The Enemy Within (4 page)

Swirls of inky shadow writhed into existence around the
serpent’s body. Adolph grinned, then scowled when the black bonds vanished as
abruptly as they’d appeared, and without seeming to trouble the spirit in the
slightest. It was as if the aura of flame had burned them from existence.

Meanwhile, Jarla threw stones. Unfortunately, unlike arcane
attacks, the rocks fell short or flew wild, deflected by the same wind that kept
the snake away from Dieter.

Although it wouldn’t hold it back much longer. The creature
had started slowly but was steadily gaining ground, and the artificial gale
would subside in a few more heartbeats anyway, when the enchantment ran its
course. Once again, Dieter struggled against the panicky urge to flee.

He cloaked himself in a bluish shimmer that might, if he was
lucky, stop the serpent’s fangs like armour. He then focused his mind and
reached high into the sky, where his form of wizardry lived. He needed a storm,
and in fact, there was one raging, but unfortunately, well to the north, with
only the fringe hanging above the city. But if his skills sufficed, perhaps that
would be good enough.

He chanted, and the warp and woof of existence responded to
his commands and entreaties. It was like hooking a fish, like seizing clay in
one’s grasp and moulding it, somewhat like a hundred mundane actions yet like
nothing anyone not a wizard could ever comprehend.

The bellow of the wind started to fade. The serpent lurched
closer. Adolph grabbed Jarla by the bodice, spat an incantation into her
painted, terrified face, stooped and, to all appearances, tore her shadow loose
from her feet. She thrashed, and he set the murky figure standing upright.
Portions of its body stretching and contracting as it moved, it charged the
creature of Chaos.

But the conjured servitor scarcely bothered the serpent any
more than the dark bonds had. A single snap of its blazing jaws destroyed it.

The wind died entirely. The snake shot forwards, and Jarla,
apparently at least partially recovered, wailed. Dieter kept chanting as his
attacker surged into striking distance.

The shimmering haze he’d conjured to sheathe his limbs kept
the serpent’s first bite from penetrating, but it couldn’t block the heat. It
was like standing in a furnace, like the air in his lungs and throat had turned
to smoke and embers. Somehow he held to the cadence and precise articulation his
spell required. The serpent reared to strike again.

Then the world burned white and boomed as lightning, drawn
far from its natural course by Dieter’s magic, pierced the creature from above.
The serpent vanished instantly. The blast hurled Dieter through the air to slam
down on his back.

Gasping, blinking at after images and listening to the
ringing in his ears, he knew that by rights, the thunderbolt, striking so close,
should have done more than pick him up and fling him. It should have burned or
killed him. But he’d had the power under control.

Jarla ran to him and dropped to her knees beside him. “Are
you all right?” she cried.

He sat up. “I think so.”

Breathing heavily, looking as if he was starting to feel the
sting of his singes and blisters, Adolph approached more warily. “You’re no
farmer,” he said. “Those were powerful spells you cast.” Dieter wasn’t sure if
the other man’s tone reflected admiration, jealousy, or both.

Nor was he inclined to dwell on the matter. He had something
more urgent to figure out: what he needed to say next.

“You’re right,” he said. “Like you, I know some magic, and
also like you, I would imagine, I don’t tell people about it until I trust them
completely.”

“Right,” said Adolph, “but who are you really?”

“Someone who truly does want to join your cause,” Dieter
replied, clambering to his feet. “Can the details wait until we’re away from
here? The fight made enough commotion that I doubt it’s safe to linger.”

In addition to which, he could use the extra time to polish
his new set of lies and fix the particulars in his memory.

Adolph scowled. “You’re right. We should leave before the
witch hunters show up, and we want to go this way.”

They hurried onwards, not quite running, but striding
quickly. Dieter struggled not to flag, to deny the weakness and fatigue that
inevitably followed so much spell casting. At first Jarla too seemed to strain
to keep the pace, as though she was still suffering from Adolph’s mystical
violation of her person. Gradually, though, she appeared to rally, and then she
gave Dieter a tentative, inquiring sort of smile.

“I’m sorry I drugged you,” she said, “and sorry we tried to
hurt you, too.”

It had terrified him at the time, nor, in his secret heart,
was he inclined to take his mistreatment lightly even now, but he forced a grin.
“You thought I was deceiving you, and on one level, I was, so I have only myself
to blame.”

Forgiveness widened and brightened her smile. “Adolph is
right. The way you defeated the daemon”—evidently she wasn’t sufficiently
well-versed in Dark Magic to distinguish between true daemons and lesser
entities like the one they’d just encountered—“was amazing.”

“He and I defeated it together!” Adolph snapped. “Don’t you
remember me casting my spells, you stupid whore?”

Jarla flinched.

They walked in silence after that, on towards whatever new
dangers awaited. Dieter tried to draw encouragement from the fact that at least
his situation was less dire than it had been only minutes before. Or several
weeks before, for that matter…

They’d beaten Dieter with their fists, scourged him with a
thin black whip, and left him dangling from a rafter with the weight of iron
balls and chains hanging in turn from his ankles. Eventually he’d passed out, to
wake bound and gagged on the cold dirt floor of a cell.

A rat came creeping, enticed, perhaps by the bloody smell of
the lash marks on his back or the galls on his wrists and ankles. He heaved and
thrashed as best he could until the rodent scurried away.

“That works for a while,” said a cheerful bass voice, “but
eventually the rats figure out a prisoner in restraints can’t really do much to
fend them off, and then they take their supper. I’ve seen it happen time and
again.”

Dieter hitched himself around to face the bars and the
corridor outside, where Otto Krieger stood. With the light of the torch in the
wall sconce wavering behind him, the big man was little more than a shadow, but
by now, fear and outrage had stamped every detail of his appearance into his
prisoner’s memory.

Krieger was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a
square, pleasant face and a smiling, ruddy mouth. Had he opted to wear something
other than the sombre garments and ominous regalia of a witch hunter, a new
acquaintance might have taken him for a genial, convivial fellow, with nothing
brutal or cruel about him. Unfortunately, the reality was otherwise.

Krieger selected one key on a ring, inserted and twisted it
in the lock securing the door, and the mechanism clanked. He entered the cell,
bent over Dieter—who struggled not to cringe—hoisted him up and sat him on
the wooden bench by the back wall.

“There,” the witch hunter said, “that’s better than the
floor, isn’t it? It’s certainly a better attitude for a friendly conversation.
Although for that, we need to take the gag out of your mouth. Promise me you
won’t try to cast a spell.”

With his back and joints throbbing, Dieter doubted he could
have mustered the necessary concentration in any case. He nodded.

“Good man.” Krieger pulled down the knotted kerchief. “You
must be thirsty.” He produced a leather canteen and held it to Dieter’s lips.

Until now, the witch hunter and his assistants hadn’t given
Dieter anything to drink, and the lukewarm water eased at least one of his
miseries. He felt an irrational twinge of gratitude, and tried to quash it.

“Now, then,” Krieger said, “let’s talk about the evidence
against you.”

“There isn’t any,” Dieter said. “There can’t be.”

Krieger tapped the satchel hanging with his broadsword and
wheel-lock pistol from his broad black square-buckled belt. “I have the
affidavits. Testimony sworn in Sigmar’s holy name. A woman named Elfrida never
fancied you � I don’t know why not, you look all right—yet one night, she felt
compelled to couple with you anyway.”

“‘Felt compelled’? Meaning, I bewitched her? She was drunk!
We both were! It was Sun Still!”

“Several witnesses saw you cast spells while in the company
of a boy named Berthold—”

“I plucked pennies from his ears to make him laugh. It’s not
even real magic, just sleight of hand.”

“—and subsequently, he wandered off alone into the forest,
where wolves attacked and killed him.”

“You can’t believe I made it happen!”

“Several miners heard strange whispers in one of the shafts.
Then a support gave way. A man lost his arm.”

“A terrible accident, but again, nothing to do with me. Since
I settled here, I’ve done nothing but try to help my neighbours. Much of
Celestial magic is divination, and I tell the farmers where to dig their wells
and when to plant. I help the miners locate veins of ore and coal. I search for
lost sheep and cows, and lost children, when necessary. Anyone will tell you!
Why would I work to help
and
harm the village?”

“You do some small semblance of good so the town will
tolerate a wizard in its midst. Then, having lulled everyone’s suspicions, you
can address your true task: spreading pain and despair to advance the cause of
Chaos.”

“That’s insane.”

Krieger rested his hand on the satchel. “Your neighbours say
otherwise.”

“Then it’s simply because they have a morbid fear of any
magician, and you played on it. Or because you bribed or threatened them.”

The witch hunter chuckled. “I will admit that, once I hinted
I might pay a modest fee for pertinent information, several witnesses came
forward. While after I made it clear that in my view, only a Chaos worshipper
would seek to defend another such, a couple of folk who at first seemed inclined
to speak on your behalf thought better of it.”

Dieter could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Then you
admit to manufacturing a case against an innocent man.”

“There are no innocent men, my friend, simply varying kinds
and degrees of guilt. Certainly there are no innocent wizards. Sigmar teaches
that all magic derives from Chaos, no matter how you scholars of the colleges
try to obfuscate the fact.”

“That may be your opinion, but we have charters from the
Emperor allowing us to practise our arts.”

“Until you get caught abusing them. Let’s discuss the
contents of your house.”

“What? My telescopes? My star charts? My staff? A wizard of
the Celestial Order is allowed to possess such tools.”

“Arguably so, but what about this?” Krieger unbuckled the
flap of his satchel and removed a child’s toy comprised of a wooden cup and
handle linked to a little ball by a length of leather string. “Recognise it?”

Dieter did. It had been Berthold’s. But he refused to say the
words, as if that would make any difference.

“How about this?” Krieger produced a kerchief. In point of
fact, Dieter didn’t recognise it, but suspected it belonged to Elfrida. “Or
this?” The witch hunter proffered a little clay figure of a man with one arm
missing. “I believe they’re the sorts of items a warlock might have used to lay
curses on the folk who have come to grief.”

“You planted them!”

“You’d be surprised how many witches utter such slanders. You
probably wouldn’t be surprised that nobody ever believes them.”

Struggling for calm, Dieter took a deep breath. “You must
realise, you don’t even have jurisdiction over me. I’m a mage of the Celestial
College. If I’m accused of wrongdoing, my order is supposed to adjudicate the
matter.”

Krieger shrugged. “Technically, you may have a point, but
we’re not in Altdorf. I’ve spoken with the Graf, and, upright, pious child of
Sigmar that he is, he’s eager for me to bring this troubling case to a quick
conclusion. That’s why he allowed me the use of his dungeon.”

“Damn you!” Dieter said. “What’s the point of this? What is
it you actually hope to accomplish?”

The witch hunter grinned and clapped his hands together. The
smack resounded in the cramped confines of the cell. “Finally, you said
something intelligent. Good. I was beginning to wonder if I had the wrong man.”

“You do.”

“Now don’t turn thick on me again. Obviously, I’m not talking
about whether you really used sorcery to pry Elfrida’s knees apart, or fed poor
little Berthold to the wolves.”

“What, then?”

“Have you ever heard of the Cult of the Red Crown?”

“No. I assume you’re talking about a Chaos cult? I’ve heard
there are many such groups, but I’ve never bothered to learn about any of them.
They have no relevance to my field of study.”

“It’s a society devoted to the Architect of Fate, the Changer
of the Ways. My colleagues and I have learned that the cult has a strong
presence in Altdorf itself, and we suspect they’re in league with a horde of
mutant raiders who prey on caravans and other travellers on the roads leading
into the city.”

Bewildered, Dieter shook his head. “And you suspect this has
something to do with me, miles and miles away in little Halmbrandt?”

“No, not yet. But I intend for it to. You see, I’ve made it
my business to bring down the Red Crown, but it’s difficult, because of the way
they’re organised. At the top is a sorcerer called the Master of Change. He only
deals with his lieutenants, who aren’t told one another’s real names. Each of
the lieutenants leads a coven, and none of the covens has any knowledge of the
others. Do you see the strength of such a system?”