stahl passed him a cloth, and he wrapped it around his hand. There was a sense of something being completed, a change of mood and a transition between two stages. Karl knew he was at risk. The only people who might recognise him here would know him for an enemy, but he needed information. Karl turned to the woman beside him.
'Who is that?' he asked.
She turned, looking puzzled. 'What, Herr Heilemann?'
Karl affected amusement. 'No, beside him.'
'That's Herr Doktor Kunstler,' she said, and there was reverence in her voice.
Kunstler. The name meant nothing to him, but he knew people who would recognise it. 'So that's what he looks like,' Karl said and looked away, up towards the front of the temple. People were beginning to move forward, down the aisle towards the table, the two men who stood there, and the blood-filled bowl before them. Karl watched.
'I thought you couldn't speak,' she said.
'The gifts of Tzeentch work in ways puzzling to us who are only mortal,' he said, and felt the mouth on his neck twist in a leer. She smiled.
'Can you speak now?'
'When the gift allows me. I am Karl.'
'Emilie Trautmann.' Her smile widened, and it was pleasant to be smiled at in that way. 'We should move forward,' she said, and did, and he followed hesitantly. Others were lining up before the table. If he got too close Stahl would recognise him. Maybe if he kept his hood up, he would not be recognised. A prudent man would leave now, he thought, but there was more he needed to know, and he felt Emilie could tell him. Besides, he was enjoying her company. And if the trap was sprung then he would go down fighting.
'Where are you from?' Emilie asked.
'Nuln.'
'You travelled with Herr Heilemann?'
'No, I came overland.' So Heilemann was Stahl's real name, or at least his name within the cult. Karl paused, looking at her attractive face, deciding to try a long-shot. 'I had information for our agents in Luthor Huss's crusade,' he said.
She laughed out loud, and the sound was joyful. Karl smiled. So the Purple Hand did have agents in the crusade. He wondered who they were.
'I heard Huss preach once,' she said. 'So perfect for our needs. Why are the men who think themselves their own masters the ones who are most easy to manipulate?'
'I don't know,' Karl said.
'Are you a negotiator or part of the greater plan?' she asked.
Karl shook his head. 'I prefer not to say.'
'The gift again, or are you afraid of infiltraters?' She smiled, and it was a beguiling smile. 'You are among friends here.'
He could feel it. He had expected to feel on a blade-edge of tension, ready to spring into combat or flight. Instead he felt a sense of empathy with these people and with this woman. They were, in a strange way, his kin, twisted by the same forces that had deformed his body and wrecked his life. There was a common bond… but he recognised a red tinge to the thought and tensed his muscles, pushing it physically away. That way lay a deeper damnation. He was the outsider here, and still in danger.
He looked up, ahead, down the aisle. Without realising it they had drawn close to the table, and he suddenly saw what was going on. As each person reached the front they bent to the golden bowl that had caught Kunstler's blood, put their lips into the dark liquid, and drank.
He was filled with horror and revulsion, and fought not to show it. Once before Chaos cultists had forced him to drink human blood against his will, but then he had not known what it was. This time the thought terrified him.
The mouth on his neck thrashed violently, and he grabbed it with his hand to subdue it, to make it less obvious. It occurred to him that Tzeentchians, who worshipped The Lord of Change, would not be concerned by mutations among their members, but he still fought to hide his deformity. Then he felt a wrenching pain in the pit of his stomach, and recognised it. The mouth had sensed the blood, and was demanding to be fed.
'Are you all right?' Emilie asked.
He tried to nod, but a second wave of pain hit him and he flinched with his whole body. Space in the line opened in front of him and he took a hesitant step forward. There were only a few people between him and the place at the bowl. Stahl - no, Heilemann - was looking at him strangely.
A fresh surge of pain swept from his stomach. He gasped and grabbed Emilie's shoulder for support. The man in front of him in the line noticed what was happening and stepped aside, making way for him. The person at the bowl stood up and moved away. There was nothing between him and it.
Beyond the table, Heilemann and Kunstler were staring at him. He raised his head and met the eyes of the man he had followed from Nuln. Heilemann's hand went to the hilt of a knife at his belt, but stopped. He cocked his head an inch sideways as if to say: you came this far. Now prove yourself.
Karl stepped forward, and as another agony cramped his stomach, slumped to his knees in front of the golden bowl. He had a terrible urge to hurl the thing and its vile contents to the far wall of the temple. He resisted.
He bowed his head and lowered his lips to the surface of the thick blood. It smelled like death, the warm odour cloying in his nostrils. His lips touched it, and he paused a moment, then dipped his tongue into the blood.
It tasted salt-sweet and rich. It was the most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted.
He raised his head, and more pain staggered him, almost knocking him sideways. Heilemann was still watching him. What now? He'd drunk the foul stuff, wasn't that enough?
His second mouth gnashed against its gag again, and he knew what he had missed. He wrenched the cloth and wood from it, put his fingers into the bowl, and thrust them into the mutated orifice. It sucked on them greedily, like a baby at the nipple, and he felt the pain ebb away. Slowly his body filled with a strange warmth; a sense of power, mental acuity, sensory acuteness, energy and virility. He felt revitalised, fitter than he had done in months. He felt complete, but it was a wrong completeness, a feeling of possession. It was tempting. Part of him wanted more of it. A lot more.
He rose to his feet and stepped away from the table, aware of Heilemann's eyes on him. Behind him, Emilie dipped her face into the bowl and drank.

SHE, JOINED HIM a few moments later. He had not turned to look back at Heilemann.
'Are you all right now?' she asked.
'Better than all right,' he said. 'Emilie, a moment ago you asked me a question. I would like a chance to answer it, but at greater length. Not here.'
'I would like to hear your answer,' she said, and paused. 'I admire your discretion. Perhaps our parts in the scheme are complementary, and perhaps we can work together. More closely.'
He had to admit, it was an attractive offer and she was an attractive woman. He glanced over her shoulder, to see the last of the cultists rise from the table. Someone stepped in from the side to remove the bowl and cloth. Heilemann was still observing him, but as Karl watched he turned and spoke to Kunstler. Karl could guess what the topic of conversation was.
'I would welcome the chance to talk further,' he said, 'and to learn how you do things in Middenheim. I have some business to attend to in the next hour, but later…?'
Heilemann was coming over, making his way through the cultists around the table, stopping here and there for a word but unmistakably heading for where they stood.
Emilie smiled up at him. 'It is a dark night, and I am a girl from the north, unfamiliar with these dangerous city streets. A gentleman would walk me to my inn before he set out on his other affairs.'
Heilemann was drawing closer. 'Then we should go,' Karl said, 'and if we meet a gentleman on the way, I will pass you over to him.'
She gave a chuckle like wine gurgling from a bottle and took his arm. Karl walked her briskly towards the exit and the bearded fellow who guarded it. He swung the door open and they stepped into the cold of the night, leaving Heilemann and the cultists behind them.
Immediately Karl could feel something. It wasn't that he could sense movement, or see a presence among the shadows of the cul-de-sac. It was a combination of his heightened senses, like smelling or tasting at a distance. It set his teeth on edge. He could not describe it or explain it, but he recognised it. Someone he knew was nearby, watching him.
He wanted to do something about it, but now was not the time. He walked on, Emilie at his side, out onto the main street.
'Which inn are you staying at?' he asked. She looked up at him. It was a deliberately artificial move, done to accentuate the way her dark hair framed her face, the darkness of her eyes, the curve of her neck and the swell of her decolletage.
'The Black Goat,' she said, and Karl's heart, which had risen a few moments before, sank.
'It is not far,' she said, 'and their wines are excellent. Perhaps you can step in for a few minutes before your business?'
'It will not wait,' he said, 'but I hope that you will.'
She looked disappointed her lips in a half-moue, half-pout. 'A girl needs her sleep,' she said, 'but you may call on me up till eleven bells.'
'If my business overruns,' he said, 'then I will make my apologies and reparations on the morrow.'
'Do better than that,' she said. 'Make sure it does not overrun.' The walk back to The Black Goat passed easily, peppered with small-talk and coquettish hints of what might come later. When they arrived outside the building, she squeezed his hand for a second before heading slowly to the inn door. She pushed it open and turned to look back at him, her face catching the lamplight from inside, the reflection in her eyes promising much.
Karl watched the door close behind her, shook his head and walked away from the inn, heading back into the merchants' quarter and breaking into a jog as soon as he was out of sight of The Black Goat's windows. He had no intention of returning there that evening.
As he approached the cul-de-sac he slipped his silvered lenses into a pocket, took a cloth cap from his bundle of clothes and pulled it down low over his eyes. Then, choosing a doorway from which he could see the entrance to the narrow street, he slumped down over his bundle of clothes, looking like a sleeping vagrant, he watched the street through half-closed eyes, and waited.
People came out in small groups, walking away unobtrusively and disappearing into the Altdorf night. He guessed that none had brought a carriage, though a few had probably left one at a nearby inn. Faces were carefully hidden, and nobody carried a torch. He hoped the night-watch did not come past and move him along.
After twenty minutes the occasional flow trickled off and ceased, and he guessed the last had gone. He had not recognised Herr Heilemann or Herr Doktor Kunstler as they left, but had not expected to: if they had not been masters of concealment and disguise, they and their cult would have perished years ago. But there was still one person to come out. He lay quiet and waited.
It took almost half a hour before a lithe figure dressed in black slipped out of the shadows of the alley and began to walk towards the south, its strides short and slow, like a man who has been in a cramped position for several hours. Karl rose noiselessly to his feet and set off after him. The figure turned suddenly, a shortsword drawn, his mop of long curls whirling around his head.
'Good evening, Brother Dagobert,' Karl said. 'Did you learn much?'
The Cloaked Brother did not drop his guard. 'Magnusson,' he said, 'I recognised you as you came out.'
'And I you.'
'Have you spent an amusing evening with your new friends in the Purple Hand?'
'Old friends, some of them,' Karl said, 'but it has been instructive. I did not lie to you when I told you I was not a follower of Chaos, and that is still true. Do not fear me because I dared to go where you wouldn't.'
'Fools rush in,' Dagobert said, 'where sane men fear to tread.'
'Fools,' Karl said, 'or those with nothing to lose. You missed the excitement at the crusade.'
'Forewarned is forearmed,' Dagobert said. Karl sighed theatrically.
'Do you speak in nothing but poor aphorisms to hide information from me, or because without the other half of your double-act you cannot form sentences of your own?' he asked. Dagobert grinned, and lowered his sword.
'You missed the excitement too,' he said.
'What?'
'Shall we trade answers again?' Dagobert asked. Karl scowled and nodded, and the man's smile grew wider.
'Then I give you this for free: at Lachenbad Luthor Huss found a blacksmith's son named Valten and proclaimed that he is Sigmar reborn. They are now reunited with the main crusade and are making their way to Altdorf, where Huss intends to present his discovery to the Emperor.'
'And I give you this: the Purple Hand wishes him to succeed,' Karl said.
'They do?'
'They do. Their target is Sigmar's mind, not his life.' That much he had worked out from Kunstler's speech.
Dagobert hesitated. Then he said, 'Who did you recognise at the meeting?'
'Two people. The man I met in Nuln is known here as a witch hunter called Brother Heilemann. And Herr Doktor Kunstler is here from Middenheim.'
'Kunstler's here?' Dagobert seemed genuinely startled. Karl filed that information for future use. 'You've met him before?'
'No, my companion told me who he was.'
Dagobert stared at Karl. 'I must cut this game of questions short,' he said, and began to turn away. Karl caught his shoulder.
'One more,' he said. 'Tell me who in the Order of Sigmar is leading the search for me in Altdorf.'
'Brother Anders Holger,' Dagobert said. 'He reports to Brother Karin. A little too flexible in his thinking, Brother Holger. He blotted his copybook badly on a mission to Priestlicheim last year and has been kept in Altdorf ever since. But he's conscientious and diligent nonetheless. Do not underestimate him. Now I must go.'
'How can I contact you?' Karl asked. Dagobert turned back to face him, knocking his hand off his shoulder. There was anger in his face.
'Don't,' he said. 'You are in far over your head. Swim away now, or drown. It's taken you this long to work out your precious Herr Stahl was a Chaos cultist. We could have told you that outside Grunburg.'
'Why didn't you?'
'You didn't ask.'
Karl almost punched him. He almost felt Dagobert's nose disintegrate under his fist, almost slammed a second blow into his throat, almost knocked his sword-hand away while grasping for his belt-knife, almost plunged it between the third and fourth ribs, almost watched the heart-blood jet from the wound as the man choked his life out on the ground. But he didn't. He didn't move.
Dagobert sighed. 'Karl, I know you think the Cloaked Brothers are a group of do-nothing information gatherers as close to Chaos as they are to the forces of good. I tell you now: we gather information for a reason, and the coming crisis is just such a reason. We have amassed considerable forces, favours and abilities, and now we will use them. This has been building for decades, and will last for decades more. You can't begin to understand its complexities. Do not interfere, or it will go ill for you and your friends, and possibly for the Empire too.'
Karl said nothing, startled by the man's arrogance, yet accepting that there was truth in what he said. This was a struggle between power-blocks, fought on dozens of different fronts between hundreds of agents. But in such a war between entrenched forces, there had to be a role for a man who could travel between the different camps. He didn't know what that role was, but he intended to find it. He had come so far, he would not stand by while his enemies threatened the Empire.
'And,' Dagobert said, 'do not be fooled into thinking that the enemy of your enemy is your friend.'
'Sometimes,' Karl said, 'they're the only friends you have. And you would do well to remember that the friends of your friends may turn out to be enemies too.'
The Cloaked Brother smiled. 'I never forget it.'
'Good,' Karl said. 'Goodnight.' He turned and walked away towards the docks. Oswald would be waiting, and might have more information. He had learned too much this evening and another head would help him work it out.
He saw the world differently now. Before it had been like ants' nests or swarms of bees, each organisation or power-block unique, built of individuals with a common cause, discrete and identifiable. Now he realised that there were strands and connections between them, overlaps and intersections, areas of grey, areas of common interest, agents who could work for opposed factions at the same time, people whose goals changed with time, or who worked for other, even more shadowy causes. The deeper he looked, the more groups he found and the more interwoven and tangled the links between them became.



EVEN TWO STREETS away from Bremerdamm he could tell that something was wrong. The air felt heavy and still, as if it was pregnant with waiting and expectation. Something had happened, and the world was watching for something more. The sounds from the taverns were muted and people did not look at each other on the street, or looked too much.
He turned the corner and looked towards the street-door of the tenement house where he and Oswald had their room. On the other side of the street, someone leaned against the wall. He looked like a dock-worker. No, he looked too much like a dock-worker, more like a parody of a stevedore than a real one. Like someone who had been told to disguise themselves as a docker and stand watch. Stevedores didn't wear sabres on their belts either. Karl took three quiet steps backwards, turned and walked away.
Two corners away he found a tavern where he wasn't known, and bought a pint of dark beer and one for the barkeeper. He drank the first half and made small-talk: nobles, the Emperor, the state of business. Then he asked for a pickled cucumber, bit into it, and absent-mindedly asked what the disturbance in Bremerdamm had been about.
The bartender raised his eyebrows. 'Witch hunters,' he said.
'Catch anyone?' Karl asked.
'Not the one they wanted.'
'Who would that be?'
'Karl Hoche. The mutant soldier that killed the Lord Protector last year.'
He'd expected to hear his own name, but it still chilled him.
'Who?' he said.
The bar-tender reached under the counter and pulled out a piece of yellow paper, with bold blackface type on it. He passed it over. Karl nodded thanks that he didn't feel.
'So they didn't catch him?' he asked.
'No, but they got a wizard.'
Karl grunted an inquisitive response.
'Renegade from the colleges. Been with Luthor Huss, they said.'
Karl chewed the pickled vegetable and vinegar filled his mouth. So they had come for him, and had found Oswald. A subterfuge and a betrayal, or had some local been observant? He had known that Altdorf was dangerous for both of them but he'd still decided to play the bravo, swaggering into the face of danger, and now he'd lost the room, his sword, his equipment and money, and his advisor and friend. Rack on the crusade he'd dismissed Pabst because he had a death-wish, and now his own foolishness had condemned Oswald to a quick trial and the bone-fires.
The piece of paper was fresh-printed, one corner discoloured by a beer stain. It had his name on it, and a reward of three hundred crowns. Normally Karl would feel flattered by the increase in his value; now it just made him tired. The list of aliases had gained three names, including Magnusson, and the words ''Called by some the Chaos Hunter''. That was new, and he had no idea what it meant. Horse-thief had been appended to the list of crimes. At the bottom, in large type, a new line had been added: 'At night his eyes are seen to glow red like a daemon.'
How had they known that?
He swilled the rest of the beer around his mouth, thinking. He had too many enemies here, many of them powerful. Dagobert's advice from a few minutes earlier came back to him. He was fairly sure where that enemy of his enemy lay in terms of friendship, but at this moment he felt very lonely, very stupid, and very much in need of someone who would take away some of the ache he felt in his body and his mind, or at least help him forget them for a while.
He dropped the cucumber into the empty tankard, walked through the open door onto the street outside, checked a moment to see if he was being watched or followed, and walked away, northwards, back towards The Black Goat.

SHE WAS WAITING for him in the back bar, alone at a table, a jug of wine and two cups in front of her. The place was half-full but dark, lit by candles, and the others were obscured by the gloom and low conversation. Karl found himself reminded of the atmosphere in the abandoned temple of Manaan, and wondered how many of the people in the room had been at that meeting too. He glimpsed one Reikland dress uniform and carefully kept his back to the wearer as he moved across the room towards her. She smiled as he drew near.
'You came,' she said. 'How was your business?'
'Dirty and dishonourable,' he said, 'but done.'
'Profitable?' she asked, 'they say profits are without honour.'
'Informative.'
'But it's concluded for tonight?' she said and her eyes glinted, full of hope.
'For tonight,' he said. 'Now we should eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow is our diet of worms.'
She laughed and lifted the bottle to pour. He put a finger on its lip and pushed it back upright. 'Not here,' he said. 'Somewhere private, where we can talk.'
Her eyes caught his. They were not Marie's eyes. Marie's had been sloe-dark and deep enough to drown in; Emilie's were bright and alive with light; Marie's had been wide while Emilie's were rounder, long-lashed and heavy-lidded. They were not Marie's eyes, but he was no longer the man who had loved Marie. Emilie was not Marie, but she would do for tonight.
They went to her room, she leading up the inn's narrow staircase and down its long corridors, and he following, carrying the bottle and cups. She would pause and look back and they would exchange long glances, enjoying the slow burn of anticipation. They both knew where the evening would lead, Karl thought, and saw no point in rushing to the destination when the trip still had many pleasures to offer.
She took a candle from a sconce on the wall and pushed open a door. The room inside was warm and dark, the embers of a fire glowing in the grate. He put down the wine on a side-table just inside the door. The bed was a four-poster, the bolsters and mattress embroidered and rich, a mirror glinting on a dresser on the other side of the room. Then she was on him, her arms around him, and he held her and bent to meet her frantic kisses. It was meaningless, pointless, fruitless. It was wonderful. It reminded him of being human.
'Show me,' she whispered. 'Show me your gift.'
He tried not to freeze. He had already crossed boundaries to get to this point; what were one or two more? He needed information. He needed to unwind. She was a very beautiful woman. He reached up and unfastened his collar, untying the thongs of the gag and pulling it free. The mouth did not move or burble; it lay still. She gazed at it, dark eyes and red lips wide, then lifted herself on tiptoe and kissed it with hard passion.
He could feel her lips and tongue caress his mutation, and he wanted to be sick because it felt so good, so sensuous, so organic and so unnatural. He felt the thing's set of sharp teeth part and her tongue flick inside, darting against the tip of its tongue, feeling it respond of its own volition and instinct, pressing back against her mouth, its movements growing more urgent. Emilie moaned, deep in her throat. This vile perversion was not what he wanted. Revulsion overcame him and he pushed her away from him. She fell onto the bed and stared up at him, wiping her mouth. She did not look displeased.
'Easy there,' she said.
'My thoughts too. We have all night. Why hurry?' He crossed to the table with the wine and filled the cups. 'I want to get to know you,' he said.
'And I want to know you,' she said. 'What else has Tzeentch given to you? Tell me. Or show me.' There was a coquettish note to her voice. 'I want to see. I want to taste.'
'I have surprises,' passing her a cup of wine, 'but a conjuror saves his best tricks for last.'
Her eyes glittered. 'Oh good,' she said and drank deeply.
'So tell me,' he said. 'You came from Middenheim, but not with Herr Doktor Kunstler?'
She nodded. 'Not from Middenheim. The city's still too dangerous for him to go back even ten years on. He lives outside Jagerhausen these days. I've been working with him for the last year, making preparations for this.'
A year? Huss's mission to find the reborn Sigmar was less than four months old. How had the cults of Chaos known about the rebirth of the god for so long? But asking the question would expose his ignorance, and there were more important things he needed to learn. He sat in a chair in the shadows on the far side of the room and looked at the girl on the bed. She moved a hand over her cleavage suggestively.
'So you're here to advise him?' he asked.
'Too many questions,' she said.
'We could trade answers.'
She sighed. 'Are you afraid I'm an infiltrator for the Slaaneshi or one of the other cults? We can talk when we're too tired to do anything else.'
'For every answer I will show you a gift,' he said slowly. It was all he could think of, short of tying her up and beating information out of her, but he did not want to burn his cover yet, and there were too many unknowns: she might have magic, and there were almost certainly other cultists in the inn. They had all night, and she was a very attractive woman.
'Then I am not Kunstler's advisor,' she said. 'I'm not going to be in Altdorf for long. My place is with the crusade.'
'The crusade? Huss's crusade?'
She leered at him, licking her lips in a movement that was frankly lascivious, and he realised she was part of the group that Kunstler had described in the temple, whose purpose was to twist the mind of the man Huss had proclaimed as Sigmar, bringing him round to the ways of Chaos. He had assumed they would use drugs or sorcerous rituals to do it. Now he understood: they were using a man-trap of a different sort.
'Now show me,' she said.
He took off his silvered glasses, and to him the room was as bright as daylight. Her face was filled with awe and delight.
'What can you see with them?' she said. 'Wonders? Horrors?'
'I see everything,' he said, 'but slowly. When do you leave the city?'
'Tomorrow,' she said. 'So you see, there is little time to waste.'
'And Kunstler? He's staying here?'
'Are you always like this? Don't you ever relax?' she asked. 'Very well: he's not staying here, but he's in the city, with his friends at the College of Gold Magic. Now what do I get for that?'
He unbuttoned his shirt and pointed to the scar on his chest. 'I was shot here, a mortal wound, and did not die,' he said.
She leaned forward. 'I can't see it,' she said. 'Come here and let me see.'
Karl stood and crossed the room to stand beside the bed.
'Closer,' she said, and he sat beside her.
'Closer still,' she said, and he lay down. She reached out and touched the pucker of skin that marked where the crossbow bolt had hit him, caressing it with a fingertip, as if it was a nipple.
'And the power of Tzeentch saved you?' she asked.
'What do I get for my answer?' he asked.
She said nothing, but ran her finger up the lacing of her corset to the ribboned bow at the top, and slowly pulled its end. The knot slipped undone, and she began to unlace.
I lie here, Karl thought. I tell her a lie: that Tzeentch saved me. It is easy enough, and what she wants to hear. He watched her nimble fingers, remembering the temple in Grunburg, remembering the prayers of his father that had healed his wound. To lie about such a thing, denying a holy truth, struck as deep at his soul as the bolt had at his heart.
He lay back, thinking of his father, of Rhinehart's sudden entrance, of the way he had regained his strength, thrown the knife and leaped across the room, of what had followed. Of his father's face, witnessing his son's brutality. And suddenly, with a sensation like a punch in the stomach, he remembered what he had spoken in his thoughts. The action of a moment, a desperate man's willingness to do anything to protect his father. Almost a prayer. Too close to a prayer.
All the gods. All the powers. That was what he had called on, back there in the vestry of his father's temple. Everything in me, help me. Help me save my father.
Emilie had paused, her fingers still, the laces lying in long twists on the counterpane, the sides of her corset held closed by two remaining loops and its own weight against the pale skin of her curvaceous breasts beneath. She looked up at him, and in her eyes he saw the reflection of his curse glowing back at him like a predator, a great cat, a vile beast that does not know its own nature.
'Yes, the power of Tzeentch saved me,' he said.
She smiled. The laces slipped through the last eyelets, the corset fell away, and she stretched out her arms around him and led him to her gifts.

THE ROOM WAS still. They lay together, enjoying the pleasure of touch. How long had it been since he had been this close to another person, Karl wondered. There had been the beastman that had almost crushed him to death. Before that it had been months, maybe even years. No. Luthor Huss had held him, had carried him into Grunburg in his arms. But even that lacked the simplicity and pure pleasure of this moment.
He could not relax. His thoughts would not let him.
Was Chaos his master? Must he finally acknowledge that? Had he come so far, fighting off the mutation-inspired rages and fits, now to find the truth about himself in the arms of a woman? This, he thought, was not the time or the place for revelations or personal journeys of self-discovery. He would think about it later. For now, all that was important was Emilie.
It occurred to him that all she had needed to do to make him accept that he was a pawn of Chaos was to smile and unfasten her garments. Him, who had fought Chaos in his own mind for almost two years. Faced with that kind of persuasive power, Sigmar didn't stand a chance.
Something occurred to him. He leaned over Emilie's body to retrieve a cup of wine from the nightstand, and took a swig.
'Emilie?' he said. 'A question.'
'Another?' she asked. 'You think too much. What is it?'
'Was Herr Scharlach at the meeting last night?'
'Who?' She shifted her body under him.
'Herr Scharlach. From Nuln.'
'That's what I thought you said.' She stretched, reaching her arms around him, holding him tightly to her. No, only one arm was holding him. The other one had a knife at his throat. Her eyes were wild with anger, with the fury of a woman who realises she has been fooled. Too late he remembered that the Cloaked Brothers had told him Herr Scharlach did not exist.
'Who are you?' she hissed.
'Ask Herr Heilemann,' Karl said.
'I'm asking the questions this time, arsehole,' she said, and dug the knife in. 'Who are you?'
'Karl Hoche.'
'What are you doing here?'
He punched her in the side of the head. The knife skidded across his throat in a shallow cut. He clutched at it with one hand to staunch the blood, using the other to push her away as he rolled sideways, off the bed, falling to the floor in a squat. She launched herself after him but he was out of her range, springing to his feet. No weapon to hand.
He glanced at Emilie as she crouched, poised to jump on the mattress of the bed where they had been lying a few seconds ago, and then he kicked hard at the nearest post supporting the bed's heavy fabric canopy. Cheap pine splintered, the post broke and the top of the bed collapsed on her in a whomp of fabric and a cloud of dust. Karl threw himself on top of it, holding it down. She was not struggling underneath. After several moments he got up, brushing dust and plaster off himself. She still wasn't moving.
He shifted the wooden frame off her. It had knocked her out and she would have terrible bruises for the next few day, but apart from that he guessed none of the damage would be permanent. Muttering a grateful thanks to the builders who had made these old inns with such thick sound-deadening walls, he used her clothes and strips of sheets to tie her up and gag her, strapping her wrists to the remaining poles of the four-poster bed. He watched her as he dressed, but she did not come round. Then he made a cursory search of the room but found only a few clothes.
Part of him wanted to kill her. She was an agent of Chaos and she had seduced him, proved that she was stronger than he was. He had sworn to destroy all such things. But he did not kill her.
Part of him wanted to let her go. Intimacy, feelings, the comfort of being with someone who did not recoil with revulsion at his touch, these were rare things for him now. He did not know if he would ever feel them again. But he did not let her go. She was more useful alive than dead. She could be of help. If he could work out how.
His situation felt more desperate than it had in months. He was in great danger, at the heart of the capital, surrounded by Chaos cultists who knew his identity and wanted him dead, warrants for his arrest posted all over the city, playing cat-and-mouse games with witch hunters… His companion had been arrested a few hours ago and his first reaction had been to fall into bed with one of his enemies. He must be mad.
And he was endangering others too. Oswald was as good as dead. Huss and Sigmar were in peril, about to be assailed by the Purple Hand - and, if he guessed right, the forces of other cults as well, all trying to divert the flow of events in their favour, to shape the stream of history. His father - he could only guess as to his fate.
He could not do it all himself. He needed allies and friends. Or if not friends then at least enemies of his enemies.
At least now he knew where he stood and had some pieces of the puzzle he could barter with others. The ritual he had witnessed this evening, plus the information he had learned from her, Herr Doktor Kunstler and Dagobert of the Cloaked Brothers, the true identity of Herr Stahl: this was all information he could barter and trade, or use himself. He glanced down at the unconscious woman tied to the bed. And Emilie as well. She had a role in all this, but he did not know what.
For that matter, he did not know what his own role in this was to be.
He could not stay here. He would leave her here and find somewhere else to spend the night. He did not need to sleep, but he needed to think, to work through the next few days, to listen to drunken gossip and remind himself that he preferred the company of ordinary men, even if they would turn him over to the watch or the witch hunters if they knew who he was. He needed their presence, that edge of danger, to keep his mind sharp and focused. He had plans to make, and letters to write.

Chapter Eleven
CONTACT



Brother Karin,

For the last year I have done your job for you, hunting down the enemies of the Empire and bringing Sigmar's swift justice to them. You, it seems, have done little but pursued your vendetta against me. That was stupid. Understandable, given your hatred for me and your allegiance to Khorne, but stupid.
I have warned you about the forces of Chaos. I have warned you of the gathering clouds and the finding of things that should not be joined. I have warned you of the Convocation of Darkness. You have done nothing. That was particularly stupid.
I learn that the supporters of Khorne have withdrawn from the Convocation. I do not now if you had any part of that decision, but it was the wrong choice. You would have learned that your enemies in the cults of Tzeentch are planning something bigger than the Empire-ending battle you and your foul god foresee. They are the schemers, the designers and the architects, and if you do not act now then you will let them win.
I, a lone crusader, have stood against you for a year and I am still here to taunt you. What chance do you have against the Cult of the Purple Hand, whose members have infiltrated the Order of Sigmar even more successfully than you?
I do not expect you to heed my words, or to change the course of your misbegotten manhunt against me. But when your doom comes, at least you will know who is behind it, and that you were warned. I pray that there are men among the witch hunters with more sense and foresight than to stand idle against this threat.

Karl Hoche

Brother Karin reread the letter, then carefully refolded it. 'A trick,' she said. 'Another contemptible diversion, trying to conceal his own villainy and schemes through misdirection. A classic conjuror's trick, like those of the fellow we arrested last night. The letter was delivered by hand?'
'Shortly after three bells,' Holger said. While she had read through the letter in silence he had stood on the other side of the library table, looking down at her and trying unsuccessfully to read upside-down what had been written in it. She had summoned him early and he had not yet broken his fast, or even had a cup of water.
'He means us to think he is still in the city,' she said, 'and so he has left. Probably to rejoin his heretic friends in Huss's crusade.' She gave a short, barking laugh. 'They call it Sigmar's Crusade, you know. The peasants and the street-folk.'
'A few priests too.'
'Idiots,' she said. 'Gullible fools. That village yokel Valten is no more Sigmar than I am.'
Holger coughed. He had heard Brother Karin discourse on this subject before. It never took less than ten minutes, and he was hungry. 'So, brother,' he said, 'what should we do? Send the Templars back out to have him arrested?'
'No,' she said. 'The Grand Theogonist won't stand for another failure, and you know we can't touch the crusade now. With Hoche gone we couldn't arrest Huss because we had no evidence he knew his true identity. Now they're so close to the capital, the Emperor would disapprove of sending troops to massacre holy men at Altdorf's doorstep, particularly now with the need to form alliances and appear reasonable. Besides, the Grand Theogonist has no stomach for blood. He's weak. A man of compromise. Pathetic.'
'What then? A hit squad? I know some men, adept with bows and knives…'
Brother Karin spat eloquently. 'We do not do that,' she said. 'We leave sneaking and the subterfuge to our enemies. Those are not our ways, and never will be.' She placed her chin on her hand, in thought. It was a strangely masculine gesture. 'No word from the magician?' she asked.
'Not yet.'
'I suppose not. The first day of questioning is always slow, particularly with wizards. Go now. I have a meeting with the Lord Protector and the delegation from Talabheim, trying to raise a regiment from our numbers.' She sighed. 'Yet more of the repercussions of that bloody Convocation.'
Holger nodded a bow and left the room, striding down the corridor and the wide stone staircase at the end of it. She had not asked to destroy the letter, but surely that was just an oversight. She seemed distracted a lot of the time now. She had never shared any of the letters' contents with him, which seemed strange since he was supposed to be coordinating the search for Karl Hoche.
He thought, not for the first time, that she was taking this whole business far too personally. That was not the witch hunters' way. It was important to remain detached, uninvolved, impersonal. Many men broke down the first time they had to extract answers from an old woman, or burn a six-year-old, or arrest a relative or a friend. You learned quickly that personal feelings were a bad thing for a member of the Order of Sigmar. Personal feelings of any kind.
He turned left at the bottom of the stairs, heading towards the refectory, then paused and headed back across the hallway to the porter's desk. Perhaps there was word from Theo or Erwin, some update about Hoche or the crusade. He needed something to go on, or today would be another day of kicking his heels. Oswald Maurer was in the hands of the inquisitors now, and all he could do was wait to see if the man gave up any answers before he died, went mad or lost the ability to communicate.
Old Max, the porter, saw him coming and raised a hand in salute. Holger quickened his pace towards the man's table.
'A letter for me, Max?'
'Aye, sir. Brought by a boy in a cleft stick.' Max held out a folded piece of parchment, held closed with a blob of pale wax. Holger took it.
'A boy? What boy?' There was no mark in the wax. He tested it with his thumb and it gave slightly: candle-tallow, not sealing wax.
'I don't know him, sir. I know many of the messenger-boys from the inns, but in a city this size…' Max raised a hand, palm up, in a gesture of hopelessness.
Holger looked at the firm handwriting that formed his name on the front of the message, then turned it over, broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of cheap parchment.

Brother Anders,

In room 84 of The Black Goat Inn on the Konigplatz, you will find a woman gagged and bound. Treat her with care. Her name is Emilie Trautmann. She is a member of the Purple Hand cult of Tzeentch worshippers, and has been working with Herr Doctor Kunstler, who under another name caused a fuss in Middenheim some ten years ago. With the right persuasion she will tell you why she and her comrades are in Altdorf, and the devilry they are plotting.
In the old temple of Manaan off Kantsweg you will find evidence of a Tzeentchian rite performed last night, by Kunstler and others. At least one member of your Order was present. If you have contacts in the Cloaked Brothers, they will verify this.
I do not tell you this to earn your trust or to seek your favour, forgiveness or understanding. It is because you are better placed and equipped to deal with this threat than I am.

There was no signature.
Holger stared around the hallway, recognising two junior brothers of the Order. 'Siegfried! Amadeus! Come with me, now!' He ran from the chapter-house into the cathedral square, heading north towards the Konigplatz. Breakfast would wait.



THE RAIN DRIPPED from the brim of his hat as Holger stared across the gloomy square at the temple of Manann. Its doors were closed and the heavy iron chains that secured them were still rusted in place. Anything of value had been stripped away years ago. Only the city's drunks, lovers and vagrants came here now, and even they had stopped trying to get through the doors, preferring the steps and porch for their secretive activities. Yet something felt wrong.
The inn room had been a wreck. There had been a woman staying there, and clearly there had been a fight. Blood had been spilled. Someone had been tied up, and their bonds had been cut with a knife. According to Frau Kolner who owned The Black Goat, the girl, and two companions had left early that morning. She had been wearing a veil and limping. One bird had flown. So far he did not know whether the writer of the mysterious letter was telling the truth, spreading gossip against his enemies, or just another crank.
He moved closer, towards the steps. On the greyed stone he could see a scratch, the kind a boot-nail would leave. It meant nothing. The ground to either side of the steps was littered with the smashed remains of cheap earthenware bottles. Any drunk could have made this mark. Any drunk with a nail and an idle hand. Or wearing a good pair of shoes.
He climbed the steps and studied the doors. The heavy chain was crusted with years of rust, seemingly one circle of links, presumably sealed by a blacksmith when the temple was closed. The doors opened inward, assuming their hinges had not rusted shut completely. The old priests had certainly built the temple in the right place: the only wetter spot in Altdorf was in the Reik itself.
He touched the chain with his gloved hand and it moved a little. That was odd: the links looked like they were rusted together, and should not move like that. He grabbed hold of them, pulling them tight, inspecting them closely. Rust flaked off the metal. No, not rust: a dark red clay that dissolved into the rainwater on his gloves. Underneath the metal was still rusted, but glints of fresh wear showed through in places.
In a few seconds he had located the false link. Not broken, as he had guessed, but ingeniously crafted to spring open when twisted the right way. He pulled the chain free of the black iron handles, dropped it to the ground and stepped inside.
The interior was dark, smelling of dust, woodworm, rot and long-dead pigeons. His eyes swept the cavernous room, ignoring what was ordinary, seeking out the unusual, as he had been trained. There were no footprints in the dust on the floor, because there was no dust, though it lay thick on the pews and benches. It had been swept clean, presumably to hide footprints, and possibly more. There was a faint, lingering trace of lamp oil in the air. Across the stone tiles, at the far end of the aisle, was a spray of dark liquid. He knelt beside it. Blood, and recent.
Something under a nearby pew caught his eye. The dust had been swept away here too, and a symbol drawn onto the floor. For something in chalk, it was intricate and detailed: a variant of a Tzeentchian symbol that he recognised: he had last seen it carved into a nun's forehead in the carnage of Priestlicheim. If it was here, there should be others. He looked around. Yes, a second hidden under another bench. And a third. In five minutes he had uncovered twelve in all, in a circle around the point where the bloodstain had fallen.
So the letter had told at least part of the truth. A group of people had met here, had done something involving blood, and had taken pains to conceal their entrance and exit. At least one of them had been a Tzeentchian. But that was not enough. What mattered was not that they had been there, but who they had been, why they had met, and where they could be found.
He would put Siegfried and Amadeus on duty, questioning the local inhabitants about who they had seen the night before. It seemed unlikely that it would do any good, but it would get them off his hands for a while.
He wondered who had written the letter, and why it had been sent to him in particular. He was not well known among the Order of Sigmar, and since the bad business in Priestlicheim he had been stuck in Altdorf on the Karl Hoche investigation.
He needed more information.
He turned to leave, and found it.
A piece of parchment was fixed to the inside of the temple's door, folded and unsealed. His name was not on it, but he knew it was for him. He took it down and recognised the handwriting.

Brother Anders,

Thank you for trusting me this far. For that trust, I give you the body of the man who told the cultists at Priestlicheim that they were discovered and you were on your way to arrest them. He was not present at the massacre, but his hands are drenched in its blood.
You will find him in your own chapterthouse, in Brother Heilemann's room. His identity will open more questions than it closes. Do not ask your colleagues, or you will never learn the answers: truth and loyalty have many enemies within the Order of Sigmar.

Again, there was no signature. Holger stuffed the note into his pocket and sprinted out of the temple, down the alley and east towards the chapter-house, through the thin cloying rain.

A FEW HOURS earlier, as the sound of four bells had echoed from the great tower of the cathedral outside, a lone figure had walked down the empty Hauptstrasse and up the worn stone steps to the double-doors of the chapter-house of the Order of Sigmar, and had rapped gloved knuckles against them. As he waited for an answer he adjusted his tall hat, pulling it round so the silver buckle stood at the front like a badge of office or a shield. If anyone had been watching they would have said he looked nervous or ill at ease, but there was nobody to see him.
After a minute the door opened a crack, and then further as the night-porter recognised the uniform of the man outside. 'Good morrow, brother,' he said. 'How can I help you at this late hour?'
'Good morrow,' the man on the step said. 'I am just come from Nuln, with an urgent letter for Brother Heilemann. Can you tell me where he lodges, or where he is to be found?'
'Why brother, he lodges here,' the porter replied. 'Give me your letter and I will pass it to him.' The door swung open and light of the double moons shone through, illuminating the stark hallway inside and the porter who stood in the doorway. He too wore the tunic and black leggings of a witch hunter, though one side of his trousers hung loose and terminated in a blunt wooden stump. On his breast, medals and ribbons glinted in the cold light: half of them pilgrims' badges, the rest medals.
The man on the step paused. 'Here?' he said, and then, 'I cannot give it to you. It must be delivered only by my hand and I must see him read it.'
The porter's brow furrowed. 'Brother, I can do those things for you.'
'I assure you, brother, that it is my wish to discharge my duty, be free of this burden and find rest, as soon as possible,' the traveller said. 'But this is a matter of honour, and loyalty.'
'I understand.' The porter shuffled to one side, making room for the other man to pass by. 'His chamber is on the fourth floor, in the east wing, on the left, marked by his name. Though I tell you he will not be pleased to be woken. His tongue is sharp and his accusations and imprecations will rouse the brothers around you.'
'It won't be the first time. Thank you, brother.'
The man stepped inside and the door swung closed behind him. The hallway was illuminated by tall candles on iron stands, the light flickering and faint. At the far end a wide staircase stretched upwards, curving away. He walked towards it, aware of how his worn boots made the tiled floor echo, and hearing the mistimed rhythm of the old porter's steps returning to his desk.
He took the stairs slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. It felt like he was climbing a mountain. What if he met someone, or was challenged? But there was nobody else awake, or if there was then he did not meet them.
The fourth floor began with a wide landing and three corridors stretching off it. He paused for a moment to get his bearings, then took the candle that stood on the table at the head of the stairs and chose the corridor to the left, raising the light to study the names painted in blackletter on each door as he passed them. Some doors, he noted, were more ornate than others, and some were clearly more solid.
The corridor was long and branched twice, but he found the room. The door was dark with age and one of the panels was cracked where a knot in the wood had warped as it dried over the decades. He studied it for a long moment, then leaned forward and peered through the oval where the knot had once been. He could see nothing. A curtain, he guessed, or a robe hung on the back of the door.
He put down the candle, drew his dagger and used its pommel to give three solid taps to the wood. After a few seconds he did it again and then concentrated, straining to catch any sound from the other side of the door. He could hear the pulse in his temple, feel his heart beating faster. The corridor was cold, but he could feel prickles of sweat on his back.
There was a sound of shuffling movement and a voice: 'What is it at this god-begotten hour?' He recognised it, but did not reply. Instead he rapped again, three more beats, and kept the dagger raised.
'By Sigmar, if this is some fool's errand then I'll see you suffer,' the voice came again. Bare feet approached the door. Fabric swished and rings rattled on a curtain-rod. Then something moved on the other side of the knot-hole. An eye. He recognised it, and thrust the knife forward, through the knot, with all his strength.
There was a faint, strangled cry that cut off suddenly, and the sound of a skull hitting a stone floor hard. He pulled the dagger back, and three inches of the blade were bloody. Straight through the eye and into the brain, he thought. Bull's eye. If he had been given time to think he might have planned something more elegant, but at the crucial moment the fastest and most effective answer had been to cut through the knot. He felt Occam would have approved.
He picked up the candle and made his way back to the stairs. Going down seemed to take longer than going up, the sound of his footfalls more resonant in the wide stairwell, the atmosphere closer and more oppressive. At the bottom, the hallway stretched into darkness. He headed towards the doors at the far end.
'Sleeping the sleep of the dead?' The voice startled him and he jumped, whirling, groping for his dagger.
'Sleeping hard, was he?' The porter shuffled forward. The assassin fumbled his knife back into its sheath.
'Yes.'
'Not pleased to see you, I'll be bound.'
'No, I don't think he was. Best not to wake him in the morning, I think.' He forced himself to relax, pushing his shoulders back. 'One more thing: I have a letter for Sister Karin.'
The porter coughed. 'Brother Karin, you mean.'
'Brother Karin, of course.' He pulled it out of his pocket. 'This one will wait till morning.'
'I will give it to her myself. With my own hand, brother.' The porter smiled. It was lop-sided; there was something wrong with the muscles of his face, and as he opened the door to let the assassin out, moonlight shaded the thin groove of an old scar that ran from his temple to his chin. 'And I will see you tomorrow?'
'You may. Though I fear it will be a busy day for us both. Goodnight, brother.' He turned and walked away, hearing the other man's goodnight and the closing of the door behind him.
It wasn't until the chapter-house was hundreds of yards behind him, lost to view amidst the Altdorf skyline, that he finally felt able to relax. Herr Heilemann - Herr Stahl - was dead. The Purple Hand would be thrown into confusion, or at least their plans put back a step. The Empire might still teeter on the edge of disaster, but it was a quarter-inch closer to safety now. More importantly, he felt cleansed. He would never know if Heilemann had set the witch hunters on him in Nuln, but it was certain that the man had sent an assassin after him in Grissenwald. Revenge was a black emotion, a petty personal one that put him one step closer to the dark urges of the Chaos followers he despised. He should try to resist such urges for as long as he could. But tonight it felt very good indeed.

THE CORPSE LAY on the wooden floor. It appeared to have fallen straight backwards from the door. A lot of blood had pumped from the single wound, running into the gaps between the thick planks, like red grain patterns.
A bolted door, and on the other side a corpse stabbed straight through the eye. It was like a mystery-story from one of the penny chapbooks peddled on the city streets. 'Damn,' Holger said. 'Damn and damnation.'
'Sorcery!' said Brother Amadeus, who had had a fireball shot at him on his first case six months previously, and was still jumpy about it. 'A daemon summoned to appear within the room, a serpent with a daggered tongue sent down the chimney—'
'Don't be an ass,' Holger said. 'He was stabbed through the door. You can see the stain where his blood hit the woodwork, and the scratches of the knife through the knot.'
'He was ensorcelled against his will to press his head against the door, so that his vile murderer—'
'He was looking to see who was outside.' Holger sighed. He had been saddled with Brother Amadeus to help with his investigations in the Hoche case. Amadeus had not been much help, and much of Holger's energy was taken up in giving the man errands and diversions to keep him out of his hair. 'Brother, the Lord Provost must be informed that his secretary is dead. Take word to him. Tell nobody else.' That would be good for twenty minutes of peace, at least.
Amadeus disappeared. Holger squared his shoulders, turned away from the body and left the room, closing the door behind him. He headed for the stairs.
A murder inside the chapter-house was bad enough, but if what the mysterious note had said was true, that this was the man who had deliberately tipped off the Tzeentch-worshippers in Priestlicheim, causing them to butcher the inmates of the nunnery and flee, then that made things impossibly worse.
Brother Heilemann was a relative newcomer to the halls of the chapter-house and the Order: he had been brought in as part of the new administrative team after the new Grand Theogonist Johann Esmer had appointed his own officers to the head of the Order. He was not formally a member of the Order of Sigmar, but in his few months as the secretary and right-hand man of Lord Bethe, the Lord Provost of the Order of Sigmar, he had impressed the witch hunters who had grown to know him. Holger had heard tavern stories of how his insights and advice had brought breakthroughs and arrests in a number of long-running open cases - something badly needed since the demise of the Untersuchung.
Assuming that the accusation was true - and Holger noted grimly that the word of an unnamed stranger, an empty inn room and a temple with a few occult symbols chalked on the floor was hardly evidence - then why had Brother Heilemann done it? Politics was one possibility: there were conflicts between the Order of Sigmar and members of the Grand Theogonist's court, and even between the factions within the Order itself, the supporters of Lord Bethe, the new Lord Protector who had replaced the late Lord Gamow, as well as the Lord Provost and the Lord Supplicator, against the hard-liners and old-timers who still followed the ways of Volkmar. But the matter of the massacre at Priestlicheim was not one on which the factions within the Order were divided, its failure had brought shame on the entire Order, and Holger was not a visible or vocal member of either side.
That left two options. Either he had been on the side of a third party, one that wanted to see the Order disgraced, the nunnery destroyed and the cultists get away. Or he was on the side of the cultists, or had important friends who were, or was one of them himself.
Unthinkable.
Holger reached the bottom of the stairs and strode down the hallway to the porter's desk. Old Max was sitting there, his eyes dark and heavy with sleeplessness. The midnight to noon shift on the front desk was usually regarded as punishment. Max took pride in it.
'Brother Anders,' he said. 'There's a message—'
Holger cut him off. 'Did Brother Heilemann have any visitors last night?'
'Visitors? Yes, a messenger from Nuln, around three bells. I made a note of it.' The man opened the day-book on the table, leafing through pages of hand-written entries.
'What kind of visitor?'
'A witch hunter. I didn't take his name. He said he had urgent news.' Max looked up, realising that this was not a routine enquiry. 'I do hope Brother Heilemann isn't angry,' he said.
'No,' said Holger. 'He's not angry. Describe the witch hunter.'
'Tall,' Max said, 'and dark, and in a hurry. A broken nose. Strange hair. Carried a pack. His clothes looked shabby, but then he'd just ridden from Nuln. He had another letter, but he left that one with me.'
'He did? Who was it for?' Holger demanded.
'For Brother Karin. She took it when she went into the chapel for matins this morning.'
Holger stared at him hard. 'Brother Karin?'
'Yes.'
'Did she have any other messages this morning?'
'Just that one.'
Holger's gaze did not move from Max's old, scarred face, but his mind was suddenly somewhere else, somewhere very focused and intense, and cold. He had watched Brother Karin read that message, and he knew who the mysterious letter-writer and the murderer of Brother Heilemann was.
Max was holding out another piece of parchment to him.
'What's this?'
'The other message.' Max looked faintly exasperated. 'The one I told you of. Came while you were out.'
'Where from?'
Max shrugged. 'Another boy, another stick.'
Holger took the parchment and cracked the thin wax seal. The handwriting was familiar by now.

If you want to know more then come to Corum's Fields, by the Templar Oak. Come alone. Arrest me now and you will never know the truth.

He read it over and over, and each time more questions flooded through his brain, each demanding an answer. And there was the death of Brother Heilemann to be investigated too - questions would be asked and answers would need to be found. He was aware that Max was looking at him strangely. Standing here, in the hallway of the Altdorf chapter-house, these surroundings that had become his home and that embodied and exemplified all he knew and all he aspired to be, he felt the foundations of his world shift a little.
'Still carrying the troubles of the Empire on your shoulders, Anders?' The voice startled him out of his thoughts and he turned. Erwin Rhinehart was standing behind him, smiling.
'Erwin! When did you arrive?' The two men embraced like brothers.
'Late last night, and we slept late too.'
'We?'
'Theo and I travelled together. We scoured the countryside after we lost Hoche at Rottfurt but there was no sign of him. Then we followed the crusade north.'
'How close are they?'
'We left them at Weissbruck. They'll be at the city gates in a day or so.' Rhinehart scratched the back of his head absent-mindedly. 'Theo's breakfasting, if you want to see him.'
'How is he?'
'He's well. A bit funny. You know how zealously he respects the Protector, the Provost and the Esmerite policies they follow, but at the same time he grows more fanatical and more hard-line. He almost had an old woman up against a stake two days ago for saying this weather would break by the end of the week - claimed it was prophecy, and prophecy was witchcraft. And he won't stop talking about how he almost had Hoche in Nuln. Like it was a personal injury, a personal insult, as if Hoche damaged him somehow. But that's nothing compared to…'
Holger nodded. 'You ran into Hoche in Grunburg, didn't you? How did that go?'
'That's… a story for another time. Over a pint.' Rhinehart ducked slightly as if embarrassed. 'Any new reports of Hoche?'
It was Holger's turn to feel self-conscious. 'He's been here,' he said slowly, thinking how best to lay his words. 'We arrested his companion, a wizard called Oswald Maurer, last night but there was no sign of Hoche himself. Brother Karin had another letter this morning.'
'What did it say?'
'She never says. But she did say that he claimed to be in Altdorf, and she took that as an indication he wasn't.' Holger thought about mentioning it had been delivered by hand, but decided that some things were better kept to himself. Other things, however… 'Erwin, I need your help,' he said. 'You and Theo. Did you know Brother Heilemann at all?'
'Lord Bethe's secretary, from Nuln? I knew him to nod at him.' Erwin pursed his lips. 'I take it your use of the past tense is significant.'
Holger took his friend by the shoulder and led him away from the porter's desk, to a quiet corner. 'Dead. Murdered last night in his room, stabbed through the door.'
It wasn't easy to startle a witch hunter but Erwin's eyes were wide. 'What? Here? Who was it? One of our own?'
'I don't think so.'
'Who then? Hoche?'
Holger paused. 'Possibly.'
'Audacious! The man has no fear. Do you know, when I was following the crusade he rode out to meet me, disguised as a witch hunter? I took him for a Cloaked Brother at first. He just asked questions. Quite unlike the mad hawk Brother Karin paints him to be. Though when I met him the second time…' His voice tailed off again.
Holger nodded. He wanted to hear more of Rhinehart's meeting with Hoche in Grunburg. His brother officer's written report had been brief and to the point, but there had been a tension in his sentences that had hinted at painful things unsaid. But this was not the time for that.
'The death's not been reported yet,' he said. 'I was tipped off, and found the corpse a few minutes ago. I have to go out. Can you and Theo take it from here? I can give you two assistants to help.'
Erwin looked sceptical. 'You have to go out, for something more important than the murder of the Lord Protector's secretary?'
Holger gave him a look. 'The man who told me about the murder. I need to see him. Something big is brewing, Erwin, something big and dangerous. I'll explain later, in The Fist and Glove. The first round's mine. And you can tell me about Grunburg.'
Erwin opened his mouth to speak. Holger said, 'Thanks, friend,' put a hand on his wrist for a second and then turned, striding away down the hall, pulling on his gloves.
Three letters from Karl Hoche and already he was lying to his brother witch hunters. He hoped he was doing the right thing. His gut told him that he was but then his gut had not had any breakfast yet.

ALTDORF IS NOT a city noted for its parks or open spaces. When it became the capital of the Empire upon the crowning of Wilhelm II eighty years ago its high walls were already in place, and nobody saw the need to knock them down to make more room. Land became valuable and crowded. If the inhabitants wanted green spaces, the smell of flowers and an escape from the city's bustle into the tranquility of nature they either had to be rich enough to afford a garden, brave enough to walk outside the city walls, beyond the shanty-towns of rough-built houses that had grown up outside, or desperate enough to head for Corum's Fields.
South of the river, west of the docks, sandwiched between the Altbrug and the westernmost edges of the docks district, with the Circle Theatre at its eastern end, Corum's Fields sat, a dark brown-green splodge of patchy grass and muddy earth, beaten flat by the feet of a hundred thousand citizens in a hurry to get from one side to another but rarely stopping. A few scrubby trees, pollarded and with their lower limbs broken off by climbing apprentices and vagrants after firewood or clubs, dotted the space. Twice a year fairs were held here, occasional travelling players or performers would pitch their stand here, and once a month the Reiksguard used the space to practise its offensive and defensive manoeuvres. Apart from that, it had no purpose. Nobody owned it so nobody could buy it to build on it, and nobody had built on it because nobody liked it.
Templar's Oak stood at the crossroads of the two most used footpaths. Legend, for the few who cared, said that traitors had been hung from its branches at the start of the Age of Three Emperors, a thousand years ago. Now it was a battered old thing, barely thirty feet high, its trunk split and rotting from within. On one side a canker had formed in the wood, a rounded bulge four feet across that made the tree look pregnant and weary. In the drizzle its old bark was as grey and worn as weathered stone.
Holger approached it cautiously. It didn't feel like a trap, but he was aware how out of place, how noteworthy a witch hunter was in this place. Hoche had clearly chosen it because it would be easy to tell if he had come alone: anyone loitering on the field would be easily spotted.
The only people who normally dallied in the park were drunkards, itinerants and beggars. In the thin rain they were dark blobs huddled under the trees, cloaks drawn around them, occasionally moving to swig at a wineskin or try to find a more comfortable position on the wet ground.
There was only one cloak-covered lump under Templars' Oak. Holger studied it from a distance. It did not appear to be studying him back. Was this the man who he had been hunting since the start of the year, who had betrayed his regiment and his friends, condemned three thousand soldiers of the Empire to death and killed Lord Gamow, the Lord Protector of the Order of Sigmar? It looked like a damp tramp.
He walked forward, drew his sword and lifted the cloak off with its tip. A grizzled figure leered up at him, surprised, drunk and belligerent. It was a tramp. He let the cloak fall, muffling the derelict's incoherent curses. Perhaps he was too late: perhaps Hoche had already gone. Or perhaps this was a diversion, to get him out of the way while the heretic was elsewhere in the city, doing Sigmar knew what.
Something caught his eye: a piece of yellow paper stuffed between the ridges of the oak's bark. He pulled it out and unfolded it. It was the latest handbill, the ones that had gone out on the streets the night before and that had led them to the scruffy room and the wizard, Hoche's companion. He turned it over. There was nothing written on the back.
A voice said, 'Don't turn around.' Holger froze. A hand reached from behind him and took his sword from its scabbard. The voice said, 'You came alone.' It was a statement, not a question.
'Would you believe my answer?' Holger said, trying to keep any hint of nerves out of his voice, to stay calm and cool. He recognised the voice. Its pitch had changed, grown rougher, but the intensity in it was the same.
'I would,' the speaker said. 'I know about you, Brother Holger. I have heard much of you since we met the year before last, in The Fist and Glove tavern—'
'I remember the evening.' Holger said. 'You claimed to be a merchant, bought three pitchers of beer and asked about the Untersuchung. Your voice was different then.'
'Much was different then.' The man behind him hesitated for a moment. Then: 'Did you get Emilie?'
'No,' Holger said. 'She had gone, and two others with her.'
'But you found the traitor.'
'We found a body. You have not convinced me that he was a follower of Chaos.'
'I have no proof except what I have seen. Do you trust me? Would you believe my words?'
Holger found himself smiling at the echo of his answer. 'Your letter said that you were not trying to earn my trust. Tell me your answers and I'll tell you if I believe them.'
He turned around. Hoche stood in front of him, holding his sword, and for a moment he was disappointed. So much had been made of Karl Hoche's reputation, his deeds and his capacity for evil that this man, scarcely an inch taller than himself, dressed in worn and creased clothes, his hair askew under a large ill-shaped hat and his eyes dark and tired, was an anticlimax. Hoche looked much as he had looked that night in The Fist and Glove, though his face was more worn and his nose had been badly broken.
So Hoche was only human after all, Holger thought for a second, then pulled himself up tight. However normal his appearance, Hoche was far from human. He noted the way the man's eyes never stopped moving, studying for threats, and the tightness of his fingers on the hilt of the sword.
'Tell me your evidence, Herr Hoche,' he said.
'Call me Karl,' the speaker said. 'My evidence is Brother Heilemann, known to me as Herr Stahl. I met him in Nuln. He had contacted a few former Untersuchung agents - how he had discovered their identities I do not know - asking if they wished to continue the Untersuchung's work. Heilemann, I think, had believed the story told by your former Lord Protector, Lord Gamow, that the Untersuchung was a cover for idolators, heretics and worshippers of the dark gods. He was trying to recruit skilled operators for his cult, the Purple Hand.'
Holger lifted a hand to scratch his nose. It itched. 'We know the Purple Hand. Not as much a thorn in our sides as a dagger at our throats. But Brother Heilemann—'
Hoche dismissed the words with a left-handed gesture. 'I don't know how many of us responded to his letters - you did a thorough job, there are few of us left - but I know I wasn't the first. Another agent had answered his letters before me. Heilemann had taken him under his wing, and then discovered he had made a mistake. So he got rid of him.'
'As a priest,' Holger said, 'and a member by proxy of the Order of Sigmar, naturally Brother Heilemann would do such a thing if he discovered someone was a member of a banned organisation like the Untersuchung.'
'A priest or a witch hunter would have the agent arrested and tried,' Hoche said. 'It would bring them respect within their Order and glory to Sigmar. That wasn't what happened.'
'What did happen?'
'The agent was shot through the head and his body sunk in a remote pond. Would a high-ranking priest working for the Order of Sigmar do that?'
'Sometimes the end justifies the means,' Holger said.
'Sometimes,' Hoche said. 'Does this sound like one of them?'
Holger was silent. Arguing here would divert the discussion, and he did not want to do that. But he digested the information.
Hoche's stare, fixed on his face, didn't waver. 'Someone tipped off the witch hunters about my presence, and I had to flee the city. I followed Stahl - Heilemann - to Grissenwald, where he was staying with the Oldenhaller family. He could have had me arrested. Instead he sent a man who tried to burn me to death in my inn. Not the act of a man of Sigmar, but the act of a man with something to hide, and a fear that someone has discovered it.'
'Is that all?'
'I've seen him using cult signs, and of course he was at the ritual last night. Though you only have my word for that.'
'I don't care about that.' Holger heard an unintentional anger in his voice. 'Was Brother Heilemann the man who caused the massacre at Priestlicheim before I and my team could arrive there? Tell me.'
'A senior Tzeentch cultist installed within the Order of Sigmar, privy to its secret missions and the movements of its agents? What do you think?'
'You haven't answered my question.'
'No. You're perceptive. A lesser man would have only heard what he wanted to.' Hoche paused, turning to study the field. Nobody was within thirty yards of them. 'He was involved.'
'Was he responsible?'
'There were others.'
'You're sounding like one of the Cloaked Brothers,' Holger said. 'What others?'
'This is not the time.'
Holger had had enough. 'Yes, it bloody is,' he said. 'Tell me what you brought me here to hear, or—'
'Or you'll arrest me? I have your sword, and I'd put it through my throat before I let you or your brothers take me alive. You can't threaten me. Tell me what I need to know, help me out, and I'll give you the information you desire. But this business is more important, and more pressing. Do you understand?'
Holger said nothing, glaring at Hoche. He felt impotent, unable to act, aware that he was being used. He felt a fierce desire to have this meeting done with and the status quo, of hunter and hunted, returned. But for the moment, he could do nothing. And in the last few months he had read and heard much about Karl Hoche and his reputation, enough to make him question the convictions of Brother Karin and his colleagues, and know that their image of this man as a murderer, cultist and heretic was little more than propaganda. Karl Hoche was a complex man with a complex history, and much of it pitted him against the cults of Chaos, not alongside them.
Hoche was studying him. 'Let me ask, do you know the name Herr Scharlach?' he said.
'Of course. It's a low-level code-name that the Purple Hand use.' Holger met Hoche's stare and returned it. 'If someone asks to see Herr Scharlach, it means they have been sent by a member of the cult to meet another member, but they themselves are not in the cult and they don't know what is going on.'
Hoche's sudden laughter rattled across the field like a barrage of musket-fire. People in the distance turned to look, and a group of startled crows took to raucous flight.
'What's so funny?' Holger asked.
'Nothing,' Hoche said. 'Nothing.'
'There's another name you mentioned,' Holger said. 'You said that in Nuln Brother Heilemann called himself Herr Stahl.'
'He did.'
'You've not heard of Heinrich Stahl?'
Hoche shook his head.
'You should have done. He was an Untersuchung agent in Nuln. Deep-cover.'
Hoche started forward an inch, staring at him, saying nothing. Holger smiled with a grim satisfaction: for a second he'd made Hoche think he'd killed one of his own. At last he was winning back some ground against this man who said little, hinted much and revealed only what suited him. It was tempting to leave him in suspense, but Holger's regard for the whole truth was too strong.
'We tracked him down last summer and burnt him, as part of the purge of your Order,' he said. Hoche was silent, his face puzzled, staring into the distance across the river as he filtered the information. 'Heilemann would have known that. So if what you say is true, Heilemann was using Stahl's name to lure in other Untersuchung agents, assuming that none of them would have met the real Stahl, since he worked deep undercover.'
'Yes.'
'Or alternatively you invented that as something I'd spot, to convince me your story was real.'
Hoche raised his eyes. 'Do you believe that?'
'I don't know if I believe anything you've told me.'
'I don't think that's true,' Hoche said. 'You wouldn't have come here unaccompanied if you didn't have at least a little trust in me, if your gut didn't tell you that this was the right thing to do. You know the situation, the Convocation of Darkness, the threat to the Empire—'
'No?'
'Brother Karin didn't show you the letters?'
'No.'
'No, of course she wouldn't.' Hoche dipped his head for a moment in thought, then lifted it to study the sky. The sun was invisible behind the monotone cloud. 'Well, she has the information. The forces of Chaos are working together to disrupt the results of the Convocation of Light, and one of their plans is to intercept the man that Luthor Huss has proclaimed to be Sigmar, and either taint or destroy him.'
Holger felt nonplussed. Huss was a danger, certainly, but his discovery of Sigmar… 'Why is this important? Nobody believes this man is Sigmar. Brother Karin called him a village yokel. He's a—'
'If the heads of all the Chaos cults in the Empire think he's a threat, then he's a threat,' Hoche said. 'You have to acknowledge that.'
Holger nodded.
'I need you need to carry a message to Sister Karin.'
'Brother Karin.'
'Yes. Tell her that the agents of the Purple Hand aim to poison the mind of the new Sigmar. Tell her that if Sigmar is to lead the Empire's armies into battle against the forces of Archaon in the north, then they must be stopped and Sigmar protected. Huss wants him to meet the Emperor. That meeting must happen, but it will only happen with Brother Karin's aid, and the protection of the witch hunters.'
Holger gave Hoche a hard stare from under furrowed brows. 'What?'
'She will understand. Use those words, just as I gave them to you. Don't say it came from me. Say it came from an informant.'
Holger shook his head. 'I think I believe you, but I still don't know why I should do this for you. What do I gain?'
'The safety of the Empire. The respect of your superiors. Satisfaction in a job well done.'
Holger snorted with amusement. Karl glanced at him, his face similarly amused. 'All right, I'll tell you who was really responsible for the massacre at Priestlicheim. And secondly - no, before there's a secondly, you must agree to do two other things for me.'
Holger, already knowing he was getting the worst part of the deal, said, 'What?'
'I need to know how your colleague Theo Kratz learned where I was staying in Nuln. I think Heilemann told him, because he had realised who I was and he knew I was a threat to his organisation, but I want to be sure.'
'I can do that.'
'The second is harder.' Hoche paused and scanned the field again. The rain had grown in intensity and its tattoo-rhythms on the leaves of Templar's Oak had become a steady rolling hiss, as omnipresent and as grey as the overcast sky. 'I need Oswald Maurer.'
'Don't be ridiculous. He's an Imperial criminal, under interrogation.'
'If you want your brother witch hunter who betrayed you at Priestlicheim, you'll find a way. I don't care how. Stage a breakout, bribe a guard, forge a pardon, claim he needs to be taken to the Colleges of Magic. Whatever it takes.'
'No.'
Hoche sighed and moved his feet. For the first time Holger realised that much of his attitude and the casual air of control he projected was a front. Did this dangerous man really have all the answers? If not, how much did he really know? How many lies had he already told? Was this all a deception, a scheme, even a manipulation by the Purple Hand themselves, sacrificing a pawn to capture a more valuable piece?
'Give me Oswald,' Hoche said, 'and I'll give you Herr Doktor Kunstler of the Purple Hand.'
Holger felt a shiver go over him. Every witch hunter knew the name of Kunstler, and the foul reputation behind it. 'Can you do that?'
'He's in the city. Is it a fair exchange?'
Holger paused a second, then nodded. 'Yes.'
'Then bring Oswald to the village temple in Gluckshalt, tomorrow at nightfall, and I'll tell you where Kunstler is.'
'How can I contact you if something goes wrong?'
'You can't.' Hoche glanced at the sky, stepped a few paces forward under the tree's canopy, took off his hat, shook the rainwater from it, replaced it, and handed Holger back his sword, hilt-first. 'Thanks for the loan. It's a nice blade.'
Holger took it, not saying anything, thinking, running his tongue over the smooth enamel of his teeth, feeling the crevices and gouges between them.
'Why do your handbills call me the Chaos Hunter?' Karl asked.
'Because it's what the people call you,' Holger said. 'You didn't know? You're a man with a reputation. Out in the villages, the word is that you come in and hunt down mutants and cultists, kill them, and leave. We've tried to suppress the stories, but the word still spreads.'
'Truth has a way of getting out,' Karl said. His voice was muffled. Holger looked at him, wondering whether he could trust this strange figure at all. The villagers had stories of Karl's heroism and personal risk, but the witch hunters told different ones, of subterfuge, treachery and ruthless butchery. Yet that did not seem like the man before him. It was hard to know what to believe.
'Why do you want Oswald?' he asked. 'What use is he to you?'
Hoche looked at him from under the brow of the hat. Holger felt he was being judged, that Hoche was deciding in turn whether he could be trusted. So far he had only been trusted with information. Trusting someone with personal facts was a different matter.
'He is my friend,' Hoche said.
'And you are loyal to your friends?'
'I am.' Hoche raised his head.
Holger locked gaze with him, and stared into the eyes of the man he had been fearing, studying and hunting since the new year. He did not find any deception there. 'Then give me your word that things are as you say, Karl Hoche, and that you will not trick me or play me false in this.'
Hoche returned the gaze, his eyes as unflinching as Holger's. 'I give you my word. Give me your hand.'
'No. Not till this is over. Maybe not then. We can never be friends.' Holger slid his sword into its sheath. 'You realise that it is still my job to track you down and kill you.'
'But not yet?' Hoche grinned. The smile was unexpected and unexplained.
'But not yet.' Holger turned, looking away to the west. 'I am going this way, and I will not look back to see which way you leave.' He paused and, hearing no reply, walked away across the rain-softened ground. At the edge of Corum's Field, turning into the alley beside the playhouse, he glanced behind him across the bleak meadow. Karl Hoche had already gone.

Chapter Twelve
HOW MUCH IS ENOUGH



KARL DIDN'T ENJOY stealing horses. For a start, almost under the walls of Altdorf, people tended to put better locks on their stables; secondly horses were large and often noisy creatures and it was difficult to be discreet. As he lifted the latch on the ostler's gate and walked the bay mare slowly out onto the soft turf edge of the road, sheened with moonlit, he promised himself that this was the last time: he would never steal a horse again. Unless it was really necessary.
The crusade, he had learned, was camped somewhere along the Weissbruck canal, perhaps twenty or thirty miles from Altdorf, ready to arrive at the city's gates in a couple of days. Emilie had a head start of at least twelve hours, probably more, but if she was travelling with two companions as Holger had said, that might hold her back. And it would take her a while to infiltrate the crusade and gain access to Sigmar. Unless the cult already had agents within the crusade who had prepared the way for her. Which, of course, they would have done.
So if Emilie had left around dawn and made good time, she could have reached the crusade before nightfall. He remembered how easily, how casually, how naturally she had lured him into her bed the night before, and shuddered. She was a very persuasive woman. And if Sigmar was as much of a farmboy as people said, he would be clay in her expert hands.
The conversation with Anders Holger had given him much food for thought. Emilie's analysis had been proven largely correct: the man was no fool and didn't jump to conclusions, but was flexible enough to accept new ideas, even when they changed the shape of what he already knew or thought he knew. Most importantly, he didn't leap to trust people, but only accepted their word when he had time to appraise it. Karl guessed that the man was probably a good detector of liars, and wondered briefly if witch hunters went through the same training in that area as the Untersuchung had given its agents. He doubted it, and gave Holger further credit. He would have to be careful around him. The man's pledge to track him down and kill him in the future had not been made in idleness.
He led the horse along the grass verge, away from the ostler's yard and the cluster of houses and businesses around it, and south-west towards Gluckshalt and the canal. If the crusade was coming this way to the city, he could bring the animal back to its rightful owner. That was, if it survived the night's gallop without its heart bursting. He suspected it would not.
Though he had found a bridle in the stables, there had been no sign of a saddle. He folded his cloak, arranged it on the animal's back and swung himself up into the makeshift seat. It was not too uncomfortable. He steadied his pack across his shoulders, then urged the animal into motion and set off through the night-lit countryside. The final act had begun, but he was still not sure what his role in it was to be.

HE ALMOST RODE past the crusade's encampment, but it was only the horse's weariness that slowed him enough to see the trails of smoke from overnight fires, rising in the pre-dawn sky above the line of scrubby trees that hid the low tents and bivouacs from the road. He climbed off the horse, feeling stiff and pained, and walked it through the tall grass towards the camp. Fifty yards out, a figure rose from behind a bush, raising a pike to point at his throat.
'Identify yourself,' the man said.
'Magnusson,' Karl said, 'returned from Altdorf. How stands the crusade?' He recognised the man. He had trained him.
The pike did not waver. 'Magnusson is not your name,' the man said. 'You're that mutant. The heretic.'
Karl raised his arms to encompass the whole camp. 'We are all heretics. The Grand Theogonist has denounced us. I have urgent news for Luthor Huss.'
The guard shook his head. 'I cannot let you pass,' he said. 'The Templars went away when they found Brother Huss and you had left us at Rottfurt, but if you come back, they will come back too.'
He had trained the man too well, Karl thought. 'Then bring Luthor Huss here,' he said. 'I have information he needs to hear. Sigmar is in danger.'
The man didn't move or lower his weapon, but his eyes curved with worry. He hesitated, then said, 'Not here. Go back to the road. I will tell Brother Huss you want to speak to him. If he doesn't come, then go back to Altdorf.'
Karl went. In the dawn light and the calm of the day the canal's surface was still, flowing neither north nor south, patterned only by the ripples of roach and carp rising to snap at early insects. He let the horse loose, and it walked to the edge of the water and drank, then looked up at him as if to say: what now? He had no answer. It ambled away, cropping the daisy-strewn grass. Karl watched it, feeling empty.
In a few minutes, a figure emerged through the screen of trees at a fast walk, its dark Sigmarite robes dragging on the long grass, the early light gleaming on his shaved and oiled scalp. Karl studied the man as he approached. He knew Luthor Huss's silhouette and gait, and this wasn't Huss.
He stood on the road and let the other man come to him. As the figure drew closer he recognised him: Brother Martinus, one of Huss's lieutenants. They had spoken only a few times while Karl had been on the crusade, usually just pleasantries or enquiries, nothing serious. He did not feel he knew the man, and he did not know why Huss would send him rather than come himself.
Brother Martinus climbed up the shallow embankment onto the road, to stand about twenty feet from Karl. For a while he did not say anything, but looked at him as a dog-catcher might study a particularly streetwise mongrel. His eyes were dark pits of shadow in his skull-like face. Karl did not feel encouraged.
'Well,' Martinus said after his long pause, 'you came back.'
'You noticed.'
'You are not welcome here. We know your name and your true nature.'
'I have to see Luthor Huss,' Karl said. 'I have to speak to him.'
'I can't let you do that,' Martinus said. 'It's too dangerous.'
'You don't understand,' Karl said. 'I know my presence here puts you in danger, but not in the way you think it does. The crusade has been infiltrated by Chaos cults who are trying to pollute Sigmar's mind, to infect his thoughts with their poison.'
'Do you think a few cultists would be able to harm our champion Valten?' Martinus demanded. 'He is Sigmar! The greatness of history and the strength of the Empire is in him. Besides,' he continued in a less strident voice, 'no follower of the Dark Gods can change our course now. The final act has begun, and in a day and a night we will enter Altdorf in triumph.'
Karl tried not to stare at him. 'What do you mean?'
'Did you not hear while you were skulking in the backstreets of Altdorf? The Grand Theogonist has sent emissaries to examine Sigmar, to vouch for his godhood, and when they find that Luthor Huss was correct then their leader will have no choice but to proclaim that Valten is Sigmar reborn. The time of second Empire is at hand.'
Karl could not believe what he was hearing. He had listened to gossip, rumours and stories in taverns, temples and street-corners across the capital, and there had been no word of this. Holger would have mentioned it. There would have been some hint. Then he realised.
'These emissaries,' he said. 'They arrived last night. A dark-haired woman and two men.'
Martinus smiled. 'So you have heard of them. They have been in council all night and any minute now we expect—'
Karl twisted his neck, trying to get the soreness of the long night's ride out of it. 'I know them. They are not from the Grand Theogonist. They are the cultists I spoke of, devious and cunning—'
'It is you who are devious and cunning, Karl Hoche,' Martinus said. 'They brought letters from the Grand Theogonist and the witch hunters, signed and sealed. I saw them myself. You are a mutant and a servant of Chaos, the man who destroyed Duke Heller and the Lord Protector of the Order of Sigmar, as well as their army. Huss may have been taken in by you, but I am not. I will let you go now, in thanks for the service you gave the crusade, but never come back.'
'I'm sorry,' Karl said.
'For what?'
'This,' he said and flung his throwing-knife at the priest. Martinus ducked it, as he'd thought he would, but it gave him the time to cover the twenty feet between them. He had no weapon. Martinus had a one-handed hammer on his belt, but made the mistake of scrabbling to free it, and Karl was on him before he could loose its thong.
Martinus hit him, a solid punch that impacted on his cheekbone and jarred his skull. That was unexpected. Warrior-priest, he thought, trained to fight as well as to pray. A second punch shook his jaw, rocking him backwards. He put all his force behind a blow to Martinus's shoulder and as the taller man swung back from it, threw himself forward, knocking the man to the ground, landing atop him and groping for his throat. Martinus's hands were already there, breaking his grip and pushing his arms of the way.
Karl spat in his face. Martinus's hands jerked up to cover his eyes, the urge to protect himself from Chaos stronger than the instinct to defend himself. Karl lunged down with both hands, slamming them against Martinus's, forcing the priest's head back to impact against the stones of the road with a solid thud. Martinus twitched and lay still.
Karl rolled off him and paused a second, waiting to see if it was a feint. Apparently not. The priest was breathing shallowly, unconscious, a little blood seeping from the back of his head. Good, Karl thought. Martinus was at heart a good man, and there was no point in unnecessary killing. And this way there were no bloodstains on the priest's robes.
He began stripping Martinus's still body.

THE CRUSADE WAS at prayer. Rows and rows of the devout and faithful, priests, monks, pilgrims, templars, penitents, flagellants, disciples, zealots, ranters, speakers of tongues, the newly converted and the lifelong believers, all stood facing the wooden platform where Luthor Huss stood, chanting the familiar prayers of the matins service, their massed responses breaking the silence of the new day like the roar of a great waterfall.
The crusade had grown, Karl thought. He had heard that Sigmar had been leading a militia of local villagers when Huss found him, but there must be almost two thousand people here now. He wondered if his militia was still training, and who was leading them now, and then thought: Sigmar would be. And they would probably be a force to be reckoned with, the strength of their zeal making up for any deficiency in their training. If his military life had taught Karl anything, it was to avoid battles with fanatics, whichever side they were on.
With the hood of the robes up, and the unfamiliar weight of the hammer at his belt, he moved slowly through the crowd, trying to avoid faces he recognised. The closer he got to the front, the harder it became. Finally he stopped: there was no sense in moving further forward now. He would wait until the prayers had ended, then seek out Huss.
He peered through the ranks of worshippers. At the foot of the wooden dais were four people. Three wore ornate yellow and green robes, the colours of the Grand Theogonist. He recognised one of them, though her long dark curls were tied back in an austere plait, like one of the Sisters of Sigmar. Beside them stood a young man, fresh-faced, with long blond hair and skin tanned golden from a life outdoors. Though he mouthed the responses to the prayers of the high priest behind him, he seemed unconcerned with the service or its importance, or the fact that every eye in the crowd was on him, not Huss.
So this was Valten. He didn't look like a god, though Karl could see a certain resemblance to the face of Sigmar as it was portrayed on temple statues or wall-paintings, or stamped on the backs of medallions. He looked young, handsome in an untidy way, a little nervous, a little tired. He looked distracted, disinterested, perhaps a little stupid. Under the loose white peasant shirt he wore his arms and torso were well muscled. Karl did not know what to make of the man, but he was not convinced. He wondered how many of the people around him were not convinced either.
The prayer ended. Huss stared out over the heads of his congregation for a moment, then clapped his hands and shouted something. Karl did not catch the words but he understood the tone: the crusade was preparing to move.
Karl pushed his way through the worshippers as they broke ranks, becoming travellers and followers again, unpitching tents, dismantling shelter, and generally decamping. He needed to talk to Huss, to explain what was going on. He could not think what else to do. Tackling the three cultists would be disastrous: if he had more time and less crowded surroundings then he could have taken them out one by one, but his time had already run out. Whatever he did, he would have to do soon.
His hand moved instinctively to touch his sword-hilt, but of course it was not there. The witch hunters had taken it when they arrested Oswald. And he had thrown his last dagger at Brother Martinus, and had neglected to pick it up. He was weaponless apart from the small hammer at his belt, and it had been years since he had last used one of those. He felt naked, surrounded by people he had once known but who were now all potential enemies.
Someone tugged at his elbow and he started, turning, almost reaching for his non-existent sword. At his right hand was a tall, lugubrious fellow with blond hair and a familiar face: Gottschalk, leader of the pikemen. He was smiling.
'Magnusson?' he said in a broad whisper.
Karl's first instinct was to run, but he didn't. Running would do nobody any good, not Huss, not Valten, not himself. He didn't say anything.
'I thought it was you,' Gottschalk continued. 'Why did you come back? There was a huge fuss after Rottfurt, Dominic and Martinus denouncing you as a criminal, but I stuck up for you. I saw what you did for us there, and I remember how you built us into an army, and I thought a servant of Chaos wouldn't have done those things. And then Stockhausen - he took over the Hammers of Sigmar after Kuster died - told me how you'd got Brother Huss back on his feet after he lost his nerve, and I knew you were one of us, not one of them. But why did you come back?'
'I had to,' Karl said. His voice sounded rough, even to him.
'It's too dangerous for you here.'
'Is there somewhere we can talk without being heard? Or seen?'
Gottschalk thought for a second. 'There's a ruined cottage a quarter-mile off.' He pointed.
'I'll see you there in ten minutes.'
'The crusade's moving off in half an hour.'
'It won't take long.'
Gottschalk looked hesitant. 'Magnusson - if what they said about you is true, how do I know this isn't a trap?'
Karl smiled. 'You can't know. You can either trust me, or bring some of your trusted men.' He paused. 'Come to think of it, bring them anyway. And a spare sword.'

THE ONE-ROOM cottage was a stone skeleton in open countryside, a shadow of a living-place. Its bleached stones were wrapped in thin ropes of bindweed, the white bell-flowers reaching out like hungry mouths sucking at the sunlight in its morning glory. Inside, the floor was grasses and dandelions. The caked droppings of roosting birds smeared the inside walls.
When Gottschalk arrived Karl had unwrapped his pack and shaken out the few clothes he had brought with him. Gottschalk was a tall man and well built with heavy muscles, good qualities in a pikeman but not the same size as Karl. Perhaps one of his soldiers would be a better fit. But the pike-unit's leader would be better for the part: he had the right demeanour, the right sense of faith and dedication.
He glanced over, beyond the figures of Gottschalk and the four pikemen advancing across the field with him. The crusade was beginning to form up, moving towards the road. At any moment someone would discover Brother Martinus, Karl thought, and alarms would be raised. They only had a few minutes to make this work.
'I've brought some fellows,' Gottschalk said. The four pikemen stood at the empty doorway, looking in with curiosity. Karl recognised them.
'Four? You distrust me that much?'
Gottschalk shrugged. 'Take the enemy by surprise. You taught us that.' He looked down at the clothes that Karl had unpacked. 'What are those?'
Karl ignored the question. 'The three who arrived from Altdorf yesterday,' he said, 'have you spoken to them? Been close to them?'
'The ones from the Grand Theogonist? No.'
'They're not from the Grand Theogonist. They're from a Chaos cult, a very well connected one, and they aim to win Valten over to their side.'
Gottschalk's mouth hung open. After a while he shut it. 'That's not possible,' he said.
'It is possible, and I will prove it to you with a simple deception. Put these clothes on and follow me. I'll tell you what to say.'

IT WAS IN Lachenbad that Luthor HUSS had found Valten, working in his father's smithy. Recognising him as the spirit of Sigmar reborn, Luthor had convinced the young man to come with the crusaders. An over-excitable driver for the Four Seasons coach-line named Ezzo Schumacher had witnessed the proclamation of the reborn god. Overcome by the religious fervour of the moment, he had abandoned his job and joined the crusade on the spot, donating all he owned to the coffers, to pay for food for the multitude.
The coach had not technically been his property but nobody except his passengers had wanted to argue the toss, and Huss's men had put the vehicle to good use carrying the old and the lame who otherwise would have slowed the crusade's progress. The two passengers were last seen retiring to the Two Moons inn, one to write a strong letter of complaint to the owners of the Four Seasons line, the other to open the contents of the mail-sack, to see if anyone had been unwise enough to send any material that was sellable, blackmailable or pornographic.
Now the coach stood at the centre of the crusade's campsite, while men and women busied themselves around it, getting ready to move. Someone had retrieved the two black horses from the improvised paddock where the crusade's mounts had overnighted, and was preparing to harness them to the traces. Around the outside of the vehicle itself, four of the Hammers of Sigmar stood guard. Its doors were closed and its windows curtained. The new god was inside, talking with the representatives of the Grand Theogonist, and was not to be disturbed.
Through the throng of dark-robed worshippers and devotees strode a tall man, and the masses parted to let him through, like a tear splitting fabric. The black clothes he wore should have blended in with the mass, but the silver buttons on his tunic and the buckle on his high hat marked him out as something different from the people around him: he had come from somewhere else, and his thoughts could not be their thoughts. The last time the witch hunters had met the crusaders, they had brought Templars and death with them. The effect of the uniform was abrupt. People stopped what they were doing and watched, talking in low voices.
Flanked by pikemen, the tall man walked to the closed door of the carriage and rapped on it with a gloved hand. 'Open!' he commanded. 'In the name of Sigmar!'
The door swung open slowly, framing a woman in green and yellow robes, the bruises on her face almost as dark as her long hair.
'We are not to be—' she said. 'Oh. How can I help, brother?'
'I bring news from Altdorf,' the witch hunter said. 'Brother Heilemann of the Order of Sigmar is dead.'
She said nothing but the flush faded from her face, leaving only the bruises. A male voice behind her said, 'That is sad news, but—'
'Your face is familiar,' she said. 'I have seen it recently.'
'Perhaps in Altdorf,' he said. There was a note of nervousness in his voice.
'Perhaps,' she said. 'Why have you brought us this news?'
'Because he died in our custody. And before he died, he talked.'
'He what?'
'He told us everything.' From the dark interior of the carriage someone moved and said something quietly. The woman made an impatient gesture, waving them back, without moving her eyes from the witch hunter's face.
'I don't know what you're talking about,' she said. 'We are here on the orders of the Grand Theogonist—'
'You are here on the orders of Herr Doktor Kunstler, to twist the mind of the reborn Sigmar to your foul scheme,' the witch hunter said. 'Aren't you, Emilie Trautmann?'
A man's voice shouted something inside the coach, and the priestess's head twisted to the sound. 'No!' she shouted. 'No, this is Hoche, this is his doing—' but got no further.
The door on the far side of the carriage slammed open and a man with short-cropped hair leaped out, grabbing for a knife at his belt, preparing to sprint for freedom. There were no pikemen on that side of the coach. Only Karl Hoche and his new sword.
The sword was a standard straight-edge design, forged by a local swordmaker or an apprentice at one of the larger firms. There was some skill in its manufacture but no real craft: it was the kind of cheap blade that was made and sold in bulk to market town militias across the Empire. It had been maintained in a cursory way, occasionally polished and ineptly sharpened until any balance that the maker had given it had gone. It swung heavily in the hand, not helped by the crude grip and guard that had been fixed to it to replace the originals, probably by a blacksmith more used to forging horseshoes. It was a crude weapon, more for show than for wielding, and best suited for blunt, basic practise.
Karl took the man's head off with a single stroke. It spun away, blood spewing, to bounce on the hard ground. People around the coach, who had been stopping to watch the commotion, froze.
Emilie saw her colleague fall, the spray of arterial blood bright in the morning sun, saw Hoche beyond him. 'Bastard,' she spat. 'Betrayer.'
Karl's face was expressionless. The blood had dewed his skin. He held the sword out, like a diagonal slash between them. 'Get out of the coach, Emilie,' he said. 'Slowly.'
She did not move. 'Come and get me,' she said. Next to her, the shape of Valten did not appear to have reacted to what was going on. That seemed odd to Karl.
'It's over,' he said. 'You can't win.'
'Can't we?' she asked. 'It depends what you mean by winning. We can still remove your king from the board.'
She was talking about killing Valten, Karl realised. The blacksmith's son would not understand her analogy to a game of chess, but he should still have realised that something was wrong. Karl had been counting on Valten being an ally in the carriage, helping them overcome the cultists. Instead something was wrong, and he didn't know what it was. Then he thought about Valten's posture and expression during the service that morning, and understood. They had drugged him, to make him suggestible. To make him bendable.
'But you, Karl Hoche,' Emilie said, breaking his thoughts, 'whether I live or die, you will still be a mutant.'
The crowd around him moved at the word, heads turning, like river-rushes in a sudden wind.
'A vile cursed outcast thing, you are,' she said. 'Why did you come back? Did you think that a touch from Sigmar would heal you? I have to tell you that his touch is just a man's. More of a man's than yours, though.'
The wide ring of watchers murmured in low dissenting voices. Karl shook his head: she had insulted him, and at the same time cast doubt into the crusaders' minds about Valten's claim to godhood. He reminded himself he must not underestimate Emilie: her wits were stunning.
'This ends now,' he said.
She murmured something that he didn't catch.
'What?' he said.
Something like a wave hit him in the mind, and in a second he was filled with an awesome terror that pushed him backwards, away from the coach. Something of unutterable dreadfulness was in there, something he had to flee from. His eyes pressed tight shut and he was unable to open them. He felt his knees buckle, his legs moving of their own volition, all the most primitive parts of his mind screaming to get away from this place. Dimly, he heard cries and screams, heard the unmistakable tumult of a panicking crowd, and realised that whatever he had sensed, the crusaders around him had sensed too.
He fought it. He had sworn his life to destroying darkness, not running from it. He had spent a night in a forest staring at bleaker horrors than this sense of nameless dread, and had survived, and had emerged stronger. This was terrible, awful fear but it was not a real fear, not compared to what he had already faced and beaten.
He willed himself to stand still, not to run, not to join the terrified crusaders in their flight. Instinct fought will; head fought heart. Muscle strained against muscle.
It would not beat him.
It was not real. He focused on that, forcing the fear out of his mind, giving himself a corner of space to think.
Not real. Magical. A spell, a daemonologist's spell, he had read about in the old days of the Untersuchung. And as he realised, the sense of terror dropped away and he could open his eyes.
He was kneeling on the ground. He hadn't realised he had dropped to his knees. He was soaked in sweat and every muscle in his body felt weak. His sword lay three feet away: he had dropped it. Someone was standing by him, towering over him: another person who had been able to resist the effects of Emilie's magic.
The space around the coach was clear. Emilie and her unnamed comrade were climbing out. He was heading for the horses, to check their traces; she was climbing up to the driver's seat at the front.
They were going to kidnap Valten.
He looked up at the man who stood beside him and it was Luthor Huss, awful in his full robes, his face fierce and stern, his warhammer clasped in both hands. Karl was about to point to the cultists, to get Huss to intervene, but Huss was not looking at the coach. He was staring down at Karl, his eyes unyielding. A sense of very real dread and danger, quite different from the magically induced one of a moment ago, swept over Karl.
In the back of his mind he thought: if he was here, watching, then he heard Emilie name me and denounce me as a mutant to the whole crusade. If he did not hear that, then he has no idea that Emilie and the other man are cultists. Either way, he thinks I am the danger here. Either way, his duty is to protect Valten and the crusade. Either way, I am a dead man.
Huss was still staring down. Without taking his eyes off Karl, he let the head of his warhammer drop from his left hand, sweeping it down, inches above the ground, inches from Karl's head. He whipped it up, flexing his wrist to whirl it once around his head, gathering momentum, building velocity.
Karl tore his eyes from it. Emilie was seated on top of the coach, the reins in her hand. The other cultist leaped back, jumping for the running board, ready to clamber on board.
Huss spun the hammer around once more, both hands on the shaft now, its head humming through the air, the weight and force of the weapon moving his whole body with it.
Karl flinched down, waiting for the hammer to whirl down and crush him.
Emilie flicked the reins. 'Go!' she shouted. The coach door slammed, the other cultist inside.
With a grunt Huss released the hammer. It sped through the air, some dark-winged angel of death, and smashed into Emilie, shattering her right arm, crushing ribs, knocking her sideways out of the seat and off the far side of the coach. Karl heard a crunch as she landed, and a single moan of pain. Emilie wasn't a screamer, he remembered.
Huss looked back down at him impassively, then raised a single eyebrow. It was a quizzical gesture, yet it answered every question Karl had. He scrambled for the rough sword on the ground. Huss was already moving towards the closed coach door.
There was a heavy crack and the door crashed outwards. The cultist hurtled backwards through it, his face a mass of blood, and fell heavily onto the trampled earth. He tried to roll over, noticed Karl's sword, and went for it. Karl got to it first, kicked it away left-footed, then used his right boot to kick the cultist in the mouth. The man jerked back and didn't move.
Valten appeared at the smashed coach door, shaking his fist. It was bloody.
'Are you all right?' Huss asked. There was a tone in the warrior-priest's voice that Karl had heard once before: outside the gates of Grunburg, after he had been shot. He could only describe it as paternal.
Valten nodded slowly. 'What was that about?' he asked. His accent was southern, rural: slow and low.
'What did they do to you?' Karl asked.
Valten smiled slowly. 'Mostly they talked to me. Dull stuff, it was, about whether I knew who I was and where I was going, and how I should question that.'
'What did you tell them?'
'I told them I was Valten of Lachenbad, and I was going to Altdorf, and then I was going north to fight Archaon as Brother Huss has asked me to. They talked all night.'
'Do you remember much of it?'
He shrugged. 'Scholar-talk. Priest talk. Dull stuff. Meant nothing to me, most of it. Who are you anyway?'
'I think he's all right,' Huss said.
'You know Valten best,' Karl said. 'But she had magic, and she has been well tutored. You should do everything you can to cleanse him.'
Huss smiled. 'Back with us ten minutes and already giving orders, Karl.' His expression changed. Some of the crusaders were coming back, their blind panic ended, and this time they had weapons with them.
Huss spoke quickly. 'You have to leave, Karl. They know who you are.'
Karl shook his head. 'We have much to talk about.'
'We'll meet again in Altdorf.'
'No. It has to be sooner. 'He thought quickly. 'Take the crusade as far as you can tonight, then ride on to Gluckshalt. I'll meet you in the temple there. And apologise to Brother Martinus for me.'
'What for?' Huss asked, but Karl was already running, past the coach, through the bewildered ranks of the pilgrims, and on towards the road where he had left the horse.

KARL HAD KNOWN there would be a temple at Gluckshalt, but he had never been to it. Now that he stood in front of it, he realised it was completely unsuited for a clandestine meeting. It was large, built in the opulent style popular a couple of centuries before, the style of the architects who had fled north from the inquisitions in Tilea, who had brought their wide aisles and open colonnades with them. Sound carried in these buildings, the faintest footfall audible from one end of the aisle to the other, and there were no side-chapels for covert discussions or liaisons - the Tilean merchant-princes who had paid for such buildings in their homelands were as protective of their wives' fidelity as they were devout to their gods.
Also it was locked.
As the day had lengthened the rain had returned, and the horse's pace had grown slower until a couple of miles beyond the village of Hartsklein it had stopped and refused to go on. He had turned it loose on an area of common land there, leaving its bridle attached. It was only a few miles from home, and probably knew this road well. He had walked the last five miles.
It was evening. Holger was not here yet. Neither was Luthor Huss. Karl slumped down against the wall beside the temple's main door and pulled his hat down over his face. His stomach growled, hungry, but he had spent his last coins preparing to leave Altdorf, and besides he dared not enter the local tavern or the coaching-inn just outside the village, not this late at night. Either his eyes would give him away, or his silvered glasses. Such things could be worn in Altdorf without remark, but not outside. He licked his lips, trying to remember the last thing he had eaten. All he could taste was the blood from the golden bowl in the temple of Manaan.
Would Huss come? The plan he had formulated along the road would not work without the warrior-priest's cooperation, and there were things Huss had to know before he tried to enter Altdorf. But there were many reasons the leader of the crusade might decide not to meet him again - politics, clemency, revulsion - and Karl could not make the plan work without him. And the plan had to work.
It was not just about Huss, nor about Valten, nor even about helping to save the Empire from the threat of Archaon and his armies. Those were worlds away, spinning in different orbits that sometimes crossed his, intersecting, becoming bright points in his constellation, but they were not his world and not his path. Even the Purple Hand and their schemes and machinations were more Holger's concern than his. He wanted Brother Karin, and wanted her dead and damned. For all the hells he had suffered, and suffered still, he wanted her dead.
And yet, as he sat here in the rain, it occurred to him for the first time that when he had disguised himself and lied his way into the Altdorf chapter-house, he could have gone past Heilemann's room, found hers, and killed her instead. Because she was so much a fixture in his life, such a landmark and a focus for his hatred in his mental map of who he was, that he could not imagine her gone? Or that it was not the moment? Some things must play out to their end, he knew. And if he had killed her then, he would not have been able to ask Holger to get her unwitting assistance for this scheme.
When the time came, would he be able to kill her? When would the time come? Would it come at all?
'Karl?'
He looked up. For the second time that day, Luthor Huss towered over him and for a second Karl was again afraid for his life. The moment passed. Things could not be the same between them, not after what had happened at Rottfurt and beside the carriage that morning, but at least the man had come.
'The temple's closed,' Karl said.
Huss considered. 'It could be opened. It's the law.'
'No. No point in drawing attention to ourselves.'
'The tavern then.'
'I can't.'
'Why not?'
Karl took off his hat and raised his eyes, looking Huss full in the face. 'When I told you at Rottfurt that what you saw was the fire in my soul,' he said, 'I was lying.'
Huss said nothing for a long moment of contemplation. Then: 'I recall you saying you didn't lie.'
'So what are we waiting for?' Huss asked.
Karl was about to answer, and stopped. For the first time it occurred to him that Holger might not come. Not because the witch hunter could have been detected and arrested - Karl had considered that possibility and worked it into his plan - but because he had decided not to. Perhaps he would send his brother officers, Rhinehart and Kratz, to arrest him. Or perhaps Holger would simply lie low and hold his peace. Perhaps he had underestimated the man's desire to know who had set him up at Priestlicheim the year before.
Karl remembered Priestlicheim. Someone had left a trail of corpses leading to the nunnery like a reaper through a field of wheat, and Karl had followed it just as Holger had, except Karl had arrived two days after the witch hunters had left. He had walked through the desecrated buildings, talked to men who had seen the carnage, seen the graves, considered the evidence. It had looked like a Chaos ritual out of control, a frenzy of killing first as sacrifices and then to remove any witnesses. It had appeared to be the work of Tzeentch worshippers. That was how its executors had intended it to appear.
Huss hadn't moved.
'We're waiting for someone,' Karl said.
'Who?'
'Me,' Holger said, appearing from round the corner of the colonnade.
Huss took a step back with an oath, fumbling for the strap of his warhammer. Karl thrust himself between the two men before anything could happen. 'Don't! He's a friend,' he said. 'Luthor Huss, meet Anders Holger.'
The men shook hands warily. Karl's heart was still pounding, and he felt angry with himself. That corner was the only place from which he could have been taken by surprise, and he had let it happen. His guard was down, further than he realised. The exertions of the last few days had drained him, sapping his strength. He needed to find more if he was to survive what was to come.
'Did you bring Oswald?' he asked Holger.
'Oswald?' Huss asked. 'He's here? How is he?'
'In the inn,' Holger said. 'But he's in a bad way.'
'Why? What happened to him?' Huss's face was impassive, his voice still with no sound of concern. He hid it well, Karl thought.
'He was arrested,' he said.
'And tortured. Extensively,' Holger said.
'And you made him travel?' A mix of astonishment and anger in Huss's voice.
'You would rather I had left him where he was?' Holger's tone was carefully controlled sardonicism. All witch hunters had it, this bone-dry wit. Holger had it to perfection. There could be no friendship, not even trust between him and Huss, Karl could sense. And neither man knew why he was here. He had to take control of the situation.
'Take us to him,' he said. 'Brother Huss is a priest; he may be able to heal him.'

THE LINES WERE parallel, horizontal, a foot long and about an inch apart, like furrows on a shove-groat board. On some of the fresher ones the crusted lines of dried blood had cracked and clear ichor oozed out. Others were beginning to heal, their scab discoloured.
'Sussman's work,' Holger said. 'His trademark. Cut the line, rub in salt, or vinegar, or acid. Feels like you're being cut in half. So a survivor told me.'
'Did he talk?' Karl asked.
'If Sussman had him for two days?' Holger nodded solemnly. 'Yes, he talked.'
Luthor Huss raised his head from his clasped hands, then rose from where he had been kneeling and praying beside the bed. Oswald's breathing was shallower now and more stable; he was sleeping, and would heal.
'Do you know what he said?' Huss asked.
'No.'
'Do you know what the questions were?'
Holger made a fist, jerked his thumb at Karl. 'About him.'
Karl exhaled, relieved. 'Even if he talked, he didn't know what I know.'
There was silence in the room, its seconds measured by the slow pace of Oswald's breaths. Karl waited, his eyes on the old priest on the bed - no, not a priest, he reminded himself - but his other senses were on Huss and Holger, monitoring the two men and the space between them. Huss was tense, Holger anxious. Both seemed uncomfortable, uncertain of what was expected of them.
Karl looked down at Oswald's unconscious body. The man on the bed seemed diminished by his nakedness, pale and drawn, the skin on his face loose and dark with bruises, lack of sleep, lack of food and pain. Huss's healing rite and his prayers had started the process of recovery, but it would be a long time before he was healthy again. And there was no way of telling how the torture had affected his mind.
'What is the mood in Altdorf towards my crusade?' Huss asked. Karl turned to reply but the warrior-priest was not facing him; he had broken the tension and addressed the question to Holger.
'It ranges,' Holger said, 'between seeing you as harmless and seeing you as a threat.'
'We are not seen as saviours?'
'Only by a few.'
'Are you among them?'
Holger shook his head.
'I am a witch hunter. If the Grand Theogonist says that you are a heretic, then the Order of Sigmar sees you as a heretic.'
'And you are a loyal witch hunter?'
Karl watched Holger. The younger man was about to nod, and then his eyes flicked down to the form of Oswald on the inn's narrow bed, and he was still. Loyal witch hunters didn't free renegade wizards from their torture-cells, or ride out to meet heretics and mutants. He wondered what was going through Holger's mind right now.
'My loyalties do not begin and end with my Order,' Holger said. 'But you would put this reborn Sigmar of yours above the stability of the Empire?'
'I want this reborn Sigmar to aid the stability of the Empire,' Huss said. 'That is why I sought him out, that is why I fostered the crusade, and that is why I am taking him to Altdorf, to meet with the Emperor and add his strength to the forces of the Convocation of Light.'
'Yes. Meeting the Emperor,' Holger said. 'There has been a lot of politics around that matter in the last day. Brother Karin took her case to Lord Bethe, and Bethe took it to the Lord Chamberlain who has the Emperor's ear, and the Grand Theogonist caught wind of it and said that only he could judge whether Valten was truly Sigmar reborn or not. So the upshot is that you will have your meeting, on the steps of the cathedral, at noon the day after tomorrow.'
'And the Grand Theogonist will proclaim that Valten is nothing but a blacksmith, and I am a heretic, and we will be arrested,' Huss said.
'Unlikely,' Karl said. 'To arrest you in such a public place would risk a riot. They will take you somewhere private for the appraisal, and announce a day later that you are arrested. I'm more worried about the meeting itself.'
'Why?'
'Because the city is full of Chaos cultists. Of all creeds and denominations. The ones who came for Valten were from the Purple Hand, which heads the faction that wants to subvert the Empire's saviour and turn him to their ways. Others want him dead. And what better time to kill him than very publicly, on the steps of the Cathedral of Sigmar, while the question of whether he is truly Sigmar reborn is still unanswered?'
'I take your point,' Huss said. 'But what are our options?'
'And who are our allies?' Holger said.
'I've thought about this all night and all day,' Karl said. 'We have the crusaders, obviously, and from what I saw this morning they are beginning to live up to their name.'
Huss nodded. 'Valten has a gift for strategy and he is a natural leader of men.'
Holger snorted. 'A natural leader of men who believe he's their god, you mean.'
'Let it pass,' Karl said. 'We have the witch hunters, I believe. We have the Khorne cults, who wish to see Valten lead the Empire's armies into a battle to end all battles with Archaon and his forces, and will protect him. And we have the Emperor and those loyal to him.'
'The Emperor?' Huss said. Karl had expected him to question the mention of Khorne cultists, or at least ask how they were to be brought into the struggle, but he knew that the warrior priest had learned how to balance idealism with pragmatism.
'Yes,' Holger said, 'the Emperor. He and the Grand Theogonist have been at loggerheads in the last weeks. It came to a head in the Convocation of Light, and there is now a division between church and state, each pulling - discreetly - in a different direction.' He paused. 'They say the Emperor pines for the days when Volkmar the Grim was his Grand Theogonist.'
'Really?' Huss cocked an eyebrow. 'And you? Are your loyalties to the high priest of your Order, or to your Emperor?'
'As I have said,' Holger said with a trace of impatience in his voice, 'my loyalty follows my conscience.'
Huss smiled broadly and looked across the bed to Karl. Karl looked back and did not smile, at least not outwardly.
'Now that we all know where we all stand,' Karl said, 'we should begin to organise what needs to be done. Tomorrow will be a busy day for all of us.'
'Wait,' Holger said. 'You promised me names. The leader of the Purple Hand, and the person who ordered the massacre at Priestlicheim.'
'When this is done, you shall have them. But not till this is done,' Karl said, and hesitated. Holger's shoulders were drawn up, tense with frustration.
'What if you are killed? Or rendered speechless?'
'Take pains to ensure that does not happen,' Karl said.
'At least,' Holger said, 'tell me if they are one and the same man.'
'They are not,' Karl said, 'and you will meet one of them soon enough.'
'The other?'
'You have already met the other.'

THE PLAN WAS simple enough. The crusade would enter Altdorf in two days' time. Most of the men would process to the cathedral steps, where the Grand Theogonist would be waiting. Luthor Huss and Valten, in disguise and with a small retinue of trusted guards, would secretly make their way to a second destination where the Emperor would be waiting for them.
That was the theory. In practice, Karl knew, a lot more would happen first. There would be cults trying to stop them, possibly the forces of the Grand Theogonist, and even fanatical elements in the crusade who could do anything so close to the place and the man they regarded as the heart of evil within their church.
Really, anything could happen, Karl knew, but it was better to have some plan than none at all. But he didn't say that.
He finished his outline, and there was no sound. Huss sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the middle distance in thought. Holger leaned against the mantel of the slate fireplace, eyeing him. It wasn't hard to read the expression on the witch hunter's face: stark incredulity.
Huss straightened up. 'There are a few things I need to hear clarified before I agree,' he said.
'A few things,' Holger said, mimicking his tone.
'I think there may be holes in your strategy.'
'There may be holes'?' Holger said. 'There's one hole right at its middle, larger than the bowl of Talabheim, for Sigmar's sake.'
'Let Brother Huss speak first,' Karl said.
'I am sure that you have considered this,' Huss said, 'but if Sigmar and I divert to meet the Emperor, who goes to meet the Grand Theogonist? There will be crowds on the street, curious to see Valten, whether they believe him to be Sigmar reborn or not—'
'They don't,' Holger said.
'—and they must not be disappointed.'
'But they have never seen Valten before,' Karl said, 'and few of them have seen you. We send substitutes, people who can fight and defend themselves in case the crusade is attacked.'
'You had someone in mind?'
'Brother Gottschalk. He is tall, his hair is blond and he has muscles. I don't know how he carries a warhammer, but he has the tone of command in his voice when he wants to use it. If he can change his expressions so he doesn't look like a melancholic bullock for fifteen minutes, he will pass.'
'And for me?'
'Friedrich Olsen. One of the Hammers of Sigmar. He has your build, and he is bald.'
Huss shook his head. 'No.'
'No?'
'It must be someone I know well. Someone I can trust to represent me. To be me before the people of Altdorf.'
Karl thought for a second. 'Brother Dominic might be able to carry it off.'
'I want you to do it, Karl.'
He was taken aback. 'Me?'
'You. You have the bearing. I trust you. And if it turns out my trust is misplaced, at least I know where you will be.'
'The Untersuchung trained its members in disguise and mimicry,' Holger added. He was grinning.
'But…' Karl had not anticipated this, and was not ready for it. He had expected to be able to run through the city, monitoring the enemy's movements and reactions, relaying information, coordinating the plan. He could not do that from the head of the crusade. Without his liberty, he wasn't sure the plan would work.
'But people will know it's not you,' he said. 'I'm shorter than you, and ten years younger.'
'I haven't been in Altdorf for five years,' Huss said. 'Your position at the head of the crusade will give you stature. And it is hard to judge your age from your face.'
'I don't know the doctrine of Sigmar. I don't know what to say.'
'A priest's son like you? You know the doctrine; it's written through you like the rings of a tree or the pattern of a bird's plumage. You'll remember it when it's needed. Besides, it's Valten they'll be interested in, not you.'
'But…' He felt himself grasping for straws. 'But I'm not bald.'
'Shave your head,' Holger said. Karl turned horrified eyes to him, to blurt the reason why that was not possible, but stopped himself with the words half-formed and sour in his mouth. This was not the moment to remind these two men of Sigmar that the man in whose trust they were putting their futures was continuing to mutate under the power of Chaos. He swallowed. They could return to this subject later.
'Very well,' he said.
'Good,' Holger said. 'So what is my role in this drama?'
'Return to Altdorf tonight,' Karl said. 'You have to change the place for the Emperor to meet with Valten and Brother Huss.'
Holger's laughter was prolonged. It tailed away into coughing and a silence that pervaded the room. He broke it. 'So I, a witch hunter known mostly for one spectacular failure, stride into the Imperial palace, present your regards to His Imperial Majesty and request that he alter his plans?'
'You use influence,' Karl said.
'I already persuaded Brother Karin to use her influence to set up this meeting,' Holger said. 'Why would she do it again?'
'She won't,' Karl said. 'Besides, her influence lies within the Order of Sigmar and the church. You need to speak to someone who has influence with the Emperor.'
'Who?'
'Herr Doktor Kunstler.'
He had expected more laughter. The silence was dead and deafening.
'Who?' Huss said, breaking the void.
'Are you saying that the Purple Hand has the Emperor's ear?' Holger demanded.
'No,' Karl said. 'The Purple Hand never get that close to actual power; it makes them too easy to discover. But Kunstler has the ear of someone who can speak to the Emperor. And that someone is Balthasar Gelt, the Supreme Patriarch of the Colleges of Magic.'
'How?' Holger demanded.
'Because, like Balthasar Gelt, Kunstler is a member of the Golden College. That's where he's staying. I don't know what name he uses there but ask the porter for the wizard recently arrived from the north.'
'In Sigmar's name,' Holger said. 'The leader of the Chaos cult is one of the Empire's battle-wizards?'
Karl nodded. 'Think about it. If a young wizard goes renegade from the colleges, he's tracked down and executed. The best thing for a cultist to do is to stay a member and work from the inside.'
'It makes sense,' Holger said. 'But how do I—?'
'You pretend to be a Purple Hand cultist, recruited by the late Brother Heilemann. Tell Kunstler that Heileman was assassinated by members of another Tzeentch cult who had discovered the plan. Tell him the plan must be changed. Suggest a new venue. And tell him that once the Emperor has agreed, he is to give word to you, and you will send messengers to Emilie Trautmann, and she will tell the cultists within the crusade.'
'What if it doesn't go according to plan?' Holger asked. 'What if he doesn't believe me?'
'Make him believe you,' Karl said. 'All of this depends on it.'
'What then?'
'Send word if you can. No, don't.' He thought for a moment, reconsidering. 'Tell nobody else. Meet us at the city gate and tell us where the new location is.'
Holger nodded. 'And then we'll arrest Herr Doktor Kunstler.'
'No. Not till the meeting is over. As soon as the Purple Hand realise they've been deceived and betrayed then they'll throw their weight behind the rest of the Convocation of Darkness and will try to destroy Valten. He needs to be under the Emperor's protection before that happens. Hold off as long as you can. But I promised you a bigger prize in exchange for Oswald, and he is it.'
'No,' Holger said. 'The prize you promised me was the witch hunter who betrayed me and betrayed the Order of Sigmar. The witch hunter from Priestlicheim.'
'I did,' Karl said. 'I will give you your brother's name when Kunstler is taken or killed.'
Holger nodded. Huss grunted. 'There's a lot that could go wrong,' he said. 'What if the Purple Hand smells a trap? They have a high-ranking Gold College wizard.'
'So do we.' Karl indicated Oswald's unconscious form on the bed. 'Now, I have detained you both too long. I'll stay here with Oswald. Bring the crusade here to Gluckshalt tomorrow evening. We'll meet here and make the final plans.'
'What else can we do?' Holger asked.
'Make your preparations. Tell only those who need to know. And pray for our success.'

WHEN THEY HAD gone, Karl sat on the bed and looked down at Oswald. The old man seemed to be sleeping, but the lines carved across his bare chest were horribly raw and vivid. The scars would be deep and would last as long as he lived, and the wounds in his mind would be the same. Karl had been tortured by the witch hunters himself and it had destroyed the man he used to be. Would Oswald be up to the task of defending Huss and Valten from the cultists and forces of the Grand Theogonist who might assail them? Would he even be conscious in time?
Only time would say. Meanwhile, he had some healing of his own to do, and before that he needed to harm himself.
He lifted the candlestick from beside Oswald's bed and carried it to the pine table against the far wall of the room. He covered the scrubbed pine surface with a double-folded sheet, adjusted the small mirror - polished metal, he noted, not mercury under glass - and poured water from the jug into the white pottery bowl.
He took his last throwing-knife from his belt, the one he had hurled at Brother Martinus that morning, and tested its edge against his thumb. He had sharpened it in Altdorf before Oswald was arrested, and the flat steel had kept its edge. A thin line of blood began to ooze from the hair-slit in his skin. He watched it intensely. Was it closing up? Was it healing? How long did it take?
How much blood was he about to lose?
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, remembering another inn room a year and a half ago, sitting with a bowl of water, unwrapping the cloth around his neck for the first time. He had been expecting to see scar tissue, a healed knife-wound. Instead, the sight of the mouth had driven him mad for a while. Mad, and then it had killed him, shredding the man that Karl Hoche had been before, wiping the slate bare and giving him a new life and a new purpose to fill it with. The memories that still haunted him were just that: memories, ghosts in the mind of a dead man, and he ignored them when he could.
He tried to ignore the memory of his father's face, his horrified expression looking down at his son, watching what should have been a mortal wound heal itself. Was there strength in such memories, a strength he could tap and use? Maybe there was, maybe at some time. But not now.
He held up his hand, holding the knife at an angle, ready to take the first slice. The cut on his thumb had healed. He studied the thin scar, and for a second found his concentration drowned in a flash-flood of self-doubts. Who was he, to march into Altdorf at the head of the largest crusade seen in the Empire for centuries? To stand before the Grand Theogonist? To stand beside Valten, who might be the bearer of the spirit of Sigmar? Even to plan these things. He was nobody. He was a low soldier, the son of Magnus Hoche, a smalltown priest. He had some expertise on the battlefield, and a little knowledge of the ways of Chaos. He was not worthy. He was not able.
No. He pushed the thoughts down, into the depths from where they had sprung. They were Karl Hoche's thoughts, and though he still used Karl Hoche's name and face and memories, he was a new man. He had to be. Hoche had been weak. He had to be strong.
Strength was one of the few things he had left.
He gripped the haft of the knife in his right hand, pulled a wad of hair tight with his left, and sliced through it close to the root. A shower of blood-drops fell into the water bowl, forming spirals and twists like red smoke in air, and he grimaced. There would be a lot more of that before he was finished.
There was. He had to stop twice, to let the pain of the cuts ebb away, and let the bleeding roots on his scalp begin to heal, so the steady streams of blood that ran over his ears, down his face and over his chin and neck could ease to a trickle and dry. Then he would wash it off slowly, regaining his strength, and would resume the process of cutting and shaving.
By the end the candle had burned down two inches, the knife was blunt and his whole head was red with crusted blood, the bowl filled with clumps of hair matted together with blood, the sheet he had used to protect the table stiff with his blood. He was exhausted. But as he washed himself for a final time and examined his smooth scalp in the mirror, he had to admit that Huss had a good eye. Their skulls were roughly the same shape. He might be able to pass for the warrior-priest.
Once again, for a second, the scheme felt like madness and he wanted to flee, to have nothing more to do with it. But he was so far in now that it was easier to go on than turn back: the far bank was closer than the one he had left. And he knew he could never go back. The person who was Karl Hoche was lost to him, swept away by the current of history. There was nowhere to go but onwards, into the future, one hour at a time.
He would dispose of the hair and the bloodied sheet in the morning. He could not simply pour it out of the window or into a drain in the courtyard outside. Some stable dog might lick up his tainted blood and become infected with the same plague that had touched him. He had learned to live with his fate but he would not wish it on another living thing, not even a dog.
There were still hours till dawn. Oswald's slow, shallow breaths were like a pulse, strangely comforting. Karl looked at the old priest, feeling sorrow and sympathy for him, then blew out the candle, and lay down on the floor, and lay still, and did not sleep.

'WHERE AM I?'
Karl was on his feet in a second, leaning over the bed. The voice was Oswald's, faint but unmistakable. He had feared he would never hear it again.
The room was dark, no light creeping in through gaps in the shutters. It must still be night. He could see nothing at all.
'Rest, Oswald. Don't move. You're badly hurt,' he said.
'Karl?'
'Yes, it's me. You're outside Altdorf, safe, back with the crusade. Sleep.'
The voice was weak, almost plaintive. 'Karl?'
'Yes, Oswald?'
'I'm sorry I let them take me alive. I tried to cut my throat but they took the knife away too fast. You must have worried.'
'Don't worry, old friend,' Karl said.
'But you must have worried.'
'I did,' Karl said, 'I did,' and he found tears pricking from the corners of his eyes. For a moment he did not recognise the feeling, it had been so long since he had last cried. He only cried a little now.
'You must rest,' he said, and there was no more sound from the bed except the low sighs of the old man's breathing. Karl settled back down on the floor.
'Karl?'
'Yes, Oswald?'
'Why did you save me?'
Because you're my friend, he thought. Because you were under my protection. Because in saving you, Holger proved himself trustworthy. Because it'll annoy Brother Karin. Because I could not save my father from the anguish I caused him.
'Because we're going to need a spellcaster,' he said. 'Now sleep.'

Chapter Thirteen
CRY WOLF



OSWALD WOKE AROUND noon, weak and in pain. Karl calmed him and called down to the inn's kitchens for some soup or gruel to feed him, but by the time it arrived the old wizard had fallen back to sleep. Karl sat at the end of the bed and watched him, wishing there was something more he could do.
At least the cuts on his scalp had healed.
The crusade arrived at Gluckshalt an hour before sunset, the village filling up and overflowing with bodies, the temple crowded with men eager to see the glories of the stained glass above the high altar and its rood screen carved by Hawkslay. Karl wanted to go out to meet them, to speak to old friends and discuss the strategy for the morrow, but he was afraid of being recognised and denounced, and afraid of leaving Oswald alone. He listened to the voices outside the window and waited for Huss to come to him.
When the door opened it was not Huss who came in, but a man Karl remembered from the crusade, a portly greybeard who had said few words but whose facial expressions as he had watched Huss's conversations had spoken volumes. Now he glanced in Karl's direction, acknowledging him with the scantest of nods, then looked at Oswald's crumpled shape on the bed, pulled his Sigmarite talisman from around his neck and a jar of salve from one pocket, and began incantations in a soft western accent.
By the time Huss arrived Oswald was awake, his wounds semi-healed under a glistening layer of salve that smelled of tree-sap and lamp oil. The old man had not said a word, but winced every so often as the portly priest's hands crossed a spot that was still sensitive. When he had woken at the first touch of the priest's fingers, he had met Karl's eyes with such a look of sadness and tiredness that Karl had felt compelled to look away. It had been less than a week since they had seen each other, but Oswald looked ten years older.
Huss smelled of fresh sweat and the mud of the road. 'Come outside, Karl,' he said, 'leave the healer to his work. The ale they serve downstairs is good, and tastes better in the fresh air.'
'No,' Karl said. 'I should stay here. It will be dark soon and my eyes would give me away. Besides, I have too many enemies among the crusaders, people who would unmask me, or try to arrest me, or spread word that I was here. We cannot give our enemies any reason to attack us, or to prevent us from entering the city. And this close to the capital, there will be agents from every branch of the army and the church among your men, watching and reporting back to Altdorf.'
'You know the ways that these people operate better than I do,' Huss said. 'When I feel I shouldn't be trusting you, I remember that.'
'Do you not trust me often?' Karl asked.
'I trust few men often,' Huss said, 'and nobody all the time. Priests of Sigmar put their faith in Sigmar, and nobody else.'
'Even Sigmar has let you down from time to time,' Karl said.
Huss cocked a dark eyebrow. Karl noticed for the first time that there were grey hairs in it, alongside the black.
'You think so?' Huss said. 'You do not believe that all that has happened in the last few months is part of a grand scheme, a road that leads us onwards into history and glory, to restore Sigmar to the throne of the Empire? You do not feel the hand of destiny tugging at your collar, leading you to your role within this drama?'
'I do,' Karl said, 'but I am less sure than you about who is pulling on my reins.'
'And you question me when I say I don't trust you,' Huss said. 'But you're right, you don't need to go anywhere. All the preparations are in place. You and Gottschalk will lead the crusade through the city, and the pikemen will follow immediately after the two of you, blocking their view, so the rest of the crusaders won't guess it's not my bald pate they're following.' He tapped the top of Karl's head. 'You look good, bald. Though a tip: rub two drops of oil over your scalp in the morning. Makes it glisten and helps sweat run off it. And don't stand in the sun too long.'
'Will we have sun?'
'Brother Dominic says we will, and he should know.'
A silence. The rotund priest's chanting rose to fill it.
'What word from the city?' Karl asked.
'None.'
'None? No reports of troops outside the gates, or of preparations for our arrival? No word from Holger, the witch hunter?'
'No reports. We've spoken to a few travellers, but…'
'Did you not send any men ahead to see if we're walking into a trap? No scouts? No advance guard?' Karl felt the rising note in his own voice, but did not try to still it. Hadn't they had this discussion once before?
'No.' Huss's voice was calm. 'We are the Crusade of the Risen Sigmar. We have come too far to turn around now. Whether there are traps or troops waiting for us, tomorrow we enter Altdorf.' Karl was about to speak, to interject, to protest, but Huss held up a finger to silence him. 'And,' he said, 'it is not what Sigmar would do.'
'Sigmar?'
'Yes. Sigmar the warrior-king would not scout ahead. He would march into battle and take the foe as he found them.'
'Are you sure that's what Sigmar would do?' Karl said. 'Have you asked him?'
'What?'
'Have you asked Valten what he thinks?'
'I… No.'
Karl leaned in towards the priest. 'I thought you found him so he could lead the forces of righteousness against the Empire's enemies,' he said, and his voice was cold and hard. 'When did you plan to let him start?'



HUSS WENT. IN a few minutes he came back to the room and indicated that Karl should come downstairs. Karl did, entering the wide front parlour of the inn with its tables and stools. The crusade's presence seemed to have frightened off the inn's regular trade but had not replaced it with fresh bodies to fill the rooms: the crusaders had either joined Huss's procession penniless, or the savings they had brought had been reduced to nothing over the past months.
Huss sat at a window-seat, angled so he could watch the comings and goings on the street outside through the lead-diamond panes. On one side of him Valten sat, sprawled, one leg up on a stool and the other stretched out in front of him, a large tankard half-filled with ale lolling in his hand. A pretty serving-girl watched him from the other side of the room, ready to dart across with her ale-jug and a comment, a joke or a sly smile.
On the other side of Huss sat Brother Martinus. For a few seconds he did not recognise Karl. When he did his body tensed, poised to get up, but he did not move from his seat. Nor did he acknowledge Karl's arrival with a nod or a greeting. Valten, on the other hand, came awkwardly to his feet, extending a hand. Karl took it and shook it. The young man had a powerful grip and a smile that would have been winning if his teeth had been a better colour.
'Valten, this is Magnusson, otherwise known as Karl Hoche,' Huss said. 'He's the man who unmasked the servants of Chaos at the camp the other day.'
Valten nodded. 'Grateful,' he said. 'I don't remember much of it, though that dark-haired one, she promised a good deal, I do recall. I'm sorry the one I punched died.'
'He did, did he?' Karl looked at Huss.
'He had a little help. Trying to get answers out of a man with a broken jaw takes skills we didn't have,' the priest said.
Karl paused. Huss was able to torture a prisoner for information without qualms, but baulked at sending scouts ahead? There was much he did not know about the man, he realised, and at this stage of the plan that worried him. 'Did you ask him yet?' he said.
'You do it,' Huss said.
Karl turned to face the young man before him. 'Valten,' he said, 'I need your advice. Do you think we should send men forward, to the walls of Altdorf, to see what preparations the city has made for our arrival tomorrow?'
Valten considered, swigged ale and considered some more. 'Aye,' he said. 'They know we're coming so we don't risk being discovered. They may capture our men so make sure to send men who don't know anything. Eyes, not brains. But aye, send someone. Two would be better.'
Karl nodded. Huss looked uncomfortable. Martinus was suddenly on his feet. 'I'll go,' he said.
'Martinus, no,' Huss said.
'Yes. I know what to look for, I know how to appraise troop numbers and judge defences. I was six years a knight for the Elector of Stirland, remember. I was at the Battle of Wissendorf.' Karl hadn't known that, and the news took him aback. Martinus did not seem like a soldier. He hid his past well.
'It's too dangerous. You know the plan for tomorrow,' Huss said.
'Yes,' Martinus said, glaring at his leader, 'but I am a warrior-priest of Sigmar and I would rather die than see my enemies succeed.'
'Let him go,' Valten said.
Huss glanced at Karl, a trace of blame in the shape of his eyes, and exhaled. 'Very well,' he said, 'take two men, people you can trust. No weapons or horses. It's five miles, a straight road and there'll be a moon tonight. If you leave now, you should be back by midnight.'
Valten nodded an agreement, and a moment later Karl followed suit, slowly, regretting his idea of asking Valten's opinion. Neither he nor Huss had got the answer they had wanted, and something at the base of his spine made him sense that the answer they had got was not the best solution either.

MARTINUS DID NOT return by midnight, nor by dawn. As the preparations were made for the crusade to leave Gluckshalt, Karl watched Huss as he spoke to his followers and his assistants, giving instruction, advice and words of comfort where they were needed. He had tried to open the subject of Martinus over breakfast but Huss had waved it away without a word, and had stood and left the table, his food untouched.
Had Martinus been intercepted, arrested, even killed? Had he, who had been with the crusade since its earliest days, deserted just as it was about to achieve its goal? Many had deserted, Karl knew: the faithful who had expected more from Sigmar reborn than a blacksmith's son with a Reikland burr in his voice when he chose to speak, which wasn't often. But it wasn't that. It wasn't any of those things.
Huss was afraid that Martinus had turned traitor, had arrived at Altdorf and gone to the authorities to report every detail of their plans. And when Karl realised it, he was afraid too. Partly for the implications for what lay ahead that day, and partly because the thought was obviously distracting Huss from the job of leadership. He had a lot to do before the crusade got underway, and he was not dealing well with the idea that he might have been betrayed.
All this Karl deduced, watching Huss from under the loose hood of a priest's cloak, following a discreet distance behind the leader as he made his way from tent to tent and campfire to campfire. Off in the huddle of houses and buildings that made up Gluckshalt, a hundred yards away, the locals were beginning to come out into the fields. A few hung back, wanting to bring their livestock back onto the common land where the crusade had camped. Although the day was warm and the early sun was burning off the shreds of clouds overhead to reveal a pale blue sky, the damp ground had been churned up overnight by hundreds of feet. There would be little grazing here for the rest of the season.
Huss had located Gottschalk and was speaking to him. Gottschalk nodded and shouted an order, and the pikemen began to walk towards the road, forming into ranks as they did. The other crusaders slowly stowed the last of their gear, shouldered their packs and followed suit. Huss stood and watched. It was safe to approach him: there was nobody around to overhear the conversation, so Karl approached him.
'Aren't you going to speak to them?' he said.
'What for?' Huss said without turning. 'We've already had morning prayers, and we need to be moving.'
'Rouse their spirits, steel them for what lies ahead. The city's only five miles and we're not due there till noon. You can spare a few minutes. You must speak to them.'
'Three things,' Huss said. 'First, the city guard are expecting us around noon. We will be there an hour early, so that if they have any surprises waiting, we get there first. Second, these are not soldiers, they're priests, monks, holy men. They're not disciplined, they're apprehensive enough about entering Altdorf, and the one thing I'm not going to do is give them a reason to be more nervous and liable to panic. And third, while I am grateful for the services you have rendered, and the planning you have put into this, remember always that I am in charge of this crusade and this day's work, I escort the man who is Sigmar, and you are here only on my sufferance. Never tell me what I should or should not do. Never.'
He turned to look at Karl and Karl looked away, unable to meet the tall man's eyes. He had presumed too much. But it was clear that if Huss was worried that his forces might be apprehensive about entering Altdorf, the man himself was weighed down with pressure. The months on the road had taken their toll. Karl had seen the first signs of the stress Huss was feeling in that darkened hut in Rottfurt, and this matter with Martinus had been the last in a long sequence of heavy blows. Karl hoped he would not crack with the strain. Without him, the crusade would disintegrate.

THE WALLS OF Altdorf were higher and more forbidding than Karl remembered. No forces were arrayed outside to meet the crusaders, but they were somewhere: nobody brought a force of two thousand men to the gates of the Empire's capital without some kind of reception being prepared. Huss had thought to take the city by surprise, but Altdorf had had two and a half thousand years to prepare for that sort of thing.
The city gates, however, were open: both inner and outer sets. The usual armed guards were standing outside them. The road ahead seemed clear, though a few people were leaving the city, on horseback or on foot, and then immediately turning off the main road to give the crusaders a wide berth. Karl scanned the crenellation of the city walls, looking for bowmen or assassins, but there was no sign of any unusual movement. He knew they were being observed, but their watchers were keeping a low profile.
The day was hot, and under the heavy wool of his hooded cloak Karl felt sweat trickling down over his naked scalp. The metal armour he wore under his robes was heavy after a five-mile march, and he let it weigh him down, making him stoop a little: at this moment the less recognisable he was the better. Beside him, Huss grunted and shouldered his warhammer. Next to him walked Brother Dominic, Valten and Gottschalk, who was wearing a hood similar to Karl's. From behind them came the steady beat of the marching feet of the pikemen: slightly irregular, not up to the standard of real soldiers, but better than they had been when Karl had trained them. Behind the pikemen came the body of the crusade, then the coach in which Oswald, sat, still weak from his wounds. The Hammers of Sigmar brought up the rear.
Conversation had been slow when they started out, and had dropped quickly. Now they walked, five men, followed by thousands with every step and thought, and Karl was pressed with the increasing worry that they did not know what they were doing. They knew where they were going, but they did not know what they would do when they got there.
Huss was silent, tense, his eyes firmly ahead, a figure of solid determination in his distinctive suit of armour, the metal band he wore around his bald head glinting with sunlight and sweat. Dominic's eyes were on Huss, and occasionally on Karl, and he seemed to want to say something but never did. Gottschalk's face was covered by his hood but from the way he mopped his brow and the tension in his pose, Karl could tell he was not enjoying the moment and not looking forward to the rest of the morning.
The only person who seemed to be comfortable, or at least at peace, was Valten. He strode ahead, glancing around him with curiosity and interest but not fear, carrying his warhammer one-handed. He could have been a woodsman setting out into the forest for a day's work, not approaching the gates of the capital city of the Empire. They had exchanged few words along the way, but Karl already felt himself in quiet awe of this man, still in his teens, who exuded such quiet confidence and self-assurance; not arrogance, just faith in his own abilities. Was he truely Sigmar? Perhaps or perhaps not, but he was born to be a leader of men, and that was what the crusade needed now. To say nothing of the Empire.
They were less than a hundred yards from the gate now. Perhaps Huss's tactic of arriving early had worked. Karl stared ahead, trying to make out if there was a crowd or an army waiting for them on the other side. There were figures, but he couldn't tell how many or whether they were in uniform. The inner gates were part closed. That could be hiding anything, but it could also work for them.
They walked into the shadow of the wall, towards the darkness of the archway through the fifteen feet of stonework that separated Altdorf from the world it governed. The four guards moved into the road, crossing their halberds to block their way. Huss glanced at Gottschalk, who turned to face his men, held up a hand and barked an order. Karl could hear the pikemen come to a halt behind them.
The guards did not move or speak. Beneath their helmets, their eyes were guarded and wary.
'Let us pass,' Huss said. 'We have an audience with the Emperor.'
There was no movement. The barrier they presented looked to be only symbolic, but Karl knew that if the crusaders made a single hostile move, Altdorf's defences would be alerted and they would be lucky to get twenty feet beyond the gate. Breaking through was not an option. And Huss, for all his skill at arguing theological topics and points of doctrine, was not a great negotiator.
Then a figure slipped through the gap between the inner doors and walked up behind the guards. Karl recognised the uniform before he recognised the man.
'Let them pass,' said Anders Holger.
The guard sergeant turned. 'Sorry sir, I have orders.'
'Overruled by this.' Holger handed him a letter. 'They are to pass. Orders of the Grand Theogonist.'
The guard glanced at the words, and at the heavy seal, then motioned to his men and they withdrew. Karl and the other four stepped forward into the archway. Karl pulled back the hood of his cloak, undid its ties and pulled it off, exposing the battered armour he wore underneath. He passed the cloak to Huss, who passed him the breastplate he had been wearing, with its distinctive insignia and markings. He began to strap it on.
'Anders,' he said. 'What news?'
'Good for the crusade,' Holger said, 'but bad for you.'
'What?'
'The meeting is rearranged. The Emperor and the Grand Theogonist will be waiting in the Grand Theogonist's palace. Do you know the way?'
Valten shook his head. Huss looked up, his fingers still busy with the fastenings of Karl's robe.
'No,' he said.
'Then I'll come with you. Now, Karl.' Holger turned to him. 'A man came to the chapter-house last night, asking to see Brother Karin. He claimed to be one of Huss's lieutenants.'
'Slim, pale, bushy eyebrows and hairy hands, named Martinus Delberz?' Huss asked.
'The same. He told us that you would be taking Huss's place for the march through the city, and if the witch hunters wished to capture you and discredit the crusade in one move, that would be the moment. The forces are already in place. You will be taken in Gendarmenmarkt.'
The world around him froze and crumbled. Karl stood alone at its centre, unable to move, unable to digest the words. He stared into Holger's solemn face and saw his own death, imminent and inevitable, written there. Dimly he was aware of Huss's voice saying, 'Martinus? Martinus gave up the plan?' and Dominic saying, 'Can we rearrange it? Can someone else go?' and Valten, with a voice like the click of a door locking, saying, 'No, there is no time and nobody else. Each man has his part. Without Karl we are all lost.' But he didn't move. Something burned in his brain.
'What time did Martinus come to you?' he asked Holger.
'Around midnight. A few minutes before. I remember the bells ringing as he spoke to Brother Karin.'
'But he left Gluckshalt in mid-evening. He would have been in Altdorf at least an hour before midnight.' Huss said.
'The witch hunters were his second destination. He went to see someone else first,' Karl said. 'Anders, did he mention anyone else? His old regiment?'
'No,' Holger said. 'He said he had just arrived.'
'Then who?' Huss asked.
Karl turned to him. 'Luthor, when Emilie and her colleagues came to the crusade, did you speak to them first? Or did Martinus bring them into the camp?'
'Martinus met them on the road, and…' The warrior-priest's normally strident voice tailed off into a croak. 'You think that…?' he asked.
'I don't know,' Karl said. 'I don't know.' It was hard to believe Martinus had been an agent for the Purple Hand, though it was how the cult would work - place a person close to the leader, in a position that would give him some responsibility and a lot of influence. But Brother Martinus? He had seemed so trustworthy. Perhaps that was the point.
'I'm not saying that he was a cultist,' he said, 'but we should assume that the Purple Hand know our plans, and also that Emilie and her scheme failed. They know they won't get a second chance at converting Valten to their side. And they have a wizard trained by the Golden College with them.' Karl reached over and removed the metal circlet from Huss's head, placing it over his own. It was warm.
Huss glanced at him, then pulled the hood of the robe up over his head, becoming just another priest.
'Witch hunters after you,' Gottschalk said, 'followers of Chaos after me - how much worse can the Purple Hand make things?'
'They have at least one powerful wizard. A member of the Golden College.'
Karl looked at Huss, and caught sight of the man's eyes under the hood of his cloak. There was a haunted, hunted look in them that he had not seen since Rottfurt, and if there was any spare space in his heart not already filled with apprehension and terror, it was now filled with dread. He would have to be Luthor Huss in more than appearance; Martinus's betrayal had plunged the true Huss back into his world of self-doubt and it was down to him, the pretender, to take the lead now. His mind churned, thoughts spilling one on top of the other, solidifying, becoming coherent.
'Don't get in the coach,' he said. 'It'll be the obvious target for any cultists. Get Oswald out as it passes. Get him to cast all the protective spells he has, and keep them running. Blend with the crusaders as far as you can, then make your own way to the Theogonist's palace. Take a roundabout route. You know the way?'
'I'll take them,' Holger said.
'Shouldn't you be in Gendarmenmarkt,' Karl said, 'arresting me?'
Holger smiled humourlessly. 'Shouldn't you be on your way there?' He swept back his cloak, as if about to draw a sword, and Karl noticed he had two scabbards strapped to his belt. He untied one of them and held it out.
'Your sword,' he said. 'The one we took when we captured Oswald Maurer. I thought you might need it. It's a fine blade, fit for a general.'
'It ought to be,' Karl said. 'I stole it from one.' He took it in both hands, feeling its familiar weight, then passed it back. 'Thank you, but no. Luthor Huss does not carry a sword, and today I must be Huss. Keep it for when you keep your promise.'
'My promise?'
'You said you would kill me one day. I expect you to keep your word.'
Holger, brow furrowed, took back the sword. Huss passed Karl his warhammer and the transformation was complete: a bald, heavily armoured warrior-priest of Sigmar and a blond-haired man with bulky muscles, wearing the clothes of a rural blacksmith. Next to them, two anonymous priests in black, hooded robes.
'We have to move,' Huss said from under his hood. 'To wait any longer will invite suspicion.'
Karl nodded. Huss raised his head so his eyes were visible, staring at his lookalike.
'You don't have to do this, you know,' he said. 'Gottschalk can go alone. Or we can march in unafraid, with Sigmar and I at the head of the crusade. This way means death for you.'
'Look at me,' Karl said. 'I am an abomination. With every day, Chaos takes a little more of my body, and a little more of my mind. I will see you safe to the Emperor's door, and then I trust that Brother Anders will use that sword to do his duty. I will welcome death, if it comes with honour.'
Huss held his gaze for a moment more, then pulled his hood down over his face. 'As you say,' he said.
'I have to go,' Holger said. 'Questions will be asked if I am away from Gendarmenmarkt too long. Karl, I hope you can come up with a new plan.'
'I have a new plan,' Karl said. 'I'm going to stay the hell away from Gendarmenmarkt.'

THEY WALKED OUT from the shadow of the gate-arch, two men followed by two thousand. The streets of Altdorf were waiting for them, lined with people two or three deep, watching, expectant. Karl had expected noise, cheers or shouts or taunts, but there was little of that.
What noise should you make when you see a man who may be your god? Nobody seemed to know. There were murmurs, whispered conversations, and sometimes the sound of chanted prayers, just audible above four thousand marching feet on cobblestones.
Karl felt the crowd's eyes on him and Gottschalk. What did Altdorf make of them? He tried to mimic the way that Huss would walk: the long, confident stride, the slight sway of the shoulders, the relaxed grip on the warhammer, the head held up, the eyes fearless, the mind calm. It did not come easily to him. He walked on.
There is no street that runs directly between the south-west gate and the cathedral square. Uhlandstrasse runs north-east from the gate meeting Hermannstrasse beside the forbidding granite walls of the Emperor's palace. Hermannstrasse runs for several hundred yards through some of the most prosperous areas of Altdorf, then turns a sharp left beside the barracks of the Knights Panther, and heads north. It is wide and lined with the sort of properties that can afford to be on a such a street: inns and hostelries, guild halls, regimental headquarters, the bases of religious orders and the offices of the Empire's major trading families who want their clients to forbear the squalor of the docks. The houses present frontages like their owners: tall, fashionable, well appointed, yet with a solidity and demeanour that shows a superiority borne of money, class and the great weight of history.
Along its route the street passes through two road junctions wide enough to be termed squares: Eischmarkt and Kirchplatz, as well as two crossroads with other major streets and a miscellany of side streets and alleys, cut-throughs and mews. Each one was blocked off by groups of soldiers, weapons drawn, and crowds behind them. 'Their faces were impassive and implacable, their eyes fixed on him. They knew something; they had been warned. Karl's first thoughts after he had heard Holger's news had been to turn aside along the route, slipping away down an alleyway, but he saw this was impossible, and his heart sank.
They entered Hermannstrasse. Karl watched the crowd. Everyone, it seemed, was there: young and old; Imperial and foreigner; human, dwarf, elf and halfling. After the Convocation of Light had broken up and its members spread across the Empire to raise their armies, there must have been few parades, little for the citizens to look at. They blocked possible escape-routes as surely as if they had been soldiers, or piles of corpses. Karl would do nothing that might lead the innocent to harm. He hoped the witch hunters would have the same forbearance.
They passed along Hermannstrasse. Karl paused a second, staring at the left-hand branch of the wide mouth of Uhlandstrasse leading away to the north-west. That was the route that Valten and Huss needed to go, but the soldiers had dragged wagons and barrows to block the way. He caught Gottschalk's eye, and they turned to the right, the south-east, hearing the rattle of raised pikes clashing in the air as their small army behind them changed direction abruptly.
Karl knew this area. Ahead, he could see the high stone walls of the Knights Panther barracks, and hoped that none of its soldiers would be stationed along the route. Obviously the plan was to lure him into Gendarmenmarkt, and ambush him there, but the Knights Panthers' dislike for him was strong enough that they might try something. Karl's discoveries had placed an indelible stain on the reputation of their Order, and while killing him would not wipe it clean, it would go a little way to helping them feel better.
Staring ahead, to the point where the Hermannstrasse turned left to Gendarmenmarkt, he could not see any of the Panthers' distinctive uniforms or banners. The narrower road that led straight ahead was blocked by men in Reiksguard colours. Beyond them, the angular steeple of the temple of Saint Botolphus soared above the jagged rooftops.
Karl stared at it, and knew his next move.
The lack of noise was unnerving. Once, shortly after the Battle of Wissendorf when Karl had been promoted to lieutenant, he had marched with his regiment through Altdorf. They had been cheered until the sound rang from the city walls; citizens had thrown flowers and waved flags, and when he had come back to the city a month later he had not needed to pay for a single drink for the length of his stay. This time, he felt he was not being celebrated but scrutinised. Not a glorious victor, but a fanatic, a possible heretic, a man who might be the saviour of the Empire, or burnt at a stake before the week was out. Perhaps there were some in the crowd who might have spoken out, or cheered, if they had not feared the scorn of their neighbours and the justice of the witch hunters. But, he reminded himself, perhaps there were cultists too, aiming crossbows at him even at this moment.
The ranks of Reiksguard soldiers stood like fenceposts, static and impassive in their dark chainmail vests, only their eyes moving under their helmets as Karl and Gottschalk approached them. Clearly the troops expected the two men, their phalanx of pikemen and the throng of crusaders following them to turn left and proceed up Hermannstrasse and into Gendarmenmarkt. They did not.
'Stand aside!' Karl demanded, raising a hand. His voice was a little high for Huss, and a little strained. He tried again. 'In the name of Sigmar, stand aside!'
The soldiers stood firm, but a couple of them looked less certain of themselves and their solidity. From twenty yards down the street, a young officer left the ranks and came towards them.
'Proceed on to the cathedral square,' he said. The tone of command was strong, but underlaid with a layer of nerves.
Karl squared his shoulders. No, not his shoulders; Luthor Huss's shoulders. 'We have been in the wilderness a hundred days and nights. We have endured attacks from the ungodly and the Chaos-driven. We have seen our comrades cut down beside us. We have found this man, reborn. And now—' he let his voice, Huss's voice, grow in his chest, following the natural stresses of the words '—before we present ourselves before the grace of the Emperor, we must clean ourselves of the dirt of the road, and we must pray.'
He raised the warhammer as Huss would have, single-handed, at arm's length, to point over the heads of the assembled soldiers, to the steeple of Saint Botolphus's beyond.
'Stand aside!'
He never knew if Gottschalk had given a signal or if it was purely his voice that did it, but behind him a hundred pikes swept down into the horizontal position to repel an attack - or to make one. In front of him a few of the Reiksguard raised their swords, though their faces said they knew it was a futile gesture. Karl kept his glare on the face of the young officer, focusing calm power on him.
The officer held on for a moment, then his eyes dropped and he took a pace backwards. 'Stand aside,' he ordered, and the soldiers moved back, and the crowds moved with them. The road opened, and Karl and Gottschalk walked on towards Saint Botolphus's as if they had been waiting for a farmer's cart to move out of their way.

SAINT BOTOLPHUS'S WAS not a large temple, but it was built solidly enough to repel a siege. Karl hoped it would not come to that, but there was no question that word would have reached the witch hunters in Gendarmenmarkt that their plan had been diverted, and they would be on their way to the temple. He might have exchanged one hopeless situation for another, but at least this time he would not be walking into a trap, and every second that the forces of Empire spent converging around this building was another second for Huss and Valten to make their way to the Grand Theogonist's palace, and the Emperor.
He splashed water from the font on his face and looked around. Gottschalk was up by the high altar, praying with two of the temple's resident priests. A few other men from the crusade had entered, but the pikemen were still outside, guarding the entrance. He didn't know what the other crusaders had done or where they had gone, but the crush of their crowd would make it harder for the witch hunters to manoeuvre through the streets. All in all, this was a good position to be in, for now, strategically speaking. All he had to do was work out how he was going to get out of it alive.
'Karl!'
The shout startled him from his thoughts, and not just because it was his name. It was a voice he had hoped to not hear again that day. It was Luthor Huss, running down the central aisle towards him, pulling back the hood of his cloak. Valten was hard behind him. Further back, leaning on a pillar by the temple's entrance, was Oswald. He looked out of breath and pale.
Karl struggled to find words. 'What are you doing here?' He could see the note of panic in Huss's eyes again.
'It was hopeless,' the warrior-priest said. 'They were waiting. All the roads were blocked off by soldiers; they wouldn't let us past for any reason. And we knew the cultists were there. They attacked the carriage first—'
'What happened?'
'One wheel collapsed. Very cunning, but too convenient to be an accident. Then we saw people joining the crusaders from the side of the road, dressed like us. They were going from man to man, pulling back hoods and checking faces. So we ran forward.' He looked around. 'This was a good plan.'
'It was meant to buy you time, not give you sanctuary,' Karl said. Possibilities flashed through his mind: witch hunters assaulting the temple or cutting them off inside until they surrendered; cultists somehow destroying the building; he and Gottschalk going back outside to distract the witch hunters while Huss and Valten made another attempt to reach the Emperor; Huss taking the pikemen and leaving him defenceless. None of them contained more than a shred of a chance of success.
He turned to Huss. 'Any ideas?'
Huss was silent, lost in thought. Karl observed him for a moment more then, realising that no answer would be coming for a while, left him and walked down the aisle to the back of the temple, where Oswald had slumped onto a wooden bench. He looked drained and exhausted.
'Enjoying the walking tour of Altdorf?' he asked.
Oswald looked up. 'Leave me here,' he said. 'I will only hold you back. Leave me.'
'And let the witch hunters carry on where they left off?' Karl asked. 'You're coming with us if I have to carry you.' He paused. 'Oswald, I know you're tired and still recovering from your wounds. If it's needed, can you perform your magic? Cast spells?'
'A little,' Oswald said. 'I think. Nothing highly charged. Some wards and protections, perhaps.'
Karl nodded, about to say more, but as he was preparing his words he heard the sound of the crowd around the temple change. He stopped, moving in shadow towards the opened door, gesturing to the others to come and see.
The witch hunters were there. He hadn't realised there were so many of them in Altdorf. Beyond the phalanx of pikemen, the wide street outside the temple was corrugated with rows of men in black tunics and silver buttons, high hats and implacable faces, like the darkest night, studded with cold gleaming stars. Their numbers stretched away down the roads on both sides of the temple, surrounding it. They were silent. Behind them, the muddled numbers of the crusaders stretched away into the distance, stilled and neutered.
In the centre of the road was a plinth with a statue of the saint, bareheaded, his features drawn smooth by centuries of rain on his soft stone complexion. One witch hunter had climbed the plinth and stood next to Saint Botolphus, a head and shoulders shorter than the martyr. He stared above the forest of pikes to the temple door, and Karl recognised him.
'Karl Hoche!' Theo Kratz's voice boomed. 'Mutant, heretic and enemy of the Empire, hear my voice! We know you have disguised yourself as Luthor Huss. We know the man with you is not Valten, the man you claim to be Sigmar risen. Leave the temple and surrender yourself to us, or we shall show no mercy to you or your comrades. You have a count of five.'
Karl met Gottschalk's startled gaze. Behind him, Huss and Valten were moving forward towards the door.
'Five.'
Oswald stood up shakily, opened his mouth, didn't say anything. Karl looked from face to face: Gottschalk shocked, Oswald Maurer, Valten unreadable, Huss thoughtful and confident.
'Four.'
'I'm going out,' Huss said.
'What? You can't!' Karl said. 'What about the cultists?'
'Three.'
'Let them take their chances,' Huss said, striding towards the door. Karl grabbed Oswald by the shoulders, turning him to face the sunlight. 'Protective spells, now,' he said. Oswald nodded.
'Two.'
Gottschalk and Valten ran across the marble floor to the door, hard on Huss's heels. Karl almost set off after them, but stopped himself. If he showed his face now, it would all be over.
Outside, Huss's voice was like a landslide.
'I am Luthor Huss,' and the words echoed back from the high buildings in the street, above the silent crowd. 'I have brought a man to meet the Emperor, a man who the prophecies tell will save the Empire in its darkest hour.'
Karl moved around, staying back so he could not be seen from outside, but able to observe Huss and the others. Valten was on one side of him, Gottschalk the other. Valten had given Gottschalk his cloak and the latter wore it, hood over his face.
Behind them, partially obscured by Huss's frame, was Oswald. He was weaving a spell, his hands making patterns in the air. Karl could not see if Theo Kratz or the other witch hunters could see him. It reminded him of the moment outside the walls of Grunburg, where Huss had faced off against Erwin Rhinehart.
'And you will let us through,' Huss proclaimed. There was quiet, and tension, and a sense of expectation. Then Karl's senses jumped, flaring and he knew, suddenly knew, just as he had known at Grunburg, that someone had fired a crossbow.
He wanted to dive forward, to protect Huss or Valten. But if he was seen the witch hunters would signal an attack, and they would all be taken. He must not move. He could not. He did not.
It was a moment that stretched into a thin line running from one of the open windows in the tall tenement building opposite, to its target on the temple steps. With a spray of blood time snapped back into focus. Oswald lurched, his moving hands fell, and he dropped to the ground, a crossbow bolt buried in his throat. Blood sprang from the wound in torrents, cascading down the steps. Karl watched as Huss and Valten stepped back, looking down at Oswald's twitching body. The pikemen stared at the body. Everybody stared as Oswald gasped the last of his life away and died.
Then all hell broke loose.

Chapter Fourteen
TILT



THE PIKE IS not a glamorous weapon, nor one that is easy to use, but its simplicity and functionality has earned it the respect of generals and philosophers alike - the latter praising it for its honesty and lack of guile and claiming that it and the short sword are the only weapons fit for a gentleman's use; the former understanding its strategic potential and the fact that a row of pikemen can hold their own against almost any other force on the battlefield.
For such a simple weapon, its development and history are long. It originates in Tilea, where the armies of the city-states have been using spears and pole-weapons as their primary weapons since the days of the Remans. But it was the mercenaries of the Border Princes who recognised the true potential of the pike, adopted it and made it feared across the Old World. This was several hundred years ago, at a time when heavily-armoured cavalry were the most powerful and respected part of any army's force, and the undisputed rulers of any battlefield. After the mercenaries showed that a square of pikemen could not only withstand a charge by a full force of mounted knights, but could actually break it, the shape of the Empire's armies and the face of its wars were changed forever.
The pike's simplicity of design is deceptive. It is a pole of ash, between fifteen and twenty feet long and less than two inches thick. One end is blunt, the other is finished with steel - the ''pike'' itself, shaped like a dagger-blade and as much as eighteen inches long: sharp-tipped and with honed sides, so it can be used to slash as well as to stab.
It is a cumbersome weapon, and not just in combat. If carried horizontally it vibrates uncomfortably in the hand in time with its bearer's steps and whacks the thighs of anyone walking nearby; if carried vertically it snags on the branches of trees. It is too long to be thrown with any accuracy, or to be used as a quarterstaff or close-fighting weapon by anyone except an expert - though they do exist.
The pike is the great leveller. It makes a peasant the equal of his mounted and armoured lord. The key to its use is discipline: a lone pikeman with some skill and some luck may be able to bring down a horseman, but when formed into a square with several hundred of his fellows, four ranks deep, their pikes lowered to form a forest of steel-tipped shafts, protecting ranks of archers or artillery behind him, and he can stand almost anything. The length of the pike means that several ranks of men can lower their weapons at once, butting the blunt end into the earth, the front ranks kneeling, supporting the haft of their pikes at an angle of around twenty degrees, presenting the enemy with an impenetrable mass of fierce steel blades, all pointed at their throats.
It is worse than madness to charge a square of pikemen, either on foot or on horseback, it is suicide. Two-handed swords and heavy blunt weapons like warhammers may be able to smash some of the shafts, but not enough of them, and most pikemen carry short swords to hack at the few who penetrate the wall of stakes. Any attacker weighed down by enough armour to be protected from the blades is slow enough to be an easy target for longbows, crossbows or the handgunners who often protect the ends of ranks of pikemen.
Moreover, the pike is not an entirely defensive weapon. With training, discipline and officers who know what they are doing, a well organised force of pikemen can launch charges of their own against slower-moving groups of troops. Even with the recent advances in warfare that the Empire has seen: steam tanks; the machines of the dwarfs; the elves' magic and the weird devices of the skaven, one truth remains: about the only thing that can match a square of pikemen on the battlefield is another square of pikemen.
There are disadvantages to using a pike. Its wielders need space to manoeuvre and time to form up their ranks. Something as minor as uneven terrain can throw off the formation of a rank of pikemen and make them vulnerable; and if their flanks are not properly defended then they are vulnerable to attack from the side. If ambushed, surprised, or taken in small groups, they are useless. Pikes depend on quantity and density for their effectiveness, and they are not quick to respond to the changing flow of battle, or attacks from a different direction. While pikes can break a charge, they are in trouble if they come under concerted attack; once the square is breached, it falls apart, collapsing outwards around the breach like a cliff collapsing from the onslaught of the inrushing sea.
Altdorf is an old city, swollen over two thousand years from the town of Reikdorf where Sigmar was first crowned. Its buildings have grown, pushing closer to the thoroughfares and streets, the upper storeys overhanging the cobbles below and blocking out the sunlight. It is an urgent, bustling place, hard enough to get a cart through the crowded streets, let alone two thousand crusaders and priests. There is little room to manoeuvre, the small square outside the temple of Saint Botolphus crowded with Reiksguard soldiers and witch hunters as well as the pikemen of the crusade.
The pikemen have not had an easy day. Their twenty-foot weapons had to be tilted to bring them through the city's south-west gate, and though the soldiers are used to carrying the poles so they do not catch on branches overhanging the road, it is a different matter where the street itself is more like a tunnel, and less wide than their weapon is long. They have kept good discipline in difficult circumstances. They have done their best.
But they have no room to manoeuvre, or to form up. There is a statue in the middle of the square that blocks their pikes and breaks up their formation. Their commander is on the temple steps, too far away for his orders to be heard above the chaos and carnage. The space is so crowded that they cannot even lower their pikes far enough to defend themselves.
History does not record who started it. History, in fact, erases all records of this massacre; this brutal and unnecessary destruction in Saint Botolphus's Square. In the shadow of the other events of this day, this one is just an awkward detail, to be briefly noted and forgotten. In a year nobody will refer to it; in twenty years nobody will remember it; in a century not a single record will show that it ever happened.
The crusade's pikemen are being slaughtered.

KARL, WATCHED MEN he knew, men he had trained, cut down like wheat by the blades of the Order of Sigmar. There were fewer of the black-hatted witch hunters but they were trained for street-fighting, and their wits and weapons were better suited for this kind of battle. The two black-clad forces merged, spilling over each other, one pack slicing through the other like wolves into sheep, or lions into dogs.
Beyond them, crusaders milled frantically down the packed length of Hermannstrasse. In the distance, bringing up the rear of the line, the Hammers of Sigmar fought their way forward through the panicked crowd.
On the steps, Huss seemed transfixed by the unfolding chaos. A warrior-priest he might be, but one not used to this kind of carnage. Yards away, above the heads of the fighters, Theo Kratz clutched the stone arm of Saint Botolphusus and screamed orders, pointing with his sword at the group at the door of the temple.
Karl reached to his hip for a sword that wasn't there. He cursed his decision to give the blade to Holger with a monosyllable, then turned back into the lamp-lit interior of the temple. There had to be something he could use as a weapon.
There was. Above the altar, a great warhammer - a real one, not a painting or a carving. And suddenly the legend of Saint Botolphus snapped into his mind and he knew what it was: the saint's hammer itself, rescued from where it had been embedded in the skull of the dragon he had killed with his dying blow, his scorched corpse still clutching its handle. A holy relic, an object of veneration, but a weapon all the same.
Dare he use it? That would surely be heresy. But he was already guilty of that, and worse.
He ran down the aisle, leaping from the ground onto the top of the altar, and reached up to lift it clear of the brackets that held it in place. The weight of the great square head pulled it down into his hands, and he grasped the leather-wrapped shaft with both hands to steady it, swinging it down. It was perfectly balanced, a master's weapon. It was also about a foot too long and twenty pounds too heavy for him. He could carry it, but he could not wield it.
But he knew a man who could.
He jumped down from the altar and ran down the aisle, through the doorway and into the daylight beyond. It did not matter if the witch hunters saw him now: getting Huss and Valten to safety or to their destination was more important than protecting himself. The three men were where he had left them. Gottschalk had knelt by Oswald's corpse, and was praying over it. The roar of the battle ripped his words away like petals dropped in a torrent.
'Luthor!' Karl shouted. 'Give me your hammer! I have a new weapon for you.'
Huss turned and Karl thrust the hammer at him. He stared down at it incomprehendingly for a moment, then looked back up.
'Is this what I think it is?' he asked.
Karl nodded. Huss reached over and wrapped one hand around the shaft, lifting its weight, feeling its balance.
'I cannot carry this,' Huss said. 'This hammer is blessed. Sacred.' He paused for a second, then turned round to face Valten, reversing the weapon and presenting him with the handle. Valten hesitated for a second, then put down the hammer he had taken from Gottschalk a few minutes before and received the new one. He studied it, then swung it experimentally. Its great granite head whistled through the air.
'This is a better hammer,' he said, and raised it up above his head, one-handed, in an unmistakable rallying-sign. A second later he was charging down the steps into the throng of battle before him. Karl caught Valten's old hammer before it hit the ground and followed a step behind him, Luthor Huss and Gottschalk at his side. They threw themselves at the forces of the Empire, weapons first.

TO HIS RIGHT Gottschalk was shouting, ''Rally! Rally! Draw swords!'' and to his left Huss was whirling his hammer around his head, two-handed, clearing space and acting like a battle-standard, a focus for the remaining pikemen. A Reiksguard soldier turned and swung a sword at him but Karl was already raising his hammer, knocking the blow back and smashing the man's upper arm with the wet crack of breaking bones. Ahead of him—
Ahead of him was an elemental force of battle. Valten strode through the fight like a god. The huge warhammer of Saint Botolphus swung ceaselessly in his hands, now left, now right, switching and spinning, and with every blow a Reiksguard or a witch hunter dropped, stunned, bloodied or dead.
If Karl had not been fighting for his life, he would have stood and watched. Around Valten the soldiers began to fall back. Theo Kratz was still on the statue's plinth, yelling orders that were inaudible over the tumult of warfare. Then another Reiksguard thrust at him and Karl was duelling again, hammer against sword, using the thick wooden handle to parry, the butt of the weapon to thrust, and the iron head with its dull point to swing, to make space. The warhammer was not a weapon for close-in fighting but at least it was more use here than a pike.
The Reiksguard soldier blocked his swing and brought his own sword in for a thrust but it was clumsy. Karl grabbed his wrist with his left hand and yanked it down, bringing the handle of the warhammer up to meet it. Knuckles cracked across woodwork and the man dropped the sword. Karl let go of the wrist and caught it in a single move, then as the man was looking up, hit him with the warhammer. He went sideways, his shattered jaw spilling blood.
Killing the Emperor's own soldiers. Nobody in the Empire would ever trust him after this. But at least he had two weapons now. He shifted the sword in his left hand, it was a nice blade - not as nice as the one that Holger had now, Duke Heller's one, but good enough. A part of his mind wondered how he could get the duke's sword back from the witch hunter.
He almost slipped over. The cobbles were slippery, awash with blood.
A few steps away a pikeman was using the shattered stump of his weapon to fend off a witch hunter's blade, and not doing it well. Karl took two fast steps towards him but as he did the man jerked, twisted and fell forwards. The witch hunter tried to sidestep the falling corpse but was blocked behind. The body knocked him over and carried him down to the ground. A crossbow bolt protruded from the pikeman's upper back, blood beginning to soak the cloth around it.
'Crossbows!' Karl shouted. 'Crossbows above!' Of course they had crossbows. He had been carried away by the heat of the battle, had forgotten how Oswald had died. Where was the cool-thinking officer of yesteryear? Had the rages of Chaos devoured him so completely that he had lost all his sense of tactics? He glanced up, calculating which of the high windows the crossbowmen must be in, and headed for the side of the street, the shadow of the wall, the only cover there was.
Someone grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He raised his sword to strike but it was Gottschalk. He looked panicked and his face and forehead were badly cut. The warhammer, Karl recalled, was not his weapon of choice. He started to say something. Karl cut him off.
'How many men do you have left?'
'Sixty maybe, but the pikes—'
Karl pointed back towards the street that led to Hermannstrasse. 'Get them in there. It's narrow enough.' Gottschalk nodded, understanding. If they could get enough space to lower their weapons, the remaining pikemen could form an effective blockade against the Reiksguard and witch hunters while the Hammers of Sigmar caught up. And they'd be out of the arc of fire of the crossbowmen.
If they had the space to lower their pikes.
Close to him, another crusader whirled and dropped, a crossbow bolt in his skull, the long shaft of his pike dropping from his hands. Karl caught it up before it hit the ground, scanning the windows. The sniper would not be showing himself in the window but would be a few steps back in the room, out of plain sight. But if he could—
A flash of movement from the window above and Karl hurled the wooden pikeshaft up at it with all his strength, feeling the fibres of his muscles wrench and tear with the effort, and not caring. It flew straight, like a missile from a ballista, in through the window, hit something and stuck, half its length still out of the window. The angle of the shaft changed, the blunt end of the weapon moving upwards as whatever the iron spike was in slumped to the room's floor.
He swung his hammer to break the sword arm of a Reiksguard soldier approaching from his right, then thrust backhand under the defence of another who had tried to take him unawares. Gottschalk was bellowing orders, and Karl could hear them repeated at the same volume by the crusaders who had heard them. He glanced around, his eyes finding Huss and Valten, back to back, at the centre of a knot of soldiers. Their hammers swung, clashing against swords and armour, the head-blocks spraying trails of blood as they whirled through the air. Above the clamour he could hear Huss's voice. The man was singing a hymn.
There was a crack, a shot of pain and his hammer went crashing to the ground. His arm felt numb, his shoulder as if someone had hit it with a club, he spun on the balls of his feet but there was nobody there. Just a crossbow bolt buried deep in his shoulder, too deep for him to pull it out.
One weapon left, and that in his wrong hand. He'd faced worse problems. It bloody hurt, but pain was the least of his problems right now. By taking out the first crossbowman, he'd made himself their primary target.
He ducked for the cover of the closest wall.
The pikemen were moving, falling back. The Reiksguard did not seem to be following them, but were holding position - blocking their advance but not pursuing them. Karl wondered what their orders were. Had the pitched battle been an error - the city's forces taking Oswald's death as sign of a threat among the crusaders, and the crusaders taking it as the first shot of an attack?
With a rattle and clatter of wood against wood, the ranks of the crusaders' pikes came down. The men Huss and Valten had been fighting began to retreat towards the north side of the square, swords raised in defence. Huss turned, caught Karl's eye and gesture, and let them go, stepping away from them over the fallen bodies of comrades and foes to move into the cover of the house walls, out of range of the unseen crossbows. Valten joined them a moment later.
'What now?' he said.
'Get back into Hermannstrasse,' Karl said. 'We need to find the Hammers of Sigmar, to get to the Theogonist's palace. The pikes will buy us some time to get clear.'
Valten nodded. They began to back slowly towards the rows of lowered pikes. The men behind the fierce wall of weapons were nervous, he could see, tired and splattered with blood that might have been their own or their comrades', but they were holding their position. In the square, in the shadow of Saint Botolphus, wounded men on the cobbles moved, crawling, groaning, pleading, praying. The smell of blood and sweat was everywhere. Karl's skin felt clammy with it. Somewhere a temple clock rang the half-hour, a hollow metallic sound that echoed weirdly through the narrow streets.
Why was only one bell ringing?
Karl felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise, sensed the iron taste of adrenaline in his mouth. There was a scent on the air, of smoke and oil and hot metal. The ringing was growing louder, closer. The Reiksguard had moved right back, out of sight. Something was coming.
It turned the corner, steering its way south into the street that led directly into the square, and for a moment Karl was lost in wonder. Fifteen feet long, eight feet high, the metal plates that banded it embossed with the Imperial crest, its upper edge bristling with viewing slits. Its front was crested, like a ship, and from it projected the muzzle of a three-inch cannon, wisps of steam emerging from its barrel. Above it, a smaller cannon on a turret. Below it, the thing's name: Conqueror.
A steam tank. One of the eight remaining machines built by Leonardo da Miragliano, now kept and lovingly maintained by the Imperial Engineering School. Karl had only heard of them, he had never seen one: they were too important to see action in most of the Empire's battles. They were symbols of the Empire's power, its superiority, the sheer hopelessness of trying to stand against it. They were terrifying.
It approached down the street at the speed of a trotting horse, the great wheels under its iron skirt rumbling over the cobbles. Clouds of smoke and steam emanated from the furnace and boiler at its rear. Its cannon was pointed directly at them.
Someone in Altdorf wanted to make sure the crusaders weren't just killed, they were to be crushed and destroyed.
Karl began to back away from it, towards the ranks of pikemen. Huss, Valten and Gottschalk followed. The square was quiet; even the wounded were silenced by their awe.
'Raise the pikes,' Gottschalk instructed.
No movement from the ranks, though the iron tips of the weapons were wavering like twigs in wind. The Conqueror rolled implacably onwards. It was almost into the square.
'Raise your pikes, for Sigmar's sake!' There was an edge of panic to his voice.
'Let us through!' Huss roared above the hissing and rumbling of the advancing steam tank. A few men raised their pikes then, uncertain, lowered them again. There was no way through. As Karl had planned, the pikemen had formed a solid wall of defence - altogether too solid, and the men behind it were too scared to move aside to let them through to safety.
The steam tank eased into the square, its unseen driver steering carefully through the narrow street entrance from the north. At marching speed it rolled across the cobblestones and across the bodies of the fallen: soldier and crusader, living and dead alike. Those who lay in front of it scrabbled to pull their shattered bodies out of its path. Some of them were successful. There were crunches, screams, spurts of blood.
It stopped with a sharp hiss and a jet of steam, around thirty feet from the wall of pikes, the steam cannon at its front pointing at the barricade, and at Karl, Huss, Valten and Gottschalk. They were trapped: if they ventured out from where they stood the crossbowmen would be able to pick them off; if they stayed here the tank's hidden crew would blow them to smithereens, or crush them under its wheels.
The tank moved slightly, half a foot forward on one wheel, turning. Aiming the cannon, Karl guessed, and he stepped sideways. The steel tips of the pikes behind him were shaking, but the men stayed where they were, firm in defence. For the only time in his life Karl regretted having trained them so well.
With a roar Valten sprang across the square at the machine, the hammer of Saint Botolphus whirling in his hands. It was an act of desperate bravery. A useless one.
The tank's cannon crashed, gouting steam in scalding, blinding clouds, ripping a path through the pike-wall as its missile smashed men backwards and apart. A moment later Karl heard its wheels begin to clank across the cobbles again, towards him.
The clouds of steam dissipated, divided by the approaching nose of the tank as it moved towards the shattered remains of the pike-wall. Some of the crusaders moved in to fill the breach but it was too late: their brothers were dropping their weapons and running back down the street towards Hermannstrasse. The shot had killed maybe seven or eight of the tight-packed ranks; another thirty or forty had fled. At least they had an escape route now.
Except they would have the Conqueror at their backs.
Running was not the way to win this. Running had almost ended the crusade at Rottfurt. Running had caused the death of the Fifth Reiklanders at Castle Lossnitz. There was another way, and suddenly he knew what it was.
'Raise pikes!' Karl yelled, and again: 'Raise pikes! To me!'
Startled faces raised to look at him. Two men seemed to recognise him and moved to his side of the street, holding their weapons vertical. They looked panicked, but glad of any kind of authority.
'Yes! Faster! All of you!' The tank was approaching. Men pressed themselves back against the walls of the street to avoid it. More joined Karl, looking at him expectantly.
'Pikes down!' he ordered. They lowered them to the usual fifteen-degree position, as if to repel a charge.
'No! Down! Weapons on the ground! Lay them flat!' They obeyed.
The Conqueror rattled closer, steam around its wheels, its pace that of a slow walk. If it stopped and fired again they were dead men, or if it drove straight at them. But he hoped they would seem defenceless, weaponless, and it would pass them by. Its crew were not monsters. They would not kill innocent men.
He hoped.
The shadow of the tank's shields passed over the first of the abandoned pikes. There was a sound of splintering wood as the front wheels crushed the ash shaft to splinters. It was almost at them.
It began to turn in their direction. To crush them against the wall.
'Grab your pikes and lift!' Karl yelled as he bent to grab a pikeshaft that lay at his feet, raising it up, the far end of the long weapon still under the tank. The others followed. Did he have enough men? Enough leverage? Would the wooden poles take the weight?
Together he and the remains of the defenders forced their pikes further under the Conqueror, straining to lift the shafts and lever the steam tank up with it. From the side of his eye he saw other pikemen, realising what was happening, come to join them. He saw Huss and Valten grab up dropped weapons to lend their strength, taking positions along the tank's right flank, and using the pikes as levers to lift the huge bulk of the tank.
Twenty crusaders, men of Sigmar, strove to overturn the symbol of the Empire's might.
For a long moment it seemed they had no hope. Then Karl heard a scraping noise, like a knife-grinder's spinning whetstone against metal, and realised the tank's wheel was spinning wildly against the cobbles, a fraction of an inch above them. He redoubled his efforts. The shoulder where he had taken the crossbow bolt ached like fire, and he could feel the blood running down his back; he took the strain with his left arm and felt the muscles under his skin bulge and tighten like rope-cord.
The metal skirt of the tank rose slowly off the ground, sliding sideways against the wood poles as it tried to reverse away, but other pikes had wedged the wheels in position. The tank's right wheel spun uselessly. The turret on top swivelled, trying to bring itself to bear on the force of crusaders, but it was already pointing over their heads and could not adjust. Faintly, above the rattling of the Conqueror's machinery, he could hear somebody inside its metal body screaming orders.
The right side was a foot off the ground. Two feet. Clouds of steam jetted from broken pipes. Three feet. The higher it rose, the harder it was to bring it higher. Some men pushed their pikes further under the body, getting extra leverage that way; others moved their hands down the shaft of their weapons, shortening the lever.
Huss's pike cracked in two. He dropped it, looking around for a second, finding nothing. Then he moved right in, up to the body of the tank, took the lower rim of its armour in his hands and began lifting it bodily. His muscles bulged with the strain so hard that their outlines were visible pressed against the sleeves of his robes.
Valten joined him; then a crusader, then another, and more. With a final heave the metal carcass of the Conqueror lifted, balanced for a second on the rim of its left wheels, and toppled over onto its left side with a ringing crash and the screech of plate-metal bending and shearing. The Empire's pride lay beaten and broken.
Karl gazed at Huss with silent eyes, the enormity of what they had done too great for words. The moment stretched. In the distance, shouts of astonishment and cries of horror began to fill the air. Valten straightened up, rubbing oil and soot from his hands, and picked up his hammer from where he had dropped it.
'Better get out of here,' he said.
'We better had,' Karl said. 'You've got an appointment.' He flexed his aching right arm, feeling the bolt in his shoulder rip into his tissue with every movement, and stared down the street, toward the bulk of the crusaders, who had retreated at the first sign of trouble in the temple square. It looked to him as if they were being herded or corralled, probably by the remaining Reiksguard. And there were agents from the Chaos cults mingling with them. It would be difficult to go that way and remain safe, or even to know that their passage would not be blocked again.
The grinding, wheezing and hissing of the steam tank was punctuated with a heavy clang as the turret-hatch opened. Two pikemen reached in and hauled the tank's commander out. His face was as red as his jacket, the white bar of his wide moustache quivering. He raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.
'Beaten by a bunch of priests,' Karl heard him mutter. 'Might as well shoot meself now.'
'We would not wish that,' Huss said. 'We came in peace.'
'But war came with you,' the officer said. 'Look at all this. Just look at it.'
Karl looked at it. It lay, steaming and leaking on the cobbles like a harpooned whale, the paint and gilt on its armoured plates scratched by the many pikes that had turned it over. 'How many crew do you have on board?' he asked.
The commander stiffened. 'Name, rank and Imperial lineage only,' he said.
'We can find out easily enough,' Karl said. 'Close the hatch, let them steam to death, then count the bodies.'
'Some priests you are. There are two others,' the officer said. 'A driver and a gunner, though I think his hip broke when you pushed us over.'
Karl studied the tank. 'You and you,' he said, pointing to pikemen, 'get the other crew out. You four, persuade the crusaders to form up around us, a circle, so people can't see what we're doing. The rest of you, let's get this thing back on its wheels.'

THE INTERIOR OF the Conqueror was very cramped. Hot pipes and sharp edges pressed against legs and torsos. The steel wheels, built for traversing battlefields, juddered over the cobbles of the streets and the metal floor transmitted every vibration into the bones of the four occupants. Steam jetted from fractured joints in the copper pipes, making the place unbearably hot. The only light came from the rows of high horizontal slits that ringed the front of the cabin in a semicircle, and at the rear a brass lantern swung from a hook just in front of the bulk of the combined furnace and boiler that powered the vehicle. Apart from the vibration, there was little sensation of forward movement.
Karl leaned towards the driver, crouched over the wide spokes of the tank's helm, his Imperial engineer's uniform dark with soot and grease. 'How fast are we going?' he shouted.
'About twelve miles an hour,' the man shouted back.
It seemed incredible: to be capable of such speeds without a horse. Karl pushed his way past Valten, bent and peered through one of the observation slits. They were already half-way down Hermannstrasse, with crusaders, soldiers and citizens alike pressing themselves to the walls on either side to get out of the path of the iron behemoth. If there were cultists, renegade wizards, or mutant creatures of Chaos concealed among their numbers, they did not make their presence felt.
They had righted the steam tank without too much difficulty, and despite the protestations of the commander they had commandeered it, taking the driver with them. Karl, Huss and Valten had clambered in through the turret into the tiny cabin and had found places alongside the man. Gottschalk had been left with orders to reform what was left of the pikemen, rendezvous with the Hammers of Sigmar and make their way slowly west towards the Grand Theogonist's palace. They were the diversion, while the tank drove straight for the palace.
The unspoken part of the plan, acknowledged only in glances between the three men squeezed together next to the driver, was that with luck the forces of Altdorf would not suspect that their steam tank had been hijacked, and that the Conqueror would move faster through the streets than the news would.
Karl glanced at Valten in the half-light, and once again wondered if this man truly was Sigmar reborn. He could fight with the fury of his namesake, that much Karl had witnessed, but there was much more to being a god-emperor than that. The men respected him and he took easily to command, but he had not been able to rally the pikemen in the square outside Saint Botolphus's, and he was no diplomat.
But he had recognised the hammer of Saint Botolphus as a holy item, a sacred and blessed relic of the Sigmarite faith. Surely that was evidence? Or maybe he had simply recognised it as a better weapon than the one he was carrying.
Well, Karl thought, the final decision lay with the Emperor, and the Grand Theogonist. His opinion did not matter, one way or the other. But it worried him that he did not know how he felt about the man beside him.
'How far to the palace gates?' Huss shouted above the clanking of the gears and the incessant rumbling of the wheels.
The driver took a hand off the helm and pointed ahead. 'We turn into Ragansweg where you can see, then two hundred yards down.' The steam tank lurched and he grabbed the helm back, twisting it to get them back on course.
'A problem?' Karl yelled.
'The front bearings are loose,' the driver shouted back. 'She's tricky to steer.'
'Will we make it?'
'She's weathered worse.'
It hadn't occurred to Karl that a juggernaut of steel and steam like this could be female. There was something too cold, too implacable and relentless about its nature for the feminine. Then he thought of Brother Karin and reconsidered. She had taken on the outer trappings of a man, had hardened her heart and cut off all her emotions save for hate, but she was still a woman. Physically at least.
Where was she today?
The tank lurched again as the driver nursed it around a corner. 'Theogonist's palace, straight ahead,' he announced. On the other side of the cabin Huss bent to look out of an observation slit, banging his forehead on a bulkhead with a muttered oath.
'There are people there,' he said. 'In uniform.'
'Guards?' Valten asked. 'The Emperor is there. He would have guards.'
'More Reiksguard,' Karl said, peering through the slit closest to him. 'From their uniforms, they're veterans.'
'Pray they have orders to let us through,' Huss said.
'How do they know it's us?' Karl said. 'We're in a tank.'
'Yes,' Huss said. 'Wait. They're moving aside.'
They were, moving back to either side of the wide gate they had been guarding, their swords drawn. One man was left standing in the middle of the gateway. Short, stocky, balding. His robes were golden, embroidered with eldrich patterns, and his hands and mouth were moving in unmistakable movements. He was casting a spell.
The driver didn't veer. The steam tank kept straight on, towards the wizard a hundred yards in front of them.
'Stop!' Karl's mind whirled. What spell would the wizard be likely to cast? Which Gold College spells had the longest range? He didn't know. He'd only been with the Untersuchung a few months; was going to complete his training when he returned from Marienburg. And when he came back from Marienburg they had all been dead.
The driver wasn't stopping. Maybe he didn't realise what lay ahead. Maybe he thought the best strategy was to get closer. The Imperial armies often worked closely with the Empire's wizards. He probably knew what he was doing.
Karl peered through the slit. Was the figure ahead Kunstler? He was a magician in the Gold College, though it didn't look like him. Thoughts raced through his mind. Why would a Gold wizard be here? Routine procedure, guarding the Emperor - not outside the Grand Theogonist's palace, surely, given the long-standing antipathy between religion and magic in the Empire. Then why? Had Kunstler, having learned of the change of plan from Martinus, sent one of his comrades here?
Something struck him. What if Holger had been lying? What if Martinus had been loyal and had been betrayed, or if he had intended to betray them but only to the witch hunters? What if someone else had taken the message to the Purple Hand cultists?
What if Anders Holger was a member of the Purple Hand?
The thought froze in his mind as through the observation slit he watched the figure at the gates shimmer momentarily with an aura of golden energy, and a gleaming arrow shot upwards from his outstretched hands, into the late morning air, out of sight. It reminded Karl for a second of the pike he had thrown to kill the crossbowman in Saint Botolphus's Square. Then something struck the steam tank, knocking it sideways. The air thickened and metal plates screamed as they twisted against each other. The driver was screaming too.
The steam tank rocked, regained its wheels and veered across the street. The driver had one hand up over his eyes. His hair was on fire. For a second Karl couldn't work out how; then he realised the lamp had shattered and burning oil had been flung across the cabin. Spatters burned across the floor. Huss and Valten were braced against the bulkheads, trying not to be thrown around by the impact and the wild course of the vehicle.
Something hit it again. The plating split, letting beams of daylight into the smoky interior. Something under the tank crunched hard, and an instant later everyone was flung forward as the tank came to a sudden jarring halt in a crash of masonry and chaos. The cabin began to fill with scalding steam, gushing in from a broken pipe, making it hard to breathe or see.
'Out! Out!' Huss yelled, his hands scrabbling to release the turret. It came open in a squeal of bent hinges and Karl watched as he hauled his bulk out of the Conqueror, then dropped a hand back to help the next man out. Valten gestured to Karl.
'No,' Karl said, shouting to be heard above the roaring steam. 'I like it hot.'
Valten went. Karl bent to the driver, who lay still in his seat. The fire in his hair was out but there was an ugly gash on his forehead where he had cracked it in the collision. Was he dead or just unconscious? The steam was suffocating and sweltering, but the man's life was important. Valten was reaching down through the hatch: Karl manhandled the driver from his chair over to the hatch. Valten grasped him by the shoulders and hauled him out. The moment the circle of sky was clear, Karl pulled himself up through it, gulping in the cool morning air, feeling it on his skin, watching the steam billow around him, from his clothes.
'Get clear!' he instructed. 'The boiler could explode.' They climbed down from the tank. It had simply run into a building at the side of the street, and lay crumpled against the corner of the wide stone stairs leading up to the door. Some guildhall, he guessed; a prominent one to be so close to the Grand Theogonist's gate. They were scarcely twenty yards away now. The soldiers had reformed at the gate, the wizard in their midst, all drawn weapons and anxious faces. They would attack at any sign of hostility, he knew.
The tank's plating was buckled, its wheels uneven. Pale smoke still billowed from the chimney at its rear end, now joined by clouds of steam from the open hatch, sending their beacons up into the windless air.
Huss was crouched over the driver, examining the man's wounds. Valten was—
Valten was walking down the street towards the guards. Saint Botolphus's hammer was cradled in his hands, looking more like a birthright than a weapon. His pace was utterly steady; he did not hesitate or turn away.
The Reiksguard soldiers stood in perfect ranks, their uniforms and armour immaculate, weapons shining, identical, held at the perfect angle of readiness for attack. They were the finest the Empire had trained, the best soldiers it could offer. They stood ready to defend their Emperor against any threat.
There was a complete hush over the street. Scattered pedestrians stood in groups, watching. Karl touched Huss's shoulder and the warrior-priest looked up, his expression unreadable, then rose to his feet and walked after the young blond man. Karl followed him. If it ended here, if Valten and Huss were to die in a final confrontation, so close to their goal, then suddenly he knew he wanted to be part of it.
Valten stopped. Less than ten feet separated him from the first row of the guards. He turned the hammer in his hands, then rested it on the ground, butt first, his hand grasped around the huge stone head, as if it was a walking-stick.
'My name is Valten,' he said, and his voice was not his but something greater, stronger, more powerful. 'My name is Valten,' he said, and the words were simple but each one felt like it had the weight of history behind it, or as if it were spoken now for the first time. 'My name is Valten,' he said, and Karl knew he would remember this moment for the rest of his life, though he would never be able to describe it, or how it made his knees weaken and his heart swell in his chest.
'My name is Valten,' he said, 'and I have come to meet the Emperor.' That was all he said.
The words spread out like reverberations, like ripples, like shock waves, like tidal waves, like circles growing and growing across the surface of history.
Without a word, without an order, without a thought, the ranks of the Reiksguard broke and moved aside to let him pass between them.
Huss turned to Karl with a wild, exultant look in his eyes. 'You see?' he said. 'You see it now?'
Karl nodded. He recognised the look: it had been on the faces of many fanatics in the last few months. For the first time he understood it. He did see it now.
He watched as Valten and Huss passed through the ranks of the guards, through the gate and into the palace of the Grand Theogonist. The gates swung closed behind them and the Reiksguard moved back into their ordered positions as if nothing had happened. Behind him, the wreck of the steam tank hissed and guttered. People started walking. Far down the street, crusaders and Empire soldiers came at a run to see what had happened. Karl didn't know what he could tell them.
A ragged figure staggered towards him; some tramp or beggar. Karl began to move away; he had nothing he could give this man, not even money, and his work here was over. To stay was dangerous.
'Spare a moment for a poor man, Herr Hoche?' the figure wheezed. Karl stopped at the sound of his name, studying the face under the rags and dirt. It was not one he recognised.
'Who are you?' he said, quietly. 'How do you know my name?'
The figure gestured to himself. 'They say all men are brothers,' he said, 'and I wear a cloak, so a man of your intelligence…'
Karl grimaced. The Cloaked Brothers. He was growing to hate them.
'How did you know to be here?' he said. 'Only the witch hunters and a few cultists knew of the changed plans.'
'Trade knowledge?' the man said.
Karl wanted to hit him. 'Very well,' he said.
'What just happened at the gate?'
Karl paused, and thought. 'I have no idea,' he said. 'Not much of an answer, but a truthful one.'
The man nodded. 'It is enough.'
'And my question?'
'A new recruit to our numbers told us. A man I believe you know.'
Karl inhaled. Things became clearer. 'Brother Martinus,' he said.
The beggar shook his head. 'No. A witch hunter. Erwin Rhinehart.' He scratched his grimy nose. 'And that, Karl Hoche, is the last information you obtain from the Cloaked Brothers. From now on, if you want our assistance you must join us.'
'I won't do that,' Karl said, but something had alarmed the beggar and he pulled his rags down over his face and hobbled away, crying, 'Alms! Alms!' Karl was about to grab his arm and pull him back, but he heard the sound of well-booted footsteps approaching from behind him, and turned to meet the newcomer, suddenly aware he had left his warhammer in the steam tank, and of the crossbow-bolt still in his shoulder.
'We have unfinished business, Karl,' said Anders Holger.

Chapter Fifteen
SCRAM



PART OF HIM thought about running. It was tempting, even with a group of soldiers a few yards away ready to give chase. They were armoured, he was not. He could do it. He could get away. But he did not do that. Anders was right: there was unfinished business. He looked the witch hunter in the face.
'How can I help you, Brother Anders?' he asked.
Holger was in full uniform, his hat set straight and tall, his silver buckles shining, the leather of his belt and boots gleaming with rubbed dubbin. There were pistols at his belt and a familiar sword at his hip. There was nothing of the old casual, informal, rule-breaking Holger in this figure of authority.
'The matter of the Purple Hand,' Holger said. 'Kunstler is still in the city, and we know where. I need your help in dealing with him.'
'Just the two of us?' Karl asked.
'There will be others,' Holger said. 'If they arrive in time. But you know him, and you know the ways of Chaos. We need you.'
'Where?' Karl asked.
'Where you found them before: the old temple of Manaan. They are preparing something.'
'What?'
'I don't know.'
A terrible sense of dread suffused Karl's thoughts. 'Can you run in that uniform?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Then let's run.'

AS THEY CROSSED the Altbrug, Karl thought he should have asked for a weapon of some kind. He had nothing except his throwing-knife, tucked inside the priest's robes he wore: better than nothing but no match for a sword, a bow or any kind of spell. Perhaps Anders overestimated the nature and power of his mutations. Maybe, if he played the situation right, he could get his sword back.

KANTSWEG WAS BUSY but not crowded. The sight of a witch hunter and a priest running at full pelt down the middle of the road turned a few heads, but the good citizens of the district turned back soon enough to their business or their conversations. There was plenty enough to talk about today already.
The alley down to the temple was as dank as Karl remembered it, and the small courtyard in front of the ancient building as deserted. The temple door was closed, but the chain that had held it shut was lying in a heap on the ground. There was no sign of a guard. Karl came to a halt at the entrance to the courtyard, Holger a few paces behind him. They paused to catch their breath, waiting until their lungs quieted.
'How many in there?' Karl asked. Holger shook his head.
'I have no idea.'
'How did you find out about this?'
'We had Kunstler followed.'
'But you didn't post look-outs?'
'There wasn't time,' Holger said, 'and there still isn't. They could be doing anything in there. Come on.'
They crossed the flagstones of the courtyard, walking slowly to soften their footfalls, and climbed the shallow steps in front of the door. Karl strained to listen but he couldn't hear anything from inside the dark building. It seemed as deserted as ever.
Holger gestured to him. Karl mouthed ''What?'' The witch hunter moved closer, to whisper to him: 'Look inside.'
'How?'
'Open the door. The hinges are oiled.' Karl's face must have looked quizzical or uncertain, because he added, 'Your eyes are better in the dark.'
It was hard to argue with that. Karl moved silently to the door, Holger a step behind him, and grasped the handle. The bronze was cold in his hand. He gripped it tightly, and winced noiselessly from the pain that shot through his arm from the shoulder-wound. Taking care, listening for the slightest noise, he turned it slowly until he felt the latch slide free, then pushed the door inward a half-inch at a time, until there was enough of a gap between it and the wide jamb for him to press one eye to the dark crack.
There were people in there. One, at least. But the angle was wrong and he could not see them clearly. He pushed the door another half-inch, hoping it would not let daylight spill into the dark interior of the temple, that they would not be noticed. A drop of sweat from the hot run trickled off his bare scalp towards his eyes and he reached up to wipe it away.
Then Holger's boot hit him hard on the arse, shoving him forward. His head hit the door with a thud and it flew open. He lost his balance, staggering and falling into the shadows inside the temple.
He twisted as he was falling so he didn't land flat. His wounded arm took the main shock of the impact, ramming arcs of pain through his upper body, but he was able to transfer his weight to his other arm, pushing himself away from a boot aimed at his head, and regaining his footing.
Behind him, he heard bolts slam home on the door.
He kicked off, forward, his body still almost horizontal, diving out of reach of his attackers so he could get his feet under him and sprint the remaining distance down the aisle, up towards the apse of the old temple, where its altar used to stand. He reached the top step, groped in his robes for his knife and spun round, raising it, prepared to throw it.
They were there, behind him: not chasing, just waiting, knowing he had nowhere to go, sombre and sinister in their dark uniforms. Brother Theo Kratz, his sword drawn and raised; Brother Erwin Rhinehart holding a large crossbow aimed at his heart; behind them Brother Anders Holger, with the sword that Karl had told him to keep earlier that day. Had told him to use it to keep his word, to kill him.
And a fourth figure on the other side of the church, in the full uniform and decorations of a member of the Senior Council of the Order of Sigmar, a man of high standing and honour among the witch hunters. Karl recognised the figure and knew this was not a man of honour. This was not a man at all.
'Karl Hoche,' said Brother Karin Schiffer, and nothing more. There was no room for any more, so full of satisfaction was her voice.
Karl looked at them, breathing heavily. Be calm, he thought. Be ready for their move. His shoulder ached. The knife felt small in his hand, insufficient for his needs. He had no idea what he was going to do, how he was going to survive. On his side, he had one weapon. Against him were his poor strategic position; his injured right arm; a woman filled with hatred and vengeance; and three witch hunters, all armed. They knew who he was, and what he could do. But he knew them too.
'You're going to kill me,' he said.
Brother Karin laughed, and her laughter was low and sensuous, not cruel. She was enjoying herself. 'Of course we are,' she said. 'But not for a long time.'
What can I do here, Karl asked himself, and knew the answer: whatever I can. What was more important: escape; justice; living to fight another day; information; or the mission to which he had sworn himself? And here too he knew the reply even as he thought the question. His first priority was to kill Brother Karin, or die trying. His second was to escape, or die trying. They would never take him alive. Never again.
'Surrender, Karl,' Erwin said softly.
Karl surveyed them, taking in their stances, the unspoken things revealed by their posture and their expressions. 'I would surrender,' he said, 'but not to you. One of you is as bad as I am. And one other is worse by far.'
'More of your madness,' Brother Karin said, not moving from where she stood. 'The infection of Chaos has reached your brain and turned your thoughts to darkness. You see conspiracy, treachery and subterfuge circling all around. The reason it orbits you, centring on your movements, Karl, is that it is all in your head?'
'Maybe so,' Karl said. He let his hands hang loosely by his side, the throwing-knife palmed, concealed by sleeve and bent fingers. 'Maybe.
'But why did you wait to take me until after Huss and Valten had been delivered to their appointment with the Emperor? So that Valten could lead the Empire's armies north, to the greatest bloodletting in the history—'
'Politics,' Karin said, and this time she did take a step forward. 'Not conspiracies, at least not the kind your twisted mind sees everywhere. The military could not take you; you defeated the Reiksguard; the scheme to trap you in the Gendarmenmarkt failed, but we have you. The word will spread: the witch hunters did with four men what the others could not do with an army. We gain reputation; they lose face. The Senior Council will increase its power at court and in Altdorf. It may take us months but,' as she glanced over at the three witch hunters arrayed across the floor of the temple, blocking any hope of escape Karl might have, 'but we always get our man.'
'Or our mutant,' Theo Kratz said.
Karl watched him, his eyes half-lidded. Karin had cut off one of his lines of attack and it had been deftly done: if he accused her now of being a follower of Chaos it would sound like the ravings of a fanatic or a paranoid fool. He could not turn her troops against her so easily.
All he needed, he thought, was a clear shot at Brother Karin. No. He had to be sure; he would have to get in close and finish the job, to be certain she died. But Rhinehart and Kratz would block him if he made a run for her, and then Holger could come in behind him, and—
He needed a distraction, but there was nothing he could use. If he wanted to move someone, he would have to move them with his mind.
'Anders,' he said. 'You listened to me before. Because I told you he was necessary to our success and the defeat of the cultists, you helped Oswald Maurer escape. Listen to me now, that woman is—'
'You helped a renegade escape?' Kratz exclaimed. 'You? Our brother?'
Brother Karin cut across him: 'Leave it, Theo. A procedural matter only. We will deal with it later.' Kratz subsided into silence and turned his glare back to Karl. So did Karin, but for a second her eyes flickered over to Anders Holger and her expression was pure hatred. She did not take betrayal well, Karl understood.
Kratz raised his sword, the tip pointing at Karl's throat. The thin light filtering through the dirty windows gleamed on the steel, making it a line of blue-grey hovering in the semi-darkness.
'Submit or die,' he said.
'You weren't so formal when I trapped you in that privy in Nuln,' Karl said, 'with your arse bare and smeared with your own shit.'
Kratz's lip curled. 'Submit,' he said again. To his left, Rhinehart shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nervous, and Karl's planned follow-up died on his lips. The man was nervous, and probably because he had guessed his turn would be next. Karl had thought he might be able to use Rhinehart's new-learned allegiance to work for him. Perhaps it would be better to use it against the others instead. They would not trust a Cloaked Brother in their midst. They would turn on him. It might give him enough time.
'Rhinehart,' he said, and stopped. Something was telling him he was doing the wrong thing. Some voice in his head.
He reached up, within the robes he wore, to the bandage around his neck, and untied it. Under the sweat-soaked fabric was the gag, and he pulled that free too. He could feel his second mouth moving under his fingers, flexing at its unaccustomed freedom. It made a mewling sound, but no more.
Then he looked up at Brother Karin, and his eyes met her stare, but she was gazing at his mark. She had put it there, or at least her lover Lord Gamow had. He wanted her to see it, to remind her of the reason he had sworn to kill her, and to remind her of Gamow, and what he had been, and how he had died on Karl's sword a year before. He wanted to raise her blood and make her passionate; make her angry.
Angry people make bad decisions.
After a second she acknowledged his look with a contemptuous glare, and her lips pulled back from her teeth in a half-snarl. 'He shows us his mark of Chaos,' she said, 'and acknowledges his own damnation. There is nothing more to say. Take him down.'
Kratz and Holger began to move forward, swords raised defensively, moving warily with the poise of experienced close-quarter fighters. Rhinehart held back, his crossbow aimed at Karl.
'For the last time, drop your weapon,' Holger said.
'I promised you a name, Anders,' Karl said. 'You won't get it from me this way.'
'We'll torture it from you,' Rhinehart said, 'like we tortured that wizard.'
'I'd kill myself first,' Karl said, and knew it was true. He had been tortured by witch hunters before.
'Or like that old woman,' Kratz said, pausing about ten feet away. 'The one from Oberwil who told us you'd gone to Nuln.'
Frau Farber. So they'd found her. So she was dead, then. Such a trail of death he left behind him. If he died here, would there be anyone left alive who remembered him, to mourn him? Part of him desperately wanted to ask Rhinehart about his father; whether the witch hunter had done as he had been instructed and had left the man alone, or if the old man had died too. But this was not the place, and there was no time.
Rhinehart raised the crossbow, and Holger took a step forward, sweeping his sword up. Karl turned, aware an instant too late that the gesture was a feint and that a great dark shape - Kratz - was rushing at him from the right. He turned back, trying to step away, raising his right arm instinctively to protect himself from the blow and his left with the knife in it, to throw it. But Kratz was on him.
The sword swung, a sharp sweep aimed at the left arm. Karl's injured right arm interrupted the flat of the blade just below the elbow. He heard the bones snap with a clean, clear crack like pieces of kindling snapping underfoot. Like frost-dried twigs in the forest. Like a pattern of sticks on the carpeted floor of a cottage in Oberwil.
One will bend and two will break, he thought in the moment of pure clarity afforded him by adrenaline and pain. Then Kratz's body slammed into him, wrenching the broken arm sideways with excruciating pain, knocking him down towards the floor.
As he fell he slashed out with his left hand in panic, and connected. The tip of the dagger scribed a line across Kratz's face, from his jawbone across his cheek to his nose, missing the socket of his eye and carving a line across his brow. It was a shallow cut, almost a graze, a white line across the skin.
An instant later Karl's back hit the stone floor, knocking wind from his lungs. Above him Kratz dropped his sword, grabbing with each hand for Karl's wrists, forcing the left one back to slam it against the stone. His fingers cracked and the dagger skidded away, out of reach.
Kratz's other hand found Karl's right wrist, bending it back to the floor. The ends of snapped bone grated hard against each other. The pain was unbearable. Karl was held fast, pinned down like an insect.
Then the blood began to pour from the cut across Kratz's forehead, running down his brow, through his blond eyebrows, and into his eyes.
There was a lot of blood.
Kratz blinked frantically and swore. It must be blinding him, Karl thought.
The blood ran down Kratz's face in vivid red smears. It ran across his cheeks and down his chin. Karl stared up at the man above him, hoping he would raise a hand to wipe his face clean. It was his only hope. Kratz did not.
The blood was dripping down onto Karl's face. Kratz shook his head, trying to get the thick liquid out of his eyes, covering Karl in a viscous spray, but he did not release his grip on Karl's arms. The pain was filling his mind with awful dark shapes that writhed.
On the side of Karl's throat, his damned mouth thrashed, its teeth snapping and grinding against each other. It had done that once before, a year ago, in the presence of human blood. Karl had sworn then that it would never taste such stuff again.
What was better? That he die here and now, or that he demean himself further, but lives long enough to kill Brother Karin?
There was only one choice.
He twisted his head to the side, so that the foul mouth was uppermost on his neck, directly under Kratz's bleeding face and his tight-shut eyes. The red-trails were drying at the edges but the cut continued to ooze and the blood continued to flow, and to drip.
He felt it drip, felt the mouth stretch wide, exposing its sharp teeth and its pointed tongue. He felt the droplets land on it with tiny splashes. And an instant later he felt energy surge through him - a dreadful, unholy, unearthly energy that drew his muscles together into tight knots of power and lifted him to his feet, pushing Kratz above him.
In a single movement, one-armed, left-handed, he hurled Kratz away from him, down the steps of the apse and into the aisle between the temple's pews. Kratz crashed into them, knocking them askew.
Rhinehart raised his crossbow and fired. The bolt took Karl in the left breast, slightly below the point where he had been shot at Grunburg, just where he carried the silver flask his father had given him. But he had left that on a slab in Grunburg, with what else remained of his family's love and protection.
The bolt passed straight through him, ripping through flesh, glancing off ribs, tearing an exit wound below his left shoulder blade, leaving him in a spurt of fluids and shattering with a report like a musket shot against the wall above the altar.
Karl staggered. His hellish strength was gone from him, as if it had never been. Bright blood pulsed into the thick cloth of his robes.
For luck, he thought. For luck's sake.
'No,' he said, and felt blood from the punctured lung rise in his throat. 'Not like… no.' He was aware of the witch hunters staring at him. Even Kratz was moving his head, his eyes open, to watch him die. Good. A good man, Kratz. At heart.
He could not let this happen. He could not die here.
He reached into his mind, pushing away the red mists of pain, the dark blues and greens of shock and the utter darkness of blood-loss. He knew what he must find: the strength he had felt once before, at midnight, at year-end, in a frozen forest, that had enabled him to get up and walk away from death once before.
He could not find it. It was not there any more. The man he had been then, he was not any more.
He found the face of Luthor Huss, calm and serene in the certainty of his faith, and tried to draw strength from it, but he saw it change into the man who had sat in the corner of a filthy hut in Rottfurt and whimpered with fear. He found his father's face and saw only the man he had left in the temple at Grunburg, telling him to go, denying him as his son. He found Oswald's face, the old man's good nature, and watched him fall on the steps of Saint Botolphus again, unable to help him.
There was nothing there to help him. He was alone. Bleeding to death from a heart-wound.
On his neck, his second mouth stretched wide in a movement that could have been a scream or a shout. Something, the voice in his head, told him to look back, to think again. Part of him wanted to ignore it, but it was a part of him that became drowned in pain and weakness, and was silenced.
Grunburg. The temple, on the slab, after the last time he was shot. He had been weak then, Rhinehart facing him. And he had uttered a silent prayer, to help him save his father.
All the gods, that was who he made his plea to. All the powers of the universe, and everything in him. And something had answered. He had never asked himself what. After all, he had been in a temple of Sigmar. What power would come to his aid in a temple of Sigmar?
He knew now it had not been Sigmar.
'Surrender, Karl,' Brother Karin said from where she stood at the side of the steps, 'and we'll save your life.'
He made no reply. He could not; he did not have the strength. His body wavered on its feet, unstable and weakening.
He was going to die. Regardless of what he did now, he was going to die anyway. And his soul was already damned.
He only needed a little strength.
His blood soaked the front of his robes and dripped to the floor.
He had always used Chaos's powers to fight Chaos. This was not a surrender. This was just - more of the same.
All the gods, he thought. Sigmar, Manaan, anyone who's listening. All the powers of the universe. Everything within me and everything without: I need just a little strength to finish this.
'No surrender then?' Karin said. 'Very well. Anders, Erwin, finish the job.'
Karl lifted his head slowly. 'No,' he said. 'No.'
Under his robes, where the sodden fabric touched his skin, he had felt the wound close. He felt strength ebb back into him; felt the clouds of numbness recede, to be replaced by the agony that was his right arm. He felt wretched. He had given in to darkness. Twice damned.
'Brother Holger,' he said, and there was blood on his words. 'You wanted the name of the traitor in the witch hunters. Brother Rhinehart already knows it.'
Holger, advancing, stopped. 'He does?' he said.
Rhinehart looked up from where he was using a goats-foot lever to reset the string of his crossbow, paused and looked up. 'I do?' he said.
Karl smiled, and felt the mouth on his neck smile too. The denial by question was unconvincing, a poor way to lie.
'You do,' he said. 'Your new friends in the Cloaked Brothers told you.'
'The Cloaked Brothers?' Rhinehart said, and that too was unconvincing, and that was enough to convince Karl. He had guessed that Rhinehart would have been told Karin's true allegiance, and the lie was confirmation.
'Do not listen to him!' Karin said, a touch too loud. 'His mind is touched, he sees conspiracies everywhere. Do not hesitate. Kill him now.'
Holger, his sword extended, turned slowly. 'Brother Rhinehart,' he said. 'Suppose, hypothetically, a Cloaked Brother had told you of a Chaos worshipper in our Order. Who would that be?'
'Kill him!' Karin shouted.
'He's going to die anyway,' Rhinehart said quietly, 'and I would prefer my brother not to be distracted at this moment. Yes, Anders, I know who the heretic means, and they are very close. This vile thing before us made me unclean, and polluted me with his blood. I am not fit to remain in our Order. I have joined the Cloaked Brothers, but there are far worse evils, and they—'
He choked and staggered. The crossbow, unstrung, clattered to the tiles.
'Bastard,' said Theo Kratz from the floor behind Rhinehart. He pulled his blood-slicked sword down and out, from where he had thrust it up through the small of Rhinehart's back, inside his ribcage and deep into his vital organs.
Rhinehart sank, collapsing to his knees, his body folding down. His hands twitched. One leg jerked in spasm, sending his body sideways, lurching into the end of a pew. His head hit the woodwork with a crack. There was blood at his mouth, and his nose. His eyes were open, staring uselessly. He did not move.
Holger, just a few feet from them, was watching in slack-jawed disbelief. In the shadows on the other side of the steps, Karin had not moved or said a word. Karl, feeling strength slowly seeping back into his body, stood to see how the drama would unfold. His knife was a few steps away, but if he went to it he would break the spell.
Kratz turned slowly away from the corpse of his brother witch hunter and tried to sit up. From his awkward, pained movements it looked like his hip might be broken, or the upper part of his leg. 'Erwin, a Cloaked Brother,' he said. 'I trusted him. I can't believe…'
'It was you,' Holger said.
Kratz seemed to take a second to understand, then raised his left hand. 'No!' he said. 'You heard him, he admitted it, he was a Cloaked Brother…'
'He was about to give you away,' Holger said, and swept across the floor like a charging bull. His sword - Karl's sword - swept low.
'No!' Karl shouted.
At the last second Holger snatched the sword up out of its course. It cut the air above Kratz's head and whistled round as its bearer turned to face Karl. The tip of the sword pointed at his throat.
'It's time for you to tell me everything,' he said. 'If not Theo then who? You?'
'Kill him,' Karin said, and stepped from the shadows towards the fallen Kratz. 'That's an order. Kill the mutant and we can get this finished.'
'No,' Holger said. 'He knows something I have to know.'
'Kill him!' Karin said. There was an icy control in her voice. Karl did not take his eyes off her, but moved a step to the side, towards his thro wing-dagger. Holger gestured threateningly with the sword and he stopped.
'Who?' Holger asked.
Karl made a small shrug; his right shoulder still hurt too much for more. 'You'd believe me if I told you? I don't think so.'
'Anders,' Kratz said, 'I swear I am no traitor. Erwin was trying to warn you. So—'
Karl's view of Kratz was blocked by Holger, so he could not see exactly what happened next. Brother Karin seemed to move unnaturally swiftly across the stone floor, her strides almost inhumanly long, and there was a crack and a thick wet sound that was awful and familiar. Karl had heard too many men die in the last two years, and he hated to hear it again. Clearly Holger recognised the sound as well: he turned fast, his sword still out.
'What?' he said.
'It's her,' Karl said.
'Her?' His eyes were wide.
'The Chaos traitor.'
Karin was bent over Kratz's slumped form, but as the two men watched she straightened up. She seemed to have one hand on Kratz's head. Then she lifted it, spattered with blood, grey matter and flecks of white bone, and there was a sucking sound as it came free of the cavity she had punched through the top of his skull and down into his brain. She raised the bloody fist to her lips and licked it. Behind her, blood poured from Kratz's nose and mouth as if from a fountain, making a wide pool and running along the cracks between the tiles, spreading out.
'Yes,' she said, 'me. You've done well bringing me the mutant Hoche, Brother Holger. But I can't let you tell anyone what happened here, and the Blood God must have blood.'
She took a step forward, and Holger moved in to meet her, his face set in a tight mask of fierce intention. Behind her, Kratz's corpse slumped to the floor, his brains oozing from the hole in his head. She punched through his skull, Karl thought. She punched through his skull.
Holger took a pace forward, blocking her path with his sword in a classic guard pose. Karl felt the pain in his chest recede, sensing his strength return to his limbs, though his right arm still hurt like a daemon had it in a vice. He could, he thought, fight. It was possible that the newly reknitted tissues would rip apart, the wound would reopen and he would bleed to death. But that was less important. All he needed was a few seconds.
Brother Karin paused in front of Holger's blade. Her right hand rested on the hilt of her sword, but it stayed in its scabbard and she made no effort to draw it.
'Lay on,' she said. 'The gods enjoy a good fight.'
Karl looked desperately for a weapon. He knew something bad was about to happen, something awful. He had no idea what it would be, but he needed a weapon.
The throwing-knife was still lying where Kratz had knocked it. Karl went to it and scooped it up, left-handed. Behind him, fabric tore.
He spun round, in time to see Brother Karin's arms unfold, tearing through the sleeves of her uniform, thin white points slicing through the dark leather and cloth. Each arm looked like the blade of a clasp-knife was twisting out from its handle, hinged at her wrists, forcing her hands back, making them quillons of flesh.
Twin blades of bone, slick with her blood, each one as long as her forearm - no, longer, because these had no need to obey laws of physics or anatomy; they were gifts from her daemonic lords and followed no earthly rules. Each one was two feet long, two inches wide at the base, rising to a vicious point, sharp along both sides. The sleeves of her uniform jacket draped uselessly at her elbow, like a fool's long cuffs.
She smiled, and her smile was terrible to behold.
She was truly a warrior of the Blood God.
How could he have not realised that she was a mutant? How could he have been so stupid?
Karl took a pace back, and an instant later she dived at Holger, her blades slashing, keening through the temple's still air. The witch hunter staggered back, parrying each one frantically. His swordsmanship was excellent, Duke Heller's blade moving in his hand like liquid metal or a strip of ribbon, but it was no more than a tool, an extension. Karin's blades were a part of her, and she used them as deftly and as swiftly as a gesture, a flick, a glance, her movements organic and as fast as thought. There was no question: Holger was outclassed and outfought. The bones rattled against the steel of his sword as he parried and parried again, fending blows from left and right, high strokes and low thrusts. Each blow forced him back a little further, towards the steps to the apse.
Karl stepped sideways, away from the duellists, looking for an opening. Karin's concentration was on the fight, her eyes fixed on Holger's face. Karl knew he could not get in close enough to attack her, not with just a dagger, but he didn't need to. He twisted the knife in his left hand: it felt strange there but this was a simple shot. In a single movement he raised the blade and flung it at Karin's head, aiming for her temple.
Without shifting her eyes from Holger's face she flicked her right arm at it, and swept it away from her. It tumbled across the nave and clattered against the far wall.
Holger took the chance to launch a rare attack though her momentarily distracted defences. She parried it expertly, wrenching his sword down in an unnatural angle, and Karl saw Holger's wrist bent too far, the muscles strained, the pain evident on the witch hunter's face. Her other blade was ready for attack, for a sweep that would finish her opponent.
Instead she lowered the twin blades of her arms and turned to look at Karl. Her eyes were deep brown, the same eyes he had first seen in the face of a young priestess so long ago. The bone-structure of her face looked the same, but something in it had changed, something undefinabie and indescribable, that had ripped the humanity from it and left it a smiling mask, hiding something vile.
Holger leaped back, recovering his grip on the hilt of his sword, using his spare hand to massage his hurt wrist for a second. 'Flee, Karl!' he shouted. 'Get help!'
'No,' Karl said, staring deep at Karin, not breaking that exchange of views. He had thought he was damned, but he saw now that hers was a soul so utterly damned and lost that not even she began to understand how deep she had fallen. There was depth in her eyes, but it was a depth empty of anything that might still be human. He wondered how she had managed to survive like this for so long, and then realised she had found the perfect place to hide: among the witch hunters, the only people in the Empire as fanatical, unswerving and vicious as she was.
He almost felt pity for her.
Almost.
'Then what do we do?' Holger demanded.
'We fight until she is dead.'
'But she's too powerful! She'll kill us both!'
'Only if we let her,' Karl said.
Her eyes did not blink. He felt like he was an insect, a beetle being contemplated by a bored cat. She could squash him at any moment, but she chose not to. Instead she stood and studied him. The two foes, united in the power of their mutual hatred, stared at each other.
What was she waiting for?
From her flank Holger charged in, his sword held to thrust at her breast. She twisted on the spot to face him, crossed her arms in front of him, and leaped towards him, uncrossing them in a vicious scissor motion. Twin gouges opened on either side of his ribcage and bright blood appeared through the leather of his jacket and waistcoat. The point of his sword dipped, the energy of his charge gone in a second, and she sidestepped him with ease.
Karl ran the other way, down the steps and towards the aisle and the disordered pews where Kratz's body lay. The tall witch hunter's sword had been on a wrist-loop and had flown with him as Karl had thrown him. Now it lay in the pool of blood and gore that surrounded his corpse. And Karl needed a weapon.
Karin swirled away from Holger and swept after him, her cloak streaming out. The unnatural speed that Karl had noticed as she moved through the shadows earlier was manifest again. It was only eight yards from the steps to Kratz's corpse, and Karl had a head-start of three paces.
They arrived simultaneously. Karl tried to stop. Karin didn't, slamming into him. His feet slipped in the fresh blood and he fell, landing on his broken arm. He screamed, but even as he did he knew it was a luxury. The sword was more important than acknowledging his pain.
He twisted on the ground, kicking with his legs to propel himself towards the bloody sword, reaching forward left-handed for it. The mouth on his neck thrashed, making bitter, guttural sounds. Above and beyond him, Karin smiled her awful dead smile and brought the sharp heel of her leather boot down hard on the flat of the blade by the haft. The metallic crack as the steel snapped echoed through the shadows of the temple, and was swallowed by the darkness. Karl felt a little of his hope follow it.
Karin took three paces across the aisle to where Rhinehart lay, alongside the crossbow he had been restringing when Kratz killed him. She studied his corpse for a moment, and stamped hard on the scabbard that held Rhinehart's sword to his belt. Karl heard it break. The last spare weapon. It was a worse sound than the bones of his arm had made.
A voice said, 'Broken.' Karl took a moment to realise it was him, his second mouth.
With her grotesque blood-streaked bone-blades hanging by her sides, reaching below her knees to mid-way down her calves where her black leather boots began, Karin surveyed her work.
'Come on,' Karl said. 'Kill me. Blood for your lord Khorne.' Behind her he could see Holger approaching slowly, step by careful step, sword raised. The witch hunter was trying not to move his upper body so his leather armour did not creak or flex and give away his approach. The trails of blood running from the wounds on his flank were all too obvious.
'Later,' Karin said. 'I will tell them how you brutally killed the three witch hunters, and how I was able to subdue you. You will be taken alive, and you will remain alive for longer than you imagine possible.'
She raised her head, shook her dark hair and sniffed the air. 'Your old cell has been prepared for you.'
'I don't think so,' Karl said. He slapped his left hand down into the pool of Kratz's blood, splashing the thick liquid, then lifted his dripping palm to the mouth on his neck, forcing the bloody fingers down into the mouth. He felt the sharp teeth rake his fingers, and he didn't care. One drop had been enough to throw Kratz ten yards. A mouthful would give him the strength to break Karin's bone-swords off at the wrist, wrench her head off and leave her corpse to rot.
Nothing happened. He pulled his hand from his mutation and stared at it in horror and disbelief. Part of him could not believe it had not worked; that there had been no effect. Part of him could not believe he had just done what he did.
Karin's smile spread wide across her face, almost unnaturally wide. 'Karl, Karl,' she said. 'For all that you claim to be this great hunter of Chaos, you know so little of our ways. Blood from a dead man is no use to anyone.' She paused. 'And we can hear everything.'
In the blink of an eye she swivelled on the heel of one boot and thrust forward with both her blades. Holger dodged but not fast enough; one caught him in the thigh and he staggered backwards, his attempted assassination lost and forgotten. She stalked after him. Karl lay in the pool of Kratz's blood, despairing. The swords were broken. He could not gain more strength; even the dark forces of Chaos would not hear his prayers any more. They were lost. They had lost. Everything was lost.
Bone impacted against steel as Karin swung and Holger parried desperately, retreating from each blow. The sounds rang out across the empty pews of the temple. Karl was not watching; from where he lay he searched the building with his eyes. There was nothing here he could use as a weapon. Even if Manaan had been a warrior-god, every fitting small enough to carry had already been stripped bare long ago. There wasn't even a torch in a wall-sconce he could use as a club.
Rhinehart's empty crossbow taunted him. He knew the man would have had more ammunition but the witch hunter had not worn or carried a quiver for the bolts. They must be somewhere in the temple, but he had no idea where. Even if he could find a bolt, the goats-foot lever had been broken; the string could not be reset for another shot. And crossbows were useless as clubs, their bow-arms making them ungainly and awkward.
Holger was now retreating a foot at a time, the only way he could stay out of range of Karin's whirling blades. Abruptly his back heel caught on the lowest step of the flight up to the apse and he fell backwards, reaching out to break his fall, his guard completely dropped. Karin leaped forward, eight feet through the air, her cloak spreading like the wings of some nightmare butterfly, and landed with one boot either side of his head. Her blades were poised to strike.
Karl flinched for the witch hunter, sending a jolt of agony though his right arm. In the pain he suddenly remembered he had one crossbow bolt. He had carried it from Saint Botolphus's Square, embedded in his shoulder.
He reached up with his left hand and grasped its shaft.
On the steps, Brother Karin used the point of one blade to hook the counterguard of Holger's sword and flick it away, out of his reach. Holger gave a tiny groan.
Karl pulled on the bolt. A single jerk might break it. He pulled slowly and evenly. Every inch was agony, but it came out. The wooden shaft was soaked in his blood but the steel tip was still sharp.
In the light from the windows above the apse, Karin stood and raised the blades at the end of her arms above her head. She crossed the long bones and drew them across each other with a long rasping sound. It reminded Karl of a blade on a whetstone.
Karl leaned across the pool of blood for Rhinehart's crossbow, and pulled it to him. It was a heavy arbalest, the upper end of what a single man could carry and use alone. The twisted cord of its string could only be reset into the firing position by a lever. Or a desperate man.
Karin scraped her bone-weapons against each other again.
He lifted the weapon, placing his feet just inside the bow, grasped the string with both hands, and pulled. It was harder than he could have imagined, and the cord cut deep into the palms of his hands.
Karin grated her two mutated arms across each other one more time, and lowered them slowly to her side. It occurred to Karl that he had probably just witnessed a Khornate ritual. Not big on complex ritual, Khorne worshippers.
He bent to the string. This was it, he told himself. Their last chance; their only chance. If he could not string the crossbow, both he and Holger were dead and Karin would emerge not only alive but a hero, with more reputation, more influence and more ability to spread her foul faith. And that must not happen.
He pulled on the string with all his might. It was not enough.
On the stairs, with the shadows of the twin blades across him: 'Why?' Holger asked. The question seemed to puzzle Brother Karin. She made no reply, but she made no movement either.
Karl thought of Huss and Valten and their reserves of strength, and knew he could not tap the same energies as those men; he lacked their faith. He thought of Sigmar, and knew he lacked the god's sense of purpose. He thought of Braubach, his old tutor, and knew that Braubach would not have been able to string this crossbow either. He thought of Anders Holger, who would die if he did not succeed, and that was not enough.
He thought of his father, and could only summon the same image that had come to him as Kratz had held him down on the apse: his father's distraught face in the temple at Grunburg, filled with disappointment and horror at what his son had become. The image of the old man's face had filled his waking dreams since then. He knew he would never be able to make his father proud of him; with what he had become, it lay beyond his nature.
But he could do what his father would have wanted.

'WHY PRIESTLICHEIM?' HOLGER SAID.
'Enough questions,' she said, and bent to kill him.

KARL WRENCHED BACK on the string, straining every muscle in the length of his good arm, his shoulder, across his back, down his spine, straightening his hips and knees. It was agony for an eternity, and there was the tiniest of clicks as the bowstring slipped over the lock and into place.
Karin whirled at the sound, Holger forgotten.
Karl slammed the bolt into the groove along the top of the weapon.
She sprang into the air towards him, and her cloak spread out above like dark clouds of night descending, slashed by the lightning-bolts of her bone arms, poised to slam through his chest and kill him.
He raised the weapon.
'Oswald Maurer sends his regards,' he said, and fired.



IT WAS LIKE a dream. Karin above him, descending. The bowstring propelling the bolt forward, the shock of firing almost jerking the crossbow from his grasp. The bolt in the air, aimed for her head, the spot between her eyes. Karin's right arm sweeping through the air. Intersecting trajectories. She was going to parry the bolt.
Nobody can parry a crossbow bolt. And yet, she was going to.
Karl heard the keening sound of the bone-blade as it spun through the air, and felt the hiss of the bolt speeding on its way. He watched as the two moved closer.
The bolt flew straight, but the blade was there first, blocking, as Karin's leap carried her towards Karl. The bolt struck it flat on.
An organic weapon forged from a Chaotic mutation. A crossbow bolt that had been soaked in the blood of a mutant.
The bolt fragmented on impact, shattering into fragments of steel and splinters of wood.
The bone-blade exploded.
Karin's grace vanished; the dream snapped into reality. She crashed to the stone floor, staggering as she landed. One boot-heel broke and she fell, screaming, between two pews. Flecks of bone peppered Karl, sharp edges slashing his skin, bouncing off the wooden seats and the floor like hail or shrapnel.
Karl jumped to his feet, running towards her, swinging the crossbow. It might be ungainly as a club but it could still crush her skull. On the steps, Holger had regained his footing and was coming too, a dagger drawn.
Between them, Karin stood up, her face jerking from side to side as she tried to keep them both in sight. An instant later Karl realised why. The blade had been in front of her face when it exploded, and the fragments had ripped her beauty to shreds. Her skin was torn away in places. Pieces of bone were embedded in her flesh. One eye was a ruined, blind mass, leaking vitreous fluid. Her field of vision was halved.
She shrieked, a dreadful unearthly scream. Karl dropped the crossbow and raised his hands to cover his ears, to protect his hearing and his sanity. He felt the mouth on his neck stretch wide, and realised it was screaming too, adding to the cacophony. Holger, too, had dropped his weapon. The witch hunter was on his hands and knees, curling up to protect himself. It was a sound too vile for any human to stand.
Just feet away, Karin stood, staring at him, then at Holger, then at him, then at Holger; her face a study in hatred, violence and frustration as she screamed the scream that put all her emotions and pain into sound. If he had a weapon, he could have struck her down, but he had no weapon. He could have reached out and touched her. He did not.
She had become everything he hated and feared: a thing of Chaos in human flesh, a puppet of Khorne at the heart of the Empire, and more powerful than him. He had loathed and lived in terror of his own mutations and what he was becoming; now he saw what a weak, feeble thing his contagion was compared to the true might of an agent of the Dark Powers.
He took a step towards her.
She took a step back. Her scream rose in pitch and she crouched down.
Karl bent and wrapped his good hand, his left hand, around the carving at the end of one of the pews. Bending his knees, he raised it, hauling it up to shoulder height, high enough to pivot on the far end. Then with all his might and rage and frustration he flung it at her.
The length of dark wood tumbled towards Karin.
She bounded away. Her legs seemed to be four feet long, and she leaped away, up to the top of the steps, next to Holger, her remaining blade raised to strike.
Holger, on his hands and knees where he had crouched, saw her coming. She landed next to him. There was a dagger in his hand. He rammed it into her stomach, twisting it.
With one arm she swiped him away but the blow was mis-aimed and mistimed; she hit him with the flat of her blade and he rolled away, bruised but not cut.
Blood was pouring down her legs to the floor.
She crouched, paused, and sprang. The movement was cat-like, the legs too. She leaped not forwards to Holger, nor down into the temple to where Karl stood, but upwards, backwards, over the altar, ten, fifteen feet in the air, towards the main window that shed faint light into the building through the leaded lattice of its dirt-encrusted panes.
She hit the main window, exploding through it. Glass shattered and fell, lead tracing twisting and falling.
For a second she stood on the bottom of the window-frame, looking back at the two men with her ruined face, her blood trickling down the white stone of the wall above the altar. Then she leaped again, away, and was gone into the city.

KARL AND HOLGER faced each other across the open space of the temple: the toppled pews, the broken glass, the corpses, the scattered weapons, the blood. The echoes of her ghastly scream still reverberated around the rafters high above, fading.
Holger's face was white with shock, yet he seemed strangely in control of himself. 'She was the cultist, you said,' he said, 'and she was certainly a warrior of the Chaos gods. But you said she was pledged to the service of Khorne. The Priestlicheim massacre was caused by Tzeentch worshippers. Purple Hand. Brother Heilemann. You told me so yourself.'
'It's complicated,' Karl said. 'I can tell you later.'
'Tell me now.'
Karl sighed. 'The nunnery at Priestlicheim was a Purple Hand stronghold. It had been for months. Karin learned this and sent you, but she also sent word to members of her cult,' Karl said. 'It looked like a Tzeentchian massacre of innocents. In fact it was a massacre of Tzeentch worshippers by their enemies in the cult of Khorne. Partly a blood-sacrifice, partly to shift attention away from themselves in the aftermath of last spring's bloodbath at Castle Lossnitz, which they had also caused.'
'And Heilemann?'
'He sent a warning to his brothers in the cult, telling them to kill everyone and flee.'
'How do you know all this?' Anders asked.
'I recognised the signs,' Karl said.
'What signs?'
'The same signs that tell me if we stay here another minute we will be surrounded, arrested, tried and burnt at the stake before nightfall. We have to get out of here. Do you have horses?'
Anders was silent as he walked to where his sword lay, and picked it up, flexing it to see if it was damaged. Then he turned to Karl and shook his head. 'You're going nowhere, Karl Hoche. I arrest you—'
'Don't be an idiot!' Karl shouted.
'I'm a witch hunter! I have a duty! I arrest you—'
'Duty to what? To an organisation riddled with cultists, guided by people who manipulate you and your investigations for their own ends, to keep you out of their business?'
Anders was walking out of the shadows towards Karl, through the pool of light that flooded the temple through the hole in the broken window. 'A duty to a higher power!' he said. 'A duty to my oaths! I am sworn to the service of Sigmar, to protect the Empire from the foul works of Chaos! Karl Hoche, I arrest you—'
'How will your death serve that higher power? Or your oaths?'
Holger stopped. 'My death?'
'You think Karin will let you live now you've seen her for what she is? She needs you dead. She'll be back at the chapter-house in ten minutes, telling how you and I worked together to kill Kratz and Rhinehart and almost kill her.'
'We have to get there first! To tell them the truth!'
'And who would they believe? You or her?'
Holger was silent.
'This,' Karl said, 'this is my life. This is what I do: I seek out the spoor of Chaos, I track it to its lair, and I wait for the right time to strike at it. I have waited over a year for a chance to kill Brother Karin, and it almost came today. Now I go back to waiting. But I will kill her.'
Holger made no reply.
'You, Holger, alone among your colleagues you see the bigger picture. Kratz was too fanatical, and Rhinehart was too willing to compromise. I've seen you work, I know you could keep your vows and oaths, and follow the spirit of the laws of the Order of Sigmar, if not their exact words.' He looked down at the bodies of Kratz and Rhinehart, bathed in blood. 'It is the hardest trials that test us the furthest. They were tested and they broke. You bent and sprang back.'
'What are you saying?' Holger asked.
'I'm saying you're a man much like me. In the great war against Chaos we are on the same side, and for the same reason: we have seen the corruption at the heart of the Empire, and we know it must be cut out.'
'It betrayed us both,' Holger said.
'This is not about revenge,' Karl said. 'But we are also both fugitives. So, Brother Holger, I have three questions. Do you trust me? Will you come with me? And do you have two horses that can get us to the city gates before Brother Karin raises the alarm and has them closed?'
Holger, standing in the light, stared at him. From the shadows Karl stared back. He knew that Holger knew that if his answers were no, if the witch hunter persisted in trying to arrest him, then they would both be arrested as criminals, heretics and Chaos worshippers.
But Holger was a still a witch hunter. It was possible that he might believe the importance of taking down the noted criminal Karl Hoche, the Chaos Hunter, was more important than his own safety. It was also possible that he might want to be arrested. A man who has just learned that the organisation to which he has sworn his life, and the person to whom he has sworn his loyalty are both on the side of his enemies - such a man is liable to make unpredictable decisions.
This could go either way.
Holger made a clicking sound at the back of his throat. 'You should not call me ''Brother Holger'',' he said, 'as it seems I am no longer a witch hunter. Call me Anders.' He lowered his sword and sheathed it.
'We must hurry, Anders,' Karl said.
The former witch hunter stepped off the apse of the ruined temple, and followed Karl into the shadows.

THE HORSES WERE tethered to a rail by a water trough two streets away. The two men unfastened them and checked their tack and saddles. Both tried to avoid looking the other in the face, not wanting to meet the other's eyes, lest they decide they had made the wrong choice.
Karin had got away, Karl thought bitterly. He had been given an opportunity to kill her and he had failed. If he had done more research, better research, he could have learned that she was mutated and had special gifts from her god. Now she had escaped, her rage and desire for vengeance more vicious than ever. She would not rest until he was dead.
But the day was not wasted. Huss and Valten were even now meeting with the Emperor and the Grand Theogonist, and in a few days would lead the armies of the Empire northwards to battle the threat of Archaon and his vile forces. That was good work, and he had made many allies there.
He had discovered how the Cloaked Brothers operated; how they recruited new members from the desperate and the dispossessed, and how they manipulated forces and units into doing their work for them - and how ruthless they could be, since they must have certainly known that they were sending Rhinehart to his death. And Anders had believed his lie about Brother Heilemann, the lie he had needed to tell to set the whole scheme in motion. Karin had been involved in the mess at Preistlicheim, he knew that from senses he could not even name much less describe, but if Heilemann had been involved, then that was purely coincidence. But if a thing ends well, that justifies the means.
And he had a companion now. For a while, at least.
But Brother Karin still lived. And now she would be a ferocious and desperate adversary, even more than before. Still, if his continued existence and her desire for vengeance distracted her from other schemes of her Chaotic lord, then simply by staying alive he was fighting against her. That thought cheered him a little, but not much.
'Where are we riding?' Anders asked. 'Which gate?'
Karl considered the question. 'What really happened to Kunstler?' he asked.
'He left the city this morning, in the first Middenheim coach.'
'Middenheim.' The great fortress-city of the north, built on a pinnacle of rock that reached high above the forest. Karl had never been there, and he knew little of it. 'Do you think he has business there?'
'It seems unlikely. They say it is besieged,' Anders said.
'Besieged? Who does?'
'Messengers, arrived today. The word is all over the city: the Chaos forces have ringed it.'
'Then I think we should see what business Herr Doktor Kunstler has in that area,' Karl said, 'and put an end to it.'
'The north gate, then,' Anders said.

THEY RODE, SWIFTLY, and passed through the gate without incident. The guards were unlikely to stop a man in the uniform of a witch hunter and a man in the robes of a Sigmar priest, even if there had not been something set, something dangerous about their expressions. All the word on the streets was about the massacre at Saint Botolphus's Square and the theft of the steam tank Conqueror. Nobody seemed to have heard anything from the Grand Theogonist's palace yet, nor from an obscure abandoned temple in the mercantile district.
They rode away, leaving the Empire's capital behind them. The road seemed empty, the horizon a long way away. They rode as fast as they could without tiring the horses, since it seemed likely that chase would be given. None was forthcoming, and after three miles they slowed to a trot. A mile further there was a stream and they stopped to water their mounts and fill the skins in their saddlebags.
'Back in the temple,' Anders said, 'there was something you said. About one of us being as bad as you, and one being worse.'
'Erwin and Karin, of course.'
'You didn't include me as one of them.'
Karl looked puzzled. 'Why should I? Erwin feared he was becoming a mutant, abandoned his oaths, betrayed his brotherhood and went over to the Cloaked Brothers, who he hated, to save his selfish soul. And Karin is a worshipper of Khorne - and a mutant too. Bad and worse, as I said.'
'So you don't think I'm as bad as you?' Anders asked.
Karl's eyes, as he looked at him, were full of darkness. 'If I thought you were as bad as me, I'd kill you on the spot,' he said.
Anders let his eyes stray over the figure of the inhuman man next to him. Karl's body language gave away nothing that suggested he wasn't entirely serious.
'I think I'm reassured by that,' Anders said, remounting his horse, 'but I'm not sure.'
Karl looked up at him. 'And that in turn reassures me,' he said, 'because when you are sure about me, when you finally know what it is I am, then Anders, that will be the time you must complete the oath you swore to me.' He swung himself up into his saddle.
Anders looked puzzled. 'I swore you no oath.'
'You swore to kill me,' Karl said, 'but not yet. And I will hold you to that. Because one day, when Chaos grips me too hard for me to resist any more, then I must die.'
Anders's stare was long and considered, but it had an edge of steel. 'Then those are the terms on which I will ride with you,' he said. 'Not your follower, your partner or your friend. Your guardian.'
'My assassin,' Karl said, and held his gloved right hand out across the gap between the two horses. Anders leaned across and grasped it. Leather creaked from the strength of their grip. Their eyes met. 'But not yet,' Anders said.
They broke their grasp, spurred their horses and rode away to the north, into the gathering darkness.