CHAPTER NINE

Soldiers of Tzeentch

 

 

Months had now passed since Andreas had last received word from Otto Brandauer. The priest was accustomed to long gaps in correspondence with his old friend, but this was different. The last letter he had received had not contained the usual mixture of news and speculation. It had come under seal, and had been written in an elaborate code known only to the few sworn to the Keepers of the Flame. It had taken the priest the better part of a day to decipher the elaborate pattern of the runes encrypting the letter. His efforts were rewarded with the news he had been waiting nearly four years to hear. The burden was soon to be lifted from his shoulders. The Star of Erengrad was returning home; the fragments were to be made whole once more. The wounds of a generation were to be healed.

In his letter Otto had described the arrangements being finalised for the journey from Altdorf to Middenheim and then on to Kislev. He described Elena and her companions, and the detailed plans for their meeting in Middenheim. Otto had promised to write again on the day that they rode from Altdorf, but that second letter had never come. The priest feared in his heart that the light of their brotherhood had been extinguished in this life. Otto Brandauer was dead.

But the girl, Father Andreas told himself, the girl is still alive. And she is coming, coming to Middenheim. In the still of each night since that last letter the priest had lain in his bed, waiting, listening. He had never met Elena Yevschenko, yet he sensed her soul was very close now. He had been preparing for her coming for four years, and now the time was nigh.

For the past week Father Andreas had set a watch upon the appointed meeting place. Night had followed empty night, and the due time for their rendezvous had now passed. But this night, his heart told him, they would surely come. Throughout the daylight hours Andreas attended dutifully to his sacraments in the tiny chapel of Morr. It had been a good day, by recent standards. Fewer than fifteen deaths all told in that quarter of the city. Fewer than the day before. Fewer by far, if the stories were true, than the mounting toll of death to the east.

The priest neither abhorred nor shunned death—his life’s work was devoted to smoothing the passage of souls through the gates of Morr—but he grieved for every one torn early from the path of their natural life. He greatly feared that Otto was one such soul.

His ministrations complete, Andreas locked all the doors within the chapel, and knelt in solitary prayer. Silence settled upon the cold marble facades of the chapel. Andreas closed his eyes and bowed his head, and pledged devotion to his god.

The priest repeated his litany of prayer until the exterior world faded away and the Gates of Morr opened before him. In his mind he gazed through portals into the lands of the dead, towards an eternity without horizon, a final resting place for the children of Morr. Andreas listened to their voices; the ceaseless song of tormented souls brought finally to peace. He searched the endless plains, trying to find Otto, a lone soul amongst the multitude. In his heart he hoped that, if Otto were truly dead, then he would find him there. But there were too many voices. Not hundreds, not thousands, not any number that mortal man could reckon. All life fell to dust; the souls that survived were gathered here. Since time began, all the children of the great god Morr had been scattered upon these, his fields of rest. Now they numbered more than the grains of sand upon the shore.

He would meet again with Otto, but not until he himself had walked that final path. Andreas’ breathing deepened and grew slower. His soul slipped further within the kingdom of Morr. “Great god of eternal peace,” he intoned. “Show me your children on both sides of the great divide. Grant me sight of the living as well as the dead.”

Gradually the swell of voices broadened and filled. Now Andreas sensed the presence of those yet to be called beyond the gates of Morr. Sadness welled within him as he listened to the anguished cries of those about to be consumed by the fires of death: the sick and the dying, the wounded lying upon the field of battle. Souls struggled within their mortal frames as the swell of fate carried them, inexorably, along their last journey.

Andreas concentrated, filtering the wider pandemonium from his thoughts. He focused his mind upon the nearer shores, upon the flickering energies emanating from the souls of those within the city walls themselves. Middenheim now revealed itself to him as a tableau, a shifting pattern of light and sound. The clamour of living souls grew in intensity inside Andreas’ head, some further, some nearer to their final destination. Few if any knew the true duration of their remaining span of life, but to the priest, immersed deep in prayer, all was laid bare.

He focused his mind, sifting the lives that flashed before him. Humanity was there in all shades of virtue and sin, but Andreas was searching for one amongst the sea. An image sparked; a picture of a young woman on horseback. Near, very near now to Middenheim itself. A jolt passed through the priest’s body as he recognised the shape of the Star concealed upon her, a pulse of bright energy in the darkness.

The woman was flanked on either side by riders; their spirit lights shone strong and clear. These were the escorts Otto had written of. His sorrow deepened with the certain knowledge that his beloved comrade was not in their midst. Andreas set aside his grief and forced himself to concentrate, probing these other souls. They were growing closer by the moment, close enough now to almost touch—

Andreas sat bolt upright, shaken by some unbidden force out of his pious reverie. His body was shaking, and for a moment it felt as though an icy claw had taken a grip upon his heart. He scrambled to his feet and drew his robe around him, struggling to regain warmth. Without knowing quite why, Andreas was suddenly filled with fear. He had touched the spirit of the young woman. She would reach Middenheim safely, and all was well. And yet—for a moment he had sensed something else, something so close by as to be almost indivisible from the riders. Its form in that instant had seemed human, yet Andreas had sensed within it terrible evil.

He shuddered. The shadow faded from his consciousness but he knew that danger was close at hand. Andreas set about his preparations. As he did so, he muttered a final prayer to the gods, a prayer that it might not already be too late.

 

The emissary fled the old man’s body an instant before he died. As the stooped figure of the shopkeeper crumpled lifeless upon the ground, the emissary’s spirit flew free, fixing itself again in the new host body standing waiting before him.

Through new eyes, he looked down at the body without pity. The old man’s dim brain and blinkered spirit had served as host for the emissary, a vessel with which to pass beyond the spell-guarded gates. Having served that purpose, it was just a husk; refuse to be scraped like excrement into the gutter.

Varik reflected how no two of Lord Kyros’ disciples were ever the same, their souls as diverse as their earthly bodies. Some willingly embraced the black host, cleaved to its song as though they had longed for it all of their lives. Others struggled against the inner voice as they might struggle against a canker eating away at their flesh—with equal desperation, and with equal futility. Others still, only dimly aware of their own existence, had virtually no sense or knowledge of the power that could possess them at will. Men such as this shriveled old man could be easily controlled, but had limited potential. But it had been enough. The warding spells that the elders of Middenheim had set about the city had been weak; no match for the disciple of Tzeentch. Very soon now he would show them what true magic could achieve.

The emissary stretched his newly acquired limbs and drew down a deep breath. It felt good to possess a strong, powerful body once again. He rubbed his eyes hard and refocused, taking a moment to adjust to clear his vision after the rheumy half-sight of the old shopkeeper. Haarland Krug, the Middenheim miller whose body now played host to Varik’s soul, was a very different proposition, a willing and enthusiastic acolyte of the dark power.

The emissary allowed Krug a few moments of shared consciousness before sublimating his soul. Now, there were urgent tasks to attend to, and there must be no more distractions. The sleeping soldiers of Tzeentch, spread like dormant seeds across the city, must be woken and made ready. Varik allowed himself a moment to savour the hour drawing near. Thus far, he had no doubt, the Kislevite would have believed she led a charmed life. Now she would discover how quickly, how fatefully the winds of chance could change.

 

The hours since they had escaped the ambush at Jaegersfort became days, and there were no more attacks. But by now it was clear to Stefan that their most tenacious, resilient enemy was the forest itself. The Drakwald was the enemy that never tired, never gave up. Night and day it was with them, sapping away their strength and their will to carry on. And then, almost a week after Jaegersfort, and just when their endurance was all but exhausted, the travelers emerged at last from the forest’s dark embrace.

The Drakwald released them as suddenly as it had swallowed them up, the thick folds of trees giving way without warning to a path that led steeply up a sparsely wooded slope. It seemed as though they had travelled for half an eternity since Jaegersfort, but now, at last, they found themselves within sight of their destination. As the sky opened out above and ahead of them, Stefan halted upon the path to gaze at last upon the city that had once seemed so distant as to be no more than a dream.

Night had fallen, and the lights of Middenheim beckoned like a thousand jewels shining in the night sky high above the forest. “Shallya be praised,” Elena murmured. “There were times back there when I wondered if I’d ever live to see this sight.”

Stefan smiled. “I think we’ve kept Middenheim waiting for long enough,” he said. “Come on.”

As night gave way to day, the great city began to reveal itself to the travelers. In the first glimmerings of dawn it looked improbably huge and imposing, a mighty citadel perched upon a great fist of rock that seemed to grow far above the forest floor. With its high granite walls the city dominated the landscape, an oasis of humankind amongst the wilderness of endless forest. To the traveler’s eye it looked very solid, very secure. Stefan had never travelled there before, yet now, after the hardships of the Drakwald, it felt like coming home.

“The City of the White Wolf,” Stefan murmured. “Named after Ulric himself; god of the wolves.” He spurred his horse on, seeking the road that would lead them to the gates of the city.

 

Stefan kept close by Elena’s side as they tracked through the rain-spattered streets of Middenheim. He shook away the tiredness weighing down upon him. Now above all he had to remain vigilant.

Up to a point, he shared Elena’s relief at being within city walls once more. The vivid life and pungent smells assailing him from all sides seemed reassuring and familiar. But who amongst the thousands of faces streaming through the narrow might be their ally, and who their enemy? The forces of darkness would have their acolytes here in Middenheim, of that he had no doubt. And once they had the second part of the Star it would surely not be long before they stepped out from the shadows.

The riders skirted the heart of the city, seeking the wide metalled road that led to the Morrspark. The grey-granite streets of Middenheim with their dark-timbered buildings seemed improbably crowded after the desolation of the forest. Although the hour was growing late, people still flocked about their business, moving between taverns, pushing handcarts laden with wares from market stalls. The horses were forced to slow to a walking pace.

Finally the street ahead narrowed and there was no way through. The passage was blocked by a knot of townspeople arguing over something; a disputed purchase, or a debt. The argument was growing heated, drawing onlookers into its midst. Stefan drew his horse to a halt in front of the crowd and called down from the saddle.

“Hey there,” he shouted, cordially but firmly. “Can’t you take your quarrel somewhere else? We need to pass through.”

Those towards the back of the crowd either didn’t hear Stefan, or chose to ignore him. Alexei swore, impatiently, and started to climb down off his horse. “We’ll need a little more persuasion to clear this lot,” he commented.

“Wait a minute,” Stefan said. “We don’t want to get caught up in this if we can help it.”

He nudged his horse forward until he was right at the edge of the throng. “Hey you,” he shouted, focusing his attention on a large man standing with his back to them. After a momentary pause the man broke away from the brewing fight and turned to face the riders.

Stefan saluted the man amicably. “Can you help move these people along?” he asked. “We need to reach the Morrspark before last bell.”

The man stared glassy-eyed at Stefan for a moment. Just at the point when Stefan was beginning to think he must have chosen badly, a flicker of animation crossed the man’s face, and he sprang into action. Turning back into the crowd, the burly figure began clearing people aside unceremoniously. A path opened amidst the squabble, and Stefan and the others were able to pass.

Stefan nodded towards the burly giant as he eased his horse through the gap in the crowd. “Thanks for your help, friend,” he said.

Haarland Krug gazed up at Stefan without blinking, and nodded back.

 

Distant bells were chiming the last of the day as they approached the Morrspark. In a few minutes the gates to the fields of rest would be locked shut, and the rendezvous would have passed for another night. That was a delay they could not afford. As they drew closer to their destination, the traffic upon the road became almost all one-way; grey figures departing slowly from the direction of the Morrspark, mourners returning from their lonely vigils amongst the dead.

A mist had started to settle over Middenheim by the time they reached the fields of Morr, a sulphurous blanket of grey that masked both sight and sound. Even so, there was no mistaking the scale of the place.

“It’s big,” Bruno commented.

“Aye,” Stefan concurred. “Let’s hope we don’t have to search to find our priest.” He brought his horse to a halt, and sat, scanning the outer wall of the Morrspark. The wall ran as far as he could see in either direction before disappearing into the mist. There seemed to be only one entrance, some way down on their left, a pair of sturdy iron gates flanked on either side by what could be guardhouses. A light still burned in the lower window of one of the buildings, but the gates themselves appeared shut. Nothing stirred, living or dead.

Stefan turned to Elena. “Any other way in, as far as you know?”

Elena shook her head. “Otto described the park as a great circle, walled around in its entirety. His instruction was that there is only one principal entrance, approached on the road from the Nordgarten.” She looked to the gates in front of them. “This must be it.”

Stefan lifted the reins and turned back towards Alexei, riding at the rear, a watchful eye upon their captive. “Any sign of anyone unwelcome?” he asked. The swordsman shook his head. “None that I’ve been able to pick up on,” he said. “But the dark ones will be cleverer, this time,” he added, glancing at Tomas. “I’d take no comfort from this quiet place.”

“Don’t worry,” Stefan assured him. “I won’t.” He looked round for Bruno. “Keep him here for the moment,” he said to him, indicating Tomas. “But keep him safe.”

Bruno nodded his assent, casting a brief glance in the direction of Alexei Zucharov. “He’ll be safe enough with me,” he confirmed.

“Well then,” Stefan said to Elena. “Are you ready for this?”

“I’ve been ready for four years,” Elena replied.

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Stefan said. “We’ll ride together to the gatehouse.”

Lisette picked up the reins, preparing to follow her mistress towards the Morrspark. Elena caught Stefan’s eye, then shook her head ever so slightly. Lisette looked from Stefan back to her mistress in confusion.

“Madam, I’m pledged to ride by your side,” she protested. “If there is danger—”

“It’s best you wait here with the others,” Elena said, somewhat uncertainly.

“This is for the safety of all of us,” Stefan confirmed. “Wait here with Alexei and Bruno. As soon as we know all’s well, you can join us.”

Lisette hesitated, part of her still intent on staying by Elena’s side. But a glance at her mistress told her that her mind was made up. Reluctantly the Bretonnian girl turned her horse and trotted back to where the others stood waiting. Elena and Stefan rode on towards the Morrspark.

The gates were locked, and the park itself looked deserted. The last of the mourners had long departed into the mist.

“The appointed time was between eleventh bell and midnight each evening,” Elena murmured. “Perhaps we’re too late.”

“I’d advise we wait a while,” Stefan said. “But don’t dismount just yet. We may need to leave in a hurry.”

Minutes passed. The fog blanketing the city streets thickened, and the sky grew dark as clouds gathered above, obscuring the moons. After what seemed a long time a door at the side of the gatehouse opened, and a figure emerged carrying a lantern. Stefan looked down at a squat figure of indeterminate sex and age, dressed in the drab, dun-coloured robes of the priests of Morr. The man stood before them, holding the lantern above his head to cast a light upon the riders.

“Good evening, father,” Stefan began. “We have business at the garden of rest. I trust we’re not come too late?”

The priest tilted the lantern slightly in Stefan’s direction. “What business would that be?” he asked.

“We come to mourn a brother lost,” Elena said, speaking her words with a careful precision. “For only in devotion to the dead can the souls of the living be re-born.”

The man moved the lantern towards Elena. “Then you hope to find virtue here?”

“If we are found worthy,” Elena responded. “Then we pray the gods may choose to bestow the gift of virtue upon us.”

The priest nodded abruptly, and turned to unlock the gates.

“Father Andreas?” Elena asked, a tremor in her voice now.

“Follow me,” the priest said, ignoring her question. Elena looked to Stefan.

“Do we go alone?”

Stefan thought for a moment. There was still the matter of Tomas Murer to be resolved. “Father,” he asked. “There are others who ride with us. May I take your lantern to signal to them?”

The priest paused for a moment, then handed Stefan the lantern. As the priest unlocked the gates to the Morrspark, Stefan held the lantern aloft to signal to Bruno and Alexei waiting further along the road. The riders passed in single file into the Morrspark. The priest pulled the gates to behind them, and fastened them securely.

 

Werner Schlagfurst had been sick for most of that week. The headaches had begun as a persistent throbbing in his head a few days ago, and had grown in intensity until, for much of the time, it felt as though someone were pounding against the outside of his skull, trying to break in. The headaches came and went throughout the day, but each day they were getting worse. It seemed to make no difference whether he drank nothing, or whether he drank a lot, which he did most days. Together the pain in his skull and the rotgut brandy combined to compound his already evil temper, until his own wife and children shunned him for fear of the violence he might do. That day Werner had not gone to work. The hammering inside his head had begun at first light and continued unabated throughout the day. The foundry could go to Morr, and take their filthy stinking job with it. Werner didn’t care. More than that; for all the throbbing ache battering his skull, he knew that there was something, something much more important, that was about to happen to him. Images—dark, violent images—swam into his mind then darted away from him like eels at the last moment. If only they would lie still for just a minute. If only this cursed hammering in his head would stop.

He had lain, cursing and sweating, wrapped within the sheets of his filthy bed since morning, rising only to add to the stinking slops swilling in the pot at the foot of the bed. Let Marta empty it. He’d be cursed to Morr if he’d do any work that day.

On the table by his bedside a flask of the brandy that had been his constant companion most of his working life. Several times during the day Werner had reached out for it, but he never took the stopper from the bottle, and he never drank. He didn’t know why. It was something to do with the pounding in his head. Something to do with the sense of importance that was growing in intensity with the throbbing pain. Curse those slippery eels. Curse them to Morr.

Finally, Werner slept. His sleep was filled with the sort of dreams that most men would call nightmares. Horned serpents slithered out of the darkness to slink in and out of his body, darting tongues seeding him with an insidious poison. In the dreams Werner felt both weak and powerful as if, like a serpent, he was sloughing off one skin and growing new scales of armour. All the time the hammer inside him beat against the anvil of his soul, tolling incessantly like a bell.

Something cold and wet hit him in the face and Werner sat bolt upright in bed. His wife Marta stood over him, candle in one hand. Somewhere in the distant night, a bell was indeed chiming.

His wife was holding something in her other hand. A stump of wood, or something like that. Dimly, Werner remembered it as being part of a chair he had smashed apart last evening. Marta, he noticed, had a bruise like a ripe fruit below one eye, and she was trembling as though in dread of what he might do to her for having woken him.

He gazed, fascinated, at his wife. It was as though, somehow, he could read in her all manner of things that were invisible to the mortal eye. Read them—if only Werner had been able to read—like the recipe for some mage’s potion. In Marta’s trembling face he read uncertainty and confusion, and he read fear. Fear that something was happening to her husband, that a change was coming upon him that could never be undone. Werner drank in her fear, and realised that he enjoyed the feeling it gave him.

“What is it?” he demanded of her, sourly. “You’d better have good reason for waking me when I’m sick.”

“There is a man waiting below,” his wife said, hesitantly. “I’ve never seen him before. But he says—he says that you must go with him now.”

Werner cursed and spat effusively upon the wooden floor, but, to his own surprise as much as his wife’s, found himself pulling back the sheets and rising from the bed. Marta bit upon her lip. “Werner!” she pleaded. “This man—I don’t know, he looks bad—please don’t go with him.”

Werner Schlagfurst stumbled from the bed, pushing his wife aside roughly to get to the door. He lurched unsteadily, cursing as his foot connected with the slop-bucket, spilling its stinking contents across the floor.

The door at the foot of the stairs was wide open. Cold air blew around the interior of the house. Werner staggered down the steps and came face to face with the figure waiting for him in the doorway. Marta had been right about one thing; he’d never met this man before, he was sure. Yet, as his gaze locked upon the stranger’s black, unblinking eyes, Werner knew that the same incessant drum was beating inside his head.

The stranger looked at Werner without any smile of welcome or recognition. Werner found himself stepping aside to let the man enter the house.

“Arm yourself,” the stranger told him. “The time has come.”

By the time Werner emerged from the crumbling house, his limbs had filled with a new energy. White-hot air pumped through his lungs, feeding his blood, raising it to boiling point. An old crossbow, rusted with disuse but now newly oiled, was slung across his back. He saw a woman, a bruised and miserable figure, standing in the doorway behind him, calling to him in confusion and desperation. But he neither acknowledged nor remembered Marta now. In fact, Werner Schlagfurst barely remembered himself. His mind was focused on the road ahead, his stride matched to the steady hammer beat inside his head. The serpent’s skin, glittering and new, moulded itself to his soul.

 

The figure in priest’s robes led them through the Morrspark. Soon the sounds of the outer world, already muffled by the fog, had faded away entirely. It seemed like they were completely alone in the murky darkness. Alone, save for the thousand dead lying at rest all around, waiting their call unto the next life.

But they were not completely alone, and it was not completely dark. As they neared the centre of the Morrspark a light became visible through the mist, a feeble glow-worm phosphor filtering through the gloom. Stefan saw a figure standing hunched beneath the light of a tallow lamp, a grizzled creature with an unkempt grey beard. The man was hard at work, attacking the cold earth with a pick.

The workman paused in his labours at the sound of footsteps approaching. He set the pick to one side, but did not put it down. Instinctively, Stefan’s hand closed over the hilt of his sword.

As they came closer, the priest raised his hand. The workman returned the greeting, and turned his gaze upon the newcomers. He seemed particularly fascinated by Elena and Lisette, his gaze barely leaving them as they approached.

Soon all eight were gathered around the grave the old man had been digging out. Elena turned to the priest, unsure of what was expected of her. “What now, father?” she asked. “Is there something else you require of us?”

The priest slipped back his cowl, revealing a clean-shaven young man with dark, receding hair. For the first time, he favoured Elena with a brief smile.

“I’m flattered to be called father,” he said. “But it’s a little premature.”

The gravedigger laughed and rested upon his pick. “For me, on the other hand, this meeting is long overdue.” He held out a soil-crusted hand. “And very welcome,” he added. “I am Father Andreas.”

Elena hesitated, still confused. Stefan seized the offered hand. “A good disguise, father,” he said. “We had not expected to find you still at work so late in the evening.”

Father Andreas laughed again. “Oh, this?” he said, indicating the pick. “That was just my insurance.”

“Insurance?”

“In case you were visitors of the unwelcome kind, and I had cause to crack open your skulls.” His eyes for a moment were hard steel grey. Stefan saw that he was not joking. Suddenly the priest looked much younger, not to mention much stronger, than the decrepit gravedigger of a few moments ago. Father Andreas turned towards the man in priest’s robes who had led them through the Morrspark. “Good work, Johann,” he said. “You can leave us now.”

The younger man looked uncertain. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I sense a heavy foreboding come upon this place tonight, father.”

“All the more reason for you to go now,” Andreas told him. “I’ll brook no argument, Johann. Go. And go safely.”

Father Andreas watched the younger man retreat into the night. “He’ll make a fine priest of Morr before too long,” he commented. He turned his attention to Elena, his stare lingering upon her, weighing her up.

“You carry a great burden upon your young shoulders, my lady.”

“Then it’s a burden I carry willingly,” Elena replied. “And I’m resolved to carry it to the end.”

The priest nodded. “I know that you are,” he said. “I was told as much by—” he hesitated, and his sharp eyes seemed to grow dull. “Otto is dead, isn’t he?” he said, his voice quiet.

It was Bruno who spoke first. “I fear your guess is right. He is dead.”

“Murdered,” Stefan added. “I’m sorry—he was a friend of yours?”

Father Andreas bowed his head and drew a hand across his eyes. He stood there for a few moments in silent contemplation. A sound, like a small cry or a muffled sob, escaped his lips. Then he pulled himself upright, and drew down a deep breath.

“Come,” the priest continued. “Let’s waste no more time on welcomes.” He looked around the group. “No one followed you here, as far as you could tell?”

Alexei Zucharov shook his head. “But I suggest we don’t read too much into that.”

“Agreed,” Father Andreas replied. “We should not presume that we’re safe yet.” The priest’s eyes fell upon Tomas Murer, a forlorn figure with his hands secured tightly behind his back.

“What story attends this sorry fellow?” he asked. Tomas spoke up before any of the others could reply. “Sir, I have been much maligned, and the victim of misunderstanding,” he insisted. “As the great god of death shall judge me, I stand before you a good man and true.”

“We shall see the truth of that,” Stefan responded. “That’s a matter we seek your judgment upon, father, once our principal business is done.”

Andreas looked Tomas up and down. “So, you beg the judgment of Morr?” he said, gravely. “Say your prayers if he should find you wanting.”

The priest paused, deep in thought. “Well. We’ve waited four years. Let’s wait no longer.” He produced a rusted iron key from inside his robe, and walked towards the vaulted tomb standing behind them. With a knife, he worked free one of the stones set into the marble facade, exposing a lock. He placed the key in the lock and turned. The facade became a door, swinging outwards to reveal a narrow stone staircase leading down below the earth.

He beckoned, and Elena stepped forward, with Lisette at her side.

“Wait!” Andreas commanded. “The bearer of the Star only. The others must wait, and keep watch over the vault.”

“But Lisette is my handmaid,” Elena said. “She only wishes to attend me, as is her duty. Surely there can be no harm—” The priest held his hand aloft, stifling her protest. “Wait, though,” he said, reflecting for a moment. “Which of you is Stefan Kumansky?”

Stefan stepped forward. The priest looked him over carefully. “Yes,” he said at last, as though Stefan’s appearance tallied with a description. “You should also step below. The others, wait here.”

Stefan followed the priest and Elena down into the musty gloom. Below ground the temperature plummeted. The air frosting their breath had the still, cloying sweetness of death itself. The stairs led down to a single cell, a narrow chamber lit by the light of candles affixed to each of the walls. Once the door had been secured behind them, the priest turned to Stefan and Elena, his expression grave.

“Otto’s death is a source of mighty grief to me,” he said.

“We feel that loss every bit as keenly,” Stefan assured him.

“There is more bad news,” Andreas went on. “News that will concern your onward journey.”

“Has there been a change to the plan?” Elena asked.

“Not a change as such. But the merchant convoy you were to travel with left Middenheim two days ago. The main trade routes between the Empire and Kislev were about to be sealed. They would delay their departure no longer.”

Stefan considered the priest’s words. This was a major blow to their plans. “Then the border itself has been dosed?”

The priest nodded confirmation. “If you are to reach Kislev then there are only two routes now open to you � through the Forest of Shadows, or through the Middle Mountains. Both are perilous, but the mountain paths are now ruled by bandit gangs. Stay away from them.”

He sat himself on one side of the table and stretched out his arms. “But more of that anon,” he said. “For now, give me your left hands.”

Stefan and Elena extended their hands and the priest took each of them in his own. He closed his eyes, and lowered his head. Stefan assumed for a moment that they were about to join in prayer. Then he felt something, like the jolting sting of a river eel, surge through his body. Once the shock had receded he realised that he was not being attacked. It was rather as though the energy was coming direct through the body of the priest, searching him out, delving into the depths of his soul.

When, a few moments later, the priest released his grip upon their hands, he was smiling. “Now,” he said, “let me see the Star.”

Elena unfastened the top of her robe and pulled the chain from around her neck. She hesitated for a moment before handing the icon to the waiting priest.

“I’m not used to letting this out of my possession,” she explained.

“Well,” the priest replied. “There has to be a first time for everything.” He lay the segment down, then pulled a drawer out of the table in front of him. It appeared empty. Then Andreas lifted the silver leaf lining the bottom of the draw to reveal another compartment. Inside lay the icon’s companion piece, the second segment of the Star of Erengrad.

The second piece seemed at first to be an identical copy of the first, but when Andreas lay the two together, the segments matched exactly so that barely a line could be seen dividing them.

Elena gasped, seeing the two pieces together. “I’ve long dreamed of this moment,” she declared.

“So have I,” Andreas said. Stefan realised he had been expecting something more spectacular; thunder or lightning, perhaps, some token from the gods at this momentous event. But it remained very still, and very cold, in the chamber.

“What now?” he asked.

“Now?” the priest looked bemused for a moment. “Now you take the two parts of the Star, with my blessing. And may all the gods take you safe to find the third.”

Elena looked down upon the icons lying joined upon the table. “How should I carry them?” she asked.

“Ah.” Andreas lifted the Star, and separated it once more. He gave the original piece back to Elena, and slid the second across the table towards Stefan.

“This must be your burden now, until our quest is fulfilled,” he told him.

Stefan reached out, tentatively, and closed his hand upon the icon. The piece felt cold to his touch, yet, as he placed the silver chain around his neck, he felt a surge of warmth radiate out from it, suffusing his body. He looked across at Elena. From the look of astonishment on her face, he guessed she must be experiencing the same thing.

“The separate parts are inert, dead metal,” the priest said. “But, bring them close together and you will begin to feel the power of the Star.”

“And these are just two of the three segments!” Elena exclaimed.

Andreas nodded. “Now you begin to truly understand its worth, and why it must not fall to the wrong hands.”

Stefan sat for a moment, lost in wonder at the strange, elemental force. Then he remembered they had other business that must be attended to before they bid farewell to the priest. “One final thing,” he said. “We must know the truth of Tomas Murer,” he said. “And then deal him the justice he deserves.”

 

Werner had been taken to an abandoned building on the edge of the city, a foul crumbling place that reeked of dye and decaying fat. He remembered the building from somewhere. It was the old tannery. He had collected some leather there once for his master. Or the man whom once he had called his master.

Dimly, Werner realised that he had a new master now. Things were going to be different.

The tannery was long abandoned, but tonight it was not empty. Faces loomed out of the darkness, soldiers waiting for the call to arms. Some Werner recognised, some he did not, but, for the first time in an otherwise worthless life, Werner Schlagfurst knew he was not alone.

Before long, they were on the move, walking alone or in groups of two or three. At their head Werner saw a man—if man it was—wearing a helm of black steel that gave his head the appearance of bearing wings or horns. The face of the helm had been moulded in the likeness of a snake striking at its prey. Werner knew this man from somewhere—or had known him, in the other wretched life that was rapidly fading away. He struggled momentarily for the miller’s name. It no longer mattered. All that mattered was here, now. The helmed head moved from side to side, the snake eyes reaching out, penetrating deep inside the head of each and every man amongst them.

Werner gazed around, almost sick with a giddy excitement as more and more figures emerged from the mists around him. Their numbers were growing with every moment, and yet they seemed to pass silently along the darkened streets. It was as though the fog shrouding the pathways was swallowing any sound. They had become ghosts.

Even before they reached the Morrspark, Werner knew where they were headed. And he knew why. Knew that there would be fresh blood spilt upon the fields of the dead that night. As he neared the portals of Morr, Werner saw the helmed figure raise his arms towards the sky, and an arc of light flash across the air, setting the mist aflame. For a moment, Werner was blinded. When his sight returned he saw that the fog had parted, clearing a passageway for his brothers into the Morrspark. As Werner and his comrades passed through, the mists closed in like waves falling back upon the shore, sealing off the outer world. Without understanding what had happened, Werner understood that this was the work of powerful magic, magic that served the same master as he.

A drum was pounding. Werner could no longer tell if it was beating inside or outside his head. Nor could he fix upon the words that the snake man was offering up, but, nonetheless, he understood. Understood that he had waited a lifetime for this moment to come. At last, he knew his purpose.

 

* * *

 

Father Andreas laid his hands upon Tomas’ forehead, and let them rest there whilst he stood, eyes closed, listening to the inner voice of his soul.

Eventually he lifted his hands, and opened his eyes once again.

“Well?” Stefan asked, his throat dry. Andreas looked down at Tomas Murer, and bid him rise to his feet.

“This is a life that has known much sin,” he said at last. “Sins of weakness, and the follies born of excess. But I also see a sound heart, honest and strong in its way.” He looked towards Stefan. “I find no taint of darkness in him.”

Tomas expelled a mighty sigh of relief. For his part, Stefan felt a weight lift off his shoulders. “That’s good news,” he said.

The priest’s brow furrowed. “Not entirely,” he said. “I say I find no darkness in Tomas’ soul, that much is good. But evil is close, very close. I sensed it just now, even as we talked up above.”

Elena shot Stefan an anxious glance. “What are you saying?” she asked the priest.

“I’m saying that darkness attends you, lady,” he replied. “Not in yourself, of course,” he assured her. “But close at hand. I sensed it earlier today when I was immersed deep in prayer. And, since your party has come to me, I sense it even more strongly. There can be only one explanation. One amongst you carries the dark seed.”

Stefan felt a sickness growing in the pit of his stomach as he listened to the priest’s words. “We must find who it is,” he said without hesitation. “We can go no further until we have.”

He turned to begin climbing back towards the top of the vault, but was met almost immediately by Bruno, rushing down the steps as fast as his legs could carry him.

Bruno gazed round at them, his eyes wide, almost crazed. “You’d better get up here fast,” he said to Stefan. “We’ve got company, and plenty of it.”