The Enemy Within (25 page)

Krieger drew the curtain, took a chair, and said, “Tell me
that this time, you have what I need.”

“I’m making progress. I assume you know Solveig Weiss is
dead.” Dieter prayed the witch hunter didn’t know that Dieter himself had
employed dark sorcery to kill her. In the long run, Krieger almost certainly
wouldn’t have pardoned that, even though it had been done to further his own
ends.

“Yes.”

“Well, the Master of Change informed me he wants me to
succeed her as coven leader.”

Krieger leaned forwards. “When? Where did you meet him? Who
is he?”

Dieter raised his hand to halt the barrage of questions. “It
was last night, and unfortunately, I still can’t tell you much about him,
because we weren’t really in the same place. He was just a voice projected over
a distance.”

Krieger grunted. “Right. For a second, I forgot what a wary
bastard he is.” His eyes narrowed. “You said, you couldn’t tell
much
about him.”

“Just that it was a male voice, with a strangeness in it.”

“Because he was using magic to make you hear it from far
away?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I suspect that when you find
him, you’ll see that he carries the mark of Chaos like the raiders in the
forest.” And like me, because you forced me into this. Dieter struggled to quash
a sudden spasm of anger.

“It makes sense. It’s another reason for him to hide as well
as he does.” Krieger settled back and took a drink of ale. “What else?”

“His manner was peculiar as well. For example, it was obvious
who he was, and he needed for me to know if we were to converse to any purpose.
Yet he refused to come right out and identify himself. And there were subtler
oddities. I don’t mean he’s stupid, or addled in some overt and crippling
fashion, but I had the impression he’s not quite sane.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be, would he, turning his back on Sigmar
to wallow in forbidden magic and blasphemy. Such practices warp the mind as well
as the body.”

Indeed they do, Dieter thought, and thus—again, thanks to
you—I can’t even trust my own ideas and impulses anymore. He imagined casting
the shadow binding on Krieger, dumping the witch hunter onto the floor, and
stamping on him over and over again, relishing the snap of breaking bones.

“In any case,” Krieger continued, “here’s the important
question: when and where are you supposed to meet him in person? Do you know
yet?”

“Not really. It will be at the next assembly of coven
leaders, but he doesn’t intend to give me the particulars until it’s nearly
time.”

“Because he doesn’t trust you?”

“Appar—” Dieter faltered.

“What’s wrong?”

Something potentially disastrous. Most of the time, Dieter
had no difficulty keeping his third eye closed. But on rare occasions, it sought
to open of its own accord, and suddenly this was one of them. He fought to hold
the lid down.

But he also needed to resume talking, to keep Krieger from
perceiving that something was amiss. “A headache’s coming on. It’s the strain. I
told you at the start, I’m not the right sort of person for this job.”

“Nonsense. You’re doing splendidly. Which means this will all
be over soon, and then you can go home to your cosy house and stargaze to your
heart’s content. Now, you were explaining about the meeting.”

“Right.” The eye still wanted to open, and he kept struggling
for control. “Perhaps the Master will tell me where to go when it’s time. Or
maybe some form of enchantment will guide me step by step through the streets
until I reach my destination. Either way—”

The world shifted abruptly, or rather, Dieter’s perception of
it altered in the subtle but unmistakable fashion he’d learned to recognise. The
third eye was open.

Terrified, he felt his only options were to bolt or to strike
down Krieger before the witch hunter could strike at him. He gathered himself to
spring up out of his chair, then discerned that his companion hadn’t reacted to
the sudden revelation of his deformity.

Because he hadn’t noticed. Nearly too late, Dieter realised
that the new eye had only opened a crack, and his charm of concealment, dangling
hair, and the paucity of light in the shadowy alcove kept Krieger from seeing it
even now.

All right, Dieter thought, silently pleading with the eye,
you win. You can look around, and pound my skull like an anvil after you’re
done. Just don’t open any wider.

“‘Either way’…” Krieger prompted.

Dieter took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry. Either way, it’s not
enough anymore just to have a spy watching me. You need to keep a whole company
of men ready to follow me the next time I draw the sign. That way, you’ll have
the strength to deal with the Master of Change and his lieutenants when I lead
you to them.”

“I’ll make the arrangements when we leave here. Which I
suppose ought to be soon. We shouldn’t spend any more time together than
necessary.” Krieger reached for his ale, and a reddish, oozing phosphorescence
shimmered into being on his hand and square, hearty-looking face, the outward
manifestation, Dieter supposed, of a cruel and ruthless nature.

It was scarcely an encouraging omen, but he still pressed on
with the remainder of what he’d intended to say. “There’s something else.”

Krieger sucked a fleck of foam from his lips. “What?”

“If you knew about Mama Solveig, you must know about Jarla
Kubler, also.”

The witch hunter smirked. “Your trollop. Is she as tasty as
she looks?”

“I’m supposed to bring her to the gathering as a sacrifice to
the Changer of the Ways. That’s how I earn the Master’s trust.”

Krieger shrugged. “Fine. Whatever it takes.”

“No, it isn’t fine! She’s an innocent, or nearly so, caught
up in this madness through no fault of her own, and no threat to the Empire or
anything else. When I reach the Master of Change’s lair, I’ll try to delay the
sacrifice as long as possible. I want you to promise to attack as soon as you
possibly can, and to let Jarla go free afterwards.”

A scarlet glimmer seethed on Krieger’s scalp like an
infestation of lice. “If I were you, I’d concentrate on saving myself.”

“Give me your word, or I won’t help you any further.”

“We both know that’s a bluff.”

Was it? In truth, Dieter himself didn’t know, but, staring
into Krieger’s eyes, he tried to appear adamant. “You’d better think about it.
Everything you want is nearly within reach. It would be a shame to let it all
slip away.”

Krieger snorted. “All right. As we’re fishing for whales, I
suppose I can afford to let a minnow slip out of the net. Just don’t try to push
or threaten me again.”

As they rose to depart, Krieger felt taut as a bowstring with
eagerness. As the weeks dragged by, he’d begun to fear that Dieter was incapable
of performing as required. But the wizard had come through, and now Krieger
needed to put his followers on alert.

Then Dieter made a choking sound, and his knees buckled. He
swayed and fell backwards, his head and shoulders billowing the curtain.

What ailed him? Was he poisoned? Dying? If so, it meant the
end of Krieger’s schemes. Alarmed, he scurried around the table for a better
view.

Dieter’s legs shook, and his heels pounded the floor. Krieger
couldn’t see the upper portion of his body, because it lay beyond the curtain.
He swept the drape aside, shaking dust from its grimy folds in the process.

Dieter’s upper body was shaking and jerking like his legs.
His jaw worked as if he were chewing, saliva foamed from his mouth, and a
grinding rasp sounded from his throat. His eyes stared at the ceiling.

Several people had noticed his condition. They gawked at him,
but no one had yet come any closer, either to assist him or take advantage of
his incapacity.

The wizard lifted his hands above his face, then started
beating himself with the heels of his palms, right, left, right, left, over and
over again.

He might do himself serious harm if not restrained. Krieger
kneeled beside him and reached to take hold of his wrists.

He didn’t expect the task to be particularly difficult. He
was bigger and stronger than the wizard, and, to all appearances, Dieter wasn’t
truly conscious and didn’t even know he was there.

But appearances proved to be deceptive. Dieter jerked his
forearms away from Krieger’s clutching fingers, then scrabbled at the witch
hunter’s face. The unexpected assault caught Krieger by surprise. He felt a
flash of pain as the mage’s nails tore his skin.

He flinched back to keep Dieter from clawing his eyes. The
wizard sat up and reached for his face again. Krieger hooked a punch into the
other man’s jaw. Dieter’s teeth clicked together, and he sprawled back onto the
floor.

There he lay motionless, and, panting, his scratches
smarting, Krieger studied him. It seemed to him that there was something
different about the wizard’s face, but he couldn’t figure out what. He wondered
if he should lean down for a closer inspection, and then Dieter groaned. His
eyelids fluttered, and, moving like a sick old man, he tried to sit up.

Krieger shifted back to give him room. “Are you all right
now?”

Dieter lifted a trembling hand to his chin. “What… what
happened to me?”

“You threw some sort of fit. Started battering yourself in
the face. I tried to stop you, and then you wanted to hurt me.” Krieger grinned.
“Luckily for me, you fight like a woman.”

“As I told you, I’m getting sick from the strain, the mere
exposure to Dark Magic and blasphemy, even though I spurn it in my heart.”

“Just hold out a little longer, and then your harlot can
nurse you back to health. Look, your bag came open when you fell. You’ll want to
gather up your medicines.”

Hunched over the table in Mama Solveig’s work area, Dieter
scribbled an arcane formula on a slate, attempted to check it for errors, and
his aching eyes blurred. As he rubbed them, it occurred to him that he didn’t
know if it was day or night outside the cellar. Nor was he certain when he’d
last slept or eaten.

He couldn’t neglect such basic needs indefinitely, or he’d
make mistakes. But he begrudged the time required to attend to them. He was
running a race, and he had to win it.

He knew how to do the work, or at least he hoped so. Magister Lukas had
taught him the basic principles during his final year at the Celestial College.
But the task consisted of a complex series of rituals, and a fumble at any point
would oblige him to start over. Worse, it would ruin the irreplaceable materials
needed to anchor the enchantment.

“Aren’t you worried,” asked a familiar voice, “that the
Master of Change might be spying on you even now?”

Startled, Dieter jerked around in his chair. His cowl thrown
back, his pupils reflecting the candle flame, the priest was standing at his
side. Once again, Dieter wondered if the apparition was real or simply a figment
of his diseased imagination, but only fleetingly. The question had come to weary
him. Perhaps, as the forbidden texts proclaimed, it was a meaningless
distinction.

“Go away,” he said.

“He told you he watches you,” the priest persisted.

Dieter sighed. “He watched a gathering of the coven, and a
mission to help Leopold Mann. He didn’t say anything to suggest he spies on me
when he has no reason to believe that something interesting is happening, and if
he does, well, maybe he won’t comprehend what he sees. In any case, as always, I
have no choice.”

“Perhaps you don’t,” said the priest, “and perhaps the god
who loves you will shield you from prying eyes. But why are you struggling out
here when time is of the essence? Work in the shrine, in our lord’s presence,
where the magic will answer your call more readily.”

“No, because I don’t have to. This spell derives from the
pure Lore of the Heavens. It doesn’t draw from the Changer’s filthy texts.”

“But it could. Think how powerful the magic would be if you
combined the two knowledges.”

“It will be potent enough as it is.”

“Then think of the precious hours you can save. Don’t perform
the Consecration of the Descending Sign, and the Attunement of the Eclipse. Use
the Leper’s Kiss.”

Dieter felt a jolt of mingled excitement and dread, because
he saw instantly that the priest was correct. He could substitute a brief spell
he’d discovered in the Chaotic texts for two of the lengthy preliminary rituals
and be much further ahead. The shortcut could make all the difference.

He didn’t want to work anymore Dark Magic, or at least the
true, rational, beleaguered part of him didn’t. But at this point, polluted as
he already was, did it even matter? It certainly wouldn’t if his squeamishness
cost him his life.

“You win,” he said, then saw that the priest had disappeared.

He rose, walked to the heart of the cellar, and revealed the
shrine. Surfaces oozed and rippled with the intangible slime of Chaos. Tzeentch
grinned a welcome.

He shifted the icon to the middle of the area, so he could
tap into its power as easily as possible. Why not, he thought crazily, bitterly,
clamping down on an urge to laugh. Why not, why not, why not?

Jarla’s eyes flew open. The sunlight outside made molten
yellow threads of the cracks in the front wall of her room, just as it always
did when the afternoon was bright enough. Her sweaty body lay in the hollow it
had worn in her straw mattress. Plainly, the ordeal she’d just experienced had
only been a nightmare. Now she was awake, and didn’t even remember what had
happened in the dream.

Yet even so, terror was slow to relinquish its grip on her.
Her heart thumped, and she had the crazy feeling that if she looked around the
room, she’d see something unbearable. When someone banged on the door, she
gasped and flinched. Perhaps she’d needed something to goad her into motion, for
in reacting, she broke free of her paralysis.