Razumov's Tomb (13 page)

Caspar blanched and looked down at his robes. Razumov’s staff had scorched the cloth but, to his relief, the diseased skin beneath was not visible. He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

The reiksgraf looked unconvinced, but did not press the wizard further. “If Gabriel’s here, we should find him.” He waved a knight over. “Order the men into search parties. Track down anyone who might be left alive under the rubble.” He waved his shattered sword at the desert. “Or in the dunes beyond. Keep your wits about you, though. Not all of the survivors will be human.”

The knight gave a quick bow and hurried away.

The reiksgraf’s men uncovered a pitiful collection of wounded militiamen and terrified townspeople. Some were too badly injured to be saved and could be offered nothing more kind than a quick blade to the throat. Others were physically unharmed, but had lost their minds in the face of the horrendous visions they had seen. The knights herded up the distracted and the wounded and escorted them to the foot of the steps that had once led to the town hall. Periodically, the sound of clanging swords rang out through the ruins as the knights uncovered something more dangerous. The few surviving beastmen were quickly dispatched, however, and finally, after ten minutes of digging and scrabbling though the rocks, one of the knights cried out, announcing the presence of the fallen wizard.

Caspar hurried over to his apprentice, with the general stumbling and gasping after him.

The sand around Gabriel was black with blood and his face looked even more skull-like than usual, but his eyes were bright and he nodded in greeting as his master approached.

The knights applied a tourniquet to his leg and helped him up into a sitting position, but as Caspar dropped to his side, Gabriel shook his head in confusion. “Have you harnessed Razumov’s power? Did the spells work?”

The older wizard laughed nervously, but did not acknowledge the question. “We’ve outlived the storm,” he said, grasping Gabriel’s shoulder. “Can you believe it? We’ve survived everything it could throw at us.”

“But to what end?” Gabriel looked Caspar up and down. “You look well. Is that all we achieved? What did the fulcrum do? What kind of power did we summon?”

Caspar looked back over his shoulder and seemed on the verge of saying something, then he thought better of it and shook his head. He placed a nervous hand over his chest, ensuring that his skin was not exposed. “There was nothing, Gabriel. We summoned nothing.”

Gabriel stared in horror. “That cannot be.” He looked up at the sky. The storm clouds were starting to break apart and there could no longer be any doubt—Morrslieb was on the wane. “I saw it. How could all my auguries have been so wrong? How can I have brought all this death down upon us for no good reason?” His eyes glittered as he looked at the flattened remains of the town square, filled with corpses and stranded in the blazing heart of a desert.

Caspar shrugged apologetically. “We’ve all been confused, Gabriel. The plagues have warped everything out of shape.”

Gabriel shook his head furiously. Then, remembering something, he grabbed his master’s arm. “What about Groot?”

Caspar frowned. “Groot?” He looked hopefully at the circle of soldiers gathered around them, but they shook their heads. “He must have perished with the others,” said Caspar. “Or maybe he was left behind in the Empire when we were torn free.”

Gabriel shook his head. “No. He died. That’s my point. I spoke to him.” The wizard lowered his voice to an urgent whisper, so that only Caspar could hear. “He was raving. Talking about Natalya. But it was worse than that. He was
corrupted
.”

“What do you mean?” asked Caspar, with a terrible sense of foreboding.

Gabriel kept his voice low and pulled Caspar closer. “His flesh had been transformed. He had a terrible disease.”

Caspar pulled back and ensured that his robes were still in place. “Disease is not necessarily the same as corruption, old friend. We’re not witch hunters.”

Gabriel’s eyes bulged with fear. “This was contagion. Unnatural contagion. The kind that comes from the Great Unclean One.”

“Are you saying that the bürgermeister of Schwarzbach was a Chaos cultist? How can you know such a thing?”

Gabriel stared deep into Caspar’s eyes. “He was covered in boils. They weren’t natural boils. They had—”

“Spare yourself!” interrupted Caspar, placing a finger over his apprentice’s mouth. “You could think for a hundred years and never make sense of the things we’ve seen today.”

Gabriel was undeterred. “He was marked by Chaos.” His eyes widened. “Imagine if he had lived.” He stared at Caspar in dismay. “When the plagues ended, he could have travelled. His corruption would have spread. Who knows how many people he could have infected? The whole of Altdorf, perhaps.”

The colour drained from Caspar’s face and he drew back from Gabriel, shaking his head in fear.

Reiksgraf von Südenhorst interrupted the wizards with a gentle cough. “Magisters, do you think there’s any way we can return home?”

Caspar and Gabriel looked up in shock. It was clear that neither of them had considered such mundane matters.

Gabriel nodded at the sky. “The storm’s fading.” He closed his eyes for a second and gripped his staff. “But the air is still busy with azyr.” He frowned at his master. “Perhaps? There are two of us. We could both use the fulcrum.”

Caspar did not answer. He still had his hand pressed across his chest and his eyes were wild with fear. He was muttering something under his breath, oblivious to the question being directed at him.

The reiksgraf stepped to his side. “My lord?”

“What?” snapped Caspar, lurching to his feet and backing away from the soldier.

The reiksgraf waved back at the tower of stones, still drifting behind them. “Do you think you could send us home?”

Caspar shook his head without even seeming to consider the question. “Home?” The word obviously caused him pain.

“Master?” asked Gabriel, confused by his odd behaviour.

Caspar jumped again and shook his head. “What? Oh, yes. Sending us home…” He lifted his skullcap and scratched furiously at his scalp. “Well…” he frowned at Gabriel. “Who would perform the spell? Only one of us can direct the tower.”

Gabriel shrugged. “True.”

Caspar sighed. “Without the full power of the storm, neither of us would have the strength to complete the journey alone. I suppose there could be a way though—if we moved fast.” His words sounded oddly disinterested, but he waved his staff at the clouds that were still circling the tower. “One of us could harness the last vestiges of the storm and attempt to sever the tower from reality. The effort would be immense. If the spell caster were successful, the effort would leave him utterly exhausted.” He shrugged. “Maybe worse than exhausted. But then the second one of us could take over and attempt to land the tower back in its rightful place. It might be that…” his words trailed off as he lost his train of thought, distracted by something on the back of his hand. His face grew even more ashen as he thrust his hand into his robes.

Gabriel nodded. “I could learn from my mistake. I could fix us to a more specific point.” He looked up at Caspar. “I could guide us home. Could you set us free?”

Caspar was not paying attention and had begun muttering under his breath again. He flinched at Gabriel’s question, but nodded without even seeming to consider what was being asked. “Of course. Whatever you think best.”

Two of the knights lifted Gabriel from the ground and they all headed back towards the floating column of stones.

“You must all climb inside the tower,” Caspar called out. “There isn’t enough magic left in the storm for me to move the whole town square, but these rocks are soaked with the Kislevite’s power.” He waved at the dazed-looking townspeople huddled below. “Find something to hang on to. Lash yourselves to the stones.”

The survivors, and some of the knights, hesitated as they looked up at the tower. It was still shimmering with unnatural light and, in the gaps between the drifting stones, they saw glimpses of other places and times—windows onto other worlds, caught between the ancient rocks. The thought of touching such an accursed vision was too much for most of them and they muttered fearfully to each other as Caspar began to climb.

“Look around you!” cried the reiksgraf, waving his sword at the brutal, featureless desert. “It’s either this or death. At least with the tower you have a
chance
of surviving.” As he turned to face the tower, he paused, seeming unable to take his own advice, but then he clenched his jaw and grabbed the nearest rock, hauling himself up onto it.

After waiting for a few more moments, to see if the general erupted into flames or did anything else unnatural, the people of Schwarzbach shuffled forwards and slowly began to climb.

The knights carried Gabriel all the way to the top of the tower, and placed him down beside Caspar. Then they backed away, putting as much distance as they could between them and the wizards.

Caspar did not acknowledge his apprentice. His newfound vitality seemed to have already abandoned him. His face was grey with worry and he was covered in sweat. He had grasped the comet-shaped medallion that hung around his neck and was staring at it intently.

“Master?” said Gabriel, dragging himself closer.

Caspar flinched and looked at the younger wizard with a pained expression.

“Do not worry yourself,” said Gabriel, trying to inject a little humanity into his voice. “I believe that we can do this. These stones are seamed with azyr. I’m sure you can free us. I can guide us home.”

Caspar shook his head and looked up at the star-filled heavens. “I’ve been so blind.”

Gabriel shook his head.

“But maybe I can still fix it,” continued Caspar, speaking as though he were alone and looking back at the gold comet in his hand. He snapped the medallion from around his throat and hurled it at Gabriel.

Gabriel had to stretch out from the stone to catch it and when he looked back at his master for an explanation, the old man had jabbed his staff up into the storm and his robes were already shimmering with light.

“Master?” gasped Gabriel, holding up the medallion in confusion, but as the winds of magic funnelled up through the tower, they snatched his words away and he could do nothing but cling desperately to the rocks as they lurched into motion, spinning around Caspar, as weightless as the clouds of sand.

Caspar’s eyes flashed green, then red, then white as he howled the words of his spell. Brittle forks of lightning flashed down onto the head of his staff and filled the air with thick, tangible currents of magic.

The soldiers and townsfolk screamed in terror as the rocks spun faster, and some of them flew free, spinning out through across the ruins and falling to their deaths. Most managed to cling on though, their grip made sure by their terror. As the stones rotated, the desert became a yellow blur and a hideous wailing sound sliced through the storm.

Gabriel realised that the wailing was coming from his master. The old wizard was crying out in grief as he wrenched the tower from reality and hurled it into the ether.

As before, a stream of bizarre landscapes flickered in and out of view, but as they appeared and vanished, Gabriel nodded in satisfaction. As in everything, there was a pattern. His mind filled with equations and calculations as he tried to predict the next glimpse of the Empire. “I have it!” he said, as the Howling Hills flashed briefly into view. He looked up at his master with a tentative smile, but then he remembered the medallion in his hand. He held it up in confusion. “Master,” he cried, straining to be heard over the torrents of magic, “your badge of office.”

Caspar’s face was still locked in a grimace as he shook his head. “Mine no longer,” he mouthed, his eyes full of tears, then he hurled himself from the tower, vanishing immediately in a single pulse of green fire.

Gabriel cried out in horror and attempted to stand, but his leg folded beneath him and he collapsed with a groan, almost losing the medallion in the process. “Master!” he wailed, pounding his fist on the spinning rock.

“Gabriel!” cried a voice.

The wizard’s face lit up with hope and he peered out into the shifting cyclone. “Master?”

“It’s me, Niclas!” cried the reiksgraf from his perch on the rock below. His hair was lashing around his face and his voice was shrill with desperation. “Can you do it? Can you return us home?”

Gabriel shook his head, and peered out into the blur of images, horrified at the thought of returning without Caspar.

“We’re dying!” cried Niclas.

Gabriel looked down and saw that the reiksgraf was right. As the storm rotated the tower at ever-greater speeds, knights and townsfolk were being hurled from the rocks. He pressed the medallion to his chest and howled in pain at the thought of what he had to do. Leaning on his staff, he climbed awkwardly to his feet. Ice-cold pain knifed through his leg and gave him the focus he needed. He looked out at the worlds rushing by and nodded in time to the changing scenes, muttering the words of a spell. After several minutes of waiting, motionless, he slammed his staff down onto the rock and cried out a final, doom-laden syllable.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“There’s no sign of him,” said the reiksgraf, limping across mounds of dark, loamy soil. The ground where the square had once been was churned like a freshly ploughed field and drenched in moonlight, but it was a pure, silver moonlight and the air was finally still. The storm had passed, and the quiet of the early morning made the carcass of Schwarzbach seem all the more shocking. The centre of the town had been torn out, leaving a dark, crumbling scar at its heart. The buildings that remained—those nearest to the walls—had mostly been flattened, leaving just the odd broken timber or crooked gable to show where homes had once stood. The knight struggled up one of the mounds, heading towards the slight, hooded figure of Gabriel. The wizard was sitting on a rock and staring at the broken earth. He was holding his staff in one hand and had clenched his other hand into a fist.