Herald of the Storm

THIRTY-FOUR

The floor was covered with chequered tiles of dark mahogany and light oak. They were waxed and polished to such a sheen that Waylian’s sandals squeaked as he walked across them. Adorning the walls were thick woven tapestries depicting scenes from history — the Windhammer’s crafting of the nine swords, King Darnaith’s victory over the Golgarthans, the Argent Fleet setting sail on its Fourth Glorious Crusade.

These tapestries rose up twenty feet high to meet a ceiling intricately painted with depictions of gods from all over the known world: Jarl the Healer and the Hollow Man, worshipped by druids and hedge witches across the Free States; Helion and the Moonsyr, observed by the Elharim of the far-off Riverlands; Ancient Gorm and Kaga the Creator from the grasslands of Equ’un; Tzargor Ungoth and Skargan Bonestrife from the snowy wastes of Golgartha; all spinning around one another as though part of the same divine constellation.

Simply looking at it made Waylian dizzy, and this was just the antechamber. Beyond the massive brass doors that stood opposite, vigilantly guarded by four Raven Knights, was the Crucible Chamber. The prospect of stepping over that hallowed threshold filled him with dread, even with Magistra Gelredida at his side. It was the seat of power within the Tower of Magisters, where sat the ruling council, the five most powerful casters in the Free States, and by definition the world. Waylian had never felt so small and unworthy in his life.

Two of the Raven Knights marched forward to where the pair of them stood. Waylian almost took a step back as they approached; so imposing were they in their armour of black, their beaked greathelms peering down from atop their massive frames.

Gelredida casually held out her hands and one of the knights slid an iron bracelet over each of her wrists. Waylian watched agog as the bracelets suddenly tightened of their own accord, the intricate gilding on each manacle suddenly moving and twisting as they shrank to fit her delicate wrists. Without a word the Raven Knights returned to their positions at the door.

‘They are to counteract my powers,’ Gelredida said, answering Waylian’s unspoken question. ‘Magick may not be used within the Crucible Chamber. All those who enter must wear these so that, whatever their allegiance, they may not use their talent on others.’

‘The council do not trust one another?’ It seemed madness that such a measure should be enforced.

‘The Crucible of Magisters has not always had such a civilised and unified membership. We have not always lived in such an enlightened age, and there was a time when these bonds would have saved lives. It is an antiquated convention, but some traditions are hard to break.’

She spoke the words in such a way that Waylian wondered if she meant there was still a thick seam of discord running through the council after so many centuries of strife and misrule. He guessed he would just have to wait and see.

‘As an apprentice will I be allowed in the chamber?’

‘Now that I am … helpless, I am permitted someone to accompany me. A bodyguard, if you will.’ She didn’t even try to disguise the irony in her words. ‘Besides, this experience will be good for you.’

‘And I don’t have to wear any manacles? What if I-’

‘If you what? Suddenly manifest a modicum of talent with one of the Arts? Please, Grimm, try not to make me laugh. This is an occasion that requires solemnity, not hilarity.’ Gelredida didn’t look as if she was going to laugh any time soon. ‘If any apprentice was strong enough in the Arts to be a danger, it would be the first time in a thousand years.’

Two of the Raven Knights grabbed the thick brass rings bolted to the centre of the huge doors and pulled. There had been no fanfare, no banging of gongs, but on some kind of silent signal, the knights were given their orders and Gelredida granted her audience.

Waylian felt his heart pounding in his chest as the Crucible Chamber was revealed. The Magistra walked forward and Waylian followed, marvelling at the vast chamber that sat almost at the summit of the Tower of Magisters.

It was a wide semicircle surrounded by a gallery carved from solid stone, as though the tower itself was a kind of vast, solid monolith hewn from a natural rock formation. Waylian had seen the lower levels. He knew they were crafted from wood and stone, so how this solid room had been built so high up, he could only guess at.

Friezes and intricate sigils were carved into the rock. Everywhere he looked Waylian could only wonder at the craftsmanship. Gargoyles leered at him from every shadowy corner, seemingly trying to tear themselves from the solid rock, but as he entered, his attention was inextricably drawn to the five pulpits that stood at the centre of the room.

The five Archmasters sat behind their pulpits with expressions of haughty indifference. When he had first been inducted into the Tower as an apprentice over a year ago Waylian had seen them at the inaugural ceremony and listened to them give speeches on the differing Arts. Their names were legend — indelibly etched on his consciousness. Each of them represented a different discipline of magick — one of the five Primary Arts — and they were unrivalled masters: casters with no peer in all the far-off continents of the world.

To the far left sat Hoylen Crabbe, Master Invoker and Keeper of the Books. He was a thin man with black hair set in a severe widow’s peak, his dark robes studded with ancient sigils, which naturally Waylian didn’t recognise. Though he only looked in his mid-forties, Waylian knew that a man of such power had to be much older.

Next to him was Crannock Marghil, Master Channeller and Keeper of the Keys. Unlike Crabbe, Crannock looked every one of his eighty-odd years, his hair thin and wispy, his liver-spotted flesh almost translucent. He wore thick eyeglasses and his shoulders barely supported the red and blue robe that hung from them. It was said the Channeller’s Art was the most dangerous of the five, and it was clear Crannock had paid dearly for his talent.

In the centre sat Drennan Folds, Master Summoner and Keeper of the Scrolls. He was a heavy-set man, with grey hair still thick about his scalp and sideburns which ran all the way down his face to almost meet at his chin. His brow was creased in a perpetual furrow and his brown robes looked all but starched to his broad frame. He bore an ugly scar from forehead to cheek, which bisected his eye, the injury having turned it a milky colour in contrast to the other, which was ice blue. Clearly Drennan had paid his own price for his Art, and Waylian almost shuddered at the thought of what foul creature he must have summoned to give him such a mark.

At Drennan’s left hand was Nero Laius, Master Diviner and Keeper of the Ravens. He was short in comparison to his peers, with a curly mop of grey hair and an almost kindly look to him. Waylian knew it would not do to underestimate such a man though — none of the Archmasters had reached their position without dirtying their hands to some extent.

Finally, on the far right sat Lucen Kalvor, Master Alchemist and Keeper of the Instruments. He looked even younger than Hoylen Crabbe and was the newest of the Archmasters after his predecessor, and Lucen’s previous tutor, had been found dead in his chambers. No one had been able to discover the old man’s cause of death, and it was a seldom spoken rumour that Lucen had topped his tutor to usurp his position. If there were any truth to it, none accused the handsome young Archmaster and he was shown due deference, either out of fear or the respect that his position demanded.

These five watched as Gelredida and Waylian approached. Even though their eyes were focused on his mistress, Waylian couldn’t help but feel intimidated.

‘Magistra Gelredida,’ said Nero Laius with a smile. ‘A rare pleasure to see you in these chambers.’ Waylian couldn’t work out whether or not he was being genuine.

‘A pleasure? I am sure, Archmaster Laius,’ Gelredida replied. ‘My heart beats that much faster now that I stand before the Crucible.’

That, on the other hand, even Waylian knew, smacked of insincerity. Nevertheless, Archmaster Laius kept the smile on his lips.

‘Enough with the pleasantries.’ Drennan Folds’ scowl deepened, his milky-white eye seeming to darken slightly with his displeasure. ‘We have matters that require our attention. Why have you requested an audience?’

Gelredida offered Folds a wry look, her weathered features regarding him with barely shadowed amusement.

Folds seemed to recede a little, and it was clear there was much history between these two. Waylian dare not even speculate as to the nature of it.

‘I take it you are all aware of the murders taking place in the city? Mutilated corpses? Forbidden ciphers?’

‘We are.’ This was Crannock Marghil, his voice as thin and weak as the flesh that covered his ancient bones. ‘A terrible business, we all agree. But we are led to believe it is nothing but the work of a rogue caster. Certainly nothing that should concern the Crucible.’

‘I’m afraid, Archmaster Marghil, it is exactly the kind of thing that should concern you.’

‘Come, come, Magistra,’ said Archmaster Laius. ‘I’m sure someone of your boundless ability and vigilance can manage to track down one lone murderer.’

Gelredida smiled back. ‘I agree. But this is no ordinary murderer. This is a singularly cunning and dangerous killer, who could put us all in danger.’

Drennan Folds barked with laughter. ‘And what could be so dangerous about him that he could frighten our own Red Witch?’

Waylian felt the hairs on his neck prickle. He had heard Bram call her that several times, but only when he was sure she was out of earshot. For someone to call her that to her face …

Gelredida regarded Archmaster Folds, unruffled by his attempt to provoke her. ‘Because, Drennan, they are attempting to use the Ninth Art.’

The Archmasters fell silent.

The Ninth Art. Waylian had only heard about it in stories. He’d certainly never studied it in a book. It was said to be the one Art that was forbidden — five were known to the Caste, three were lost, leaving only one. And what a horror that last one was.

Legend told it was abuse of the Ninth Art that had unleashed the Hells on Earth; that had opened the gates to the underworld and released a daemonic horde onto the lands of men, and that only by Arlor’s might was total destruction averted.

If someone was dabbling in the Ninth Art, they were either insane or drenched in more evil than Waylian could ever comprehend. Whichever it was, they had to be stopped.

Until now he hadn’t appreciated just how important it had been to catch their quarry. Before, he had just thought the culprit a rogue caster, a sadist … a killer.

Now it was clear the one they were after was much, much more.

‘What proof do you have?’ asked Crannock Marghil, once Gelredida’s words had sunk in.

‘I have studied the sigils daubed at the site of each murder. Whoever the killer is, they have learned well their ancient lore and the path of the Gate Walker.’

‘But the closest Waystone is …’

‘Yes, the Chapel of Ghouls.’

Drennan Folds sat forward, peering at Gelredida with his one good eye. ‘So why hasn’t the gate been opened? If this is the Maleficar Necrus returned, why is the city not plagued by daemons?’

‘I am unsure. The caster might not be proficient enough with their wards. Perhaps they might not have managed to find a sacrifice strong enough to complete the ritual. They might just be biding their time.’

‘A lot of “mights”, Magistra. How are we to work with “mights”?’

‘You can at least help me find this killer. Nero could have his diviners search for signs. We could-’

‘There is little aid the diviners could give. If this rogue caster is using the Ninth Art the sacrifice needed to find him would be-’

‘Would be worth it!’

Gelredida was clearly losing patience.

‘Magistra.’ It was Hoylen Crabbe, who hadn’t spoken till now. His voice was deep and rich, and Waylian felt some kind of hypnotic lull, as though drawn to Crabbe like a bee to honey. ‘Our king is dead. We have enemies at our doorstep. The Crucible has much to consider, much planning for the protection of our city, and you bring us this? There could never be a rogue caster powerful enough to master the Ninth Art. Only an Archmaster could-’

‘If the Chapel of Ghouls is opened there won’t be a city left to protect,’ said Gelredida. ‘There won’t be anything left.’

‘We are more than confident in your abilities, Magistra. You will find this killer; of that we are sure.’ Crabbe smiled, and it seemed there was no more to say. The decision was made and even Gelredida could do nothing to sway it.

The doors behind them suddenly opened, and Waylian thought it might be a sign for them to leave, but Gelredida stood her ground, looking up at each of them with stern defiance.

‘We have other petitioners to see, Magistra,’ said Master Folds, indicating towards the brass doors.

‘I think perhaps Magistra Gelredida might stay to witness this,’ said Crabbe. ‘Then she can see first hand just what we are up against. Perhaps her opinion might be of value. She is, after all, concerned for the well-being of our city.’

‘Preposterous,’ barked Folds. ‘She is not a member of the Crucible.’

Crannock Marghil raised a withered hand to curb Master Folds’ ire. ‘Perhaps just this once, Drennan, we might dispense with protocol?’

Drennan Folds clearly wanted her gone, but he reluctantly deferred to his fellow Archmasters. Gelredida bowed briefly, then moved to one side of the chamber, seeming to blend into the shadows.

Waylian looked to the open doorway. He didn’t quite know what he expected to enter though those brass doors — but it certainly wasn’t what came strolling in.

Flanked by two Raven Knights came a portly, dark-skinned man, perhaps from Dravhistan or Kajrapur, if the headwrap he wore was any indication. He was dressed in flowing blue robes tied at the waist by a red sash and he clutched a shoulder bag close to his side. His smile was wide as he entered and he walked to the centre of the chamber, touching a finger to forehead then lips before bowing theatrically in front of the five Archmasters.

‘Greetings, O great and powerful lords of the Crucible. My name is Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi, and I bring salutations from the Prince of the Riverlands.’

‘We know who you are,’ said Drennan Folds, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘And we know why you’re here. You have come to make a traitor’s bargain. Do you think us betrayers? Do you think us fools who would turn our backs on our own kind?’

Abbasi’s smile wavered just slightly. ‘Humility and inadequacy forbid me from attempting to discern what men as great and powerful as you might think, my lord. I am but a humble messenger, here to make an offer on behalf of the Elharim you know as Amon Tugha.’

Waylian felt his mouth suddenly go dry. This was the herald of Amon Tugha himself. The man who had invaded the Free States. The warrior who had slain their king.

‘Speak then,’ said Master Folds. ‘And be gone from this place while you’re still able.’

The foreigner smiled nervously, bowed once more and reached into the bag at his side. The Archmasters shifted slightly as he did so, clearly afraid of what he might produce, especially since they were all wearing the iron manacles that meant their magick was useless should it be a weapon. But Abbasi simply pulled out an old ragged doll and placed it on the ground. He reached into his bag a further four times, pulling out another four dolls and placing them on the floor in front of him.

Waylian almost let out a sigh, but the Archmasters did not share his relief.

As Abbasi sat the final doll on the ground, Master Folds shot to his feet. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ His milky eye looked as if it might pop out of its socket.

Massoum Abbasi stepped back, holding his hands up as though unsure of what he had done to cause such offence.

‘Apologies, masters. I did not mean to cause you alarm.’

‘Then you clearly have no idea of what these represent,’ said old Crannock Marghil, looking mournfully at the small dolls.

Waylian had no idea either. They were crudely made rag dolls, like any pauper’s child might own. Each was dressed in a different colour, with differing hair styles, some grey, some dark, one wispy and … as he looked … Waylian couldn’t help but think they reminded him of …

‘My lords,’ said Abbasi. ‘I am aware of what these represent … as are you. But the Prince of the Riverlands does not show this as a sign of his intent, merely as a show of the power available to him. A power he vows not to use in return for your … inaction.’ The Archmasters shifted uncomfortably but none of them spoke. ‘Now your king is dead and your armies routed, there will be no one to stand against the horde that sweeps towards your city. But fear not. Amon Tugha is generous, and those who refuse to stand against him will be not only spared, but also rewarded.’

Waylian felt anger well up inside. Who did this messenger think he was, to offer such a bargain? To think they might betray their city, their people, for the mercy of a foreign invader?

But the Archmasters still did not move and gave no reply.

It was as much their cowardice as the messenger’s arrogance that filled Waylian with a sudden fury. He couldn’t stop himself from wanting to take a step forward, opening his mouth to shout at this cur, and telling him the Crucible would not just stand by and allow this foreigner to insult them in their own hallowed chamber.

He felt a hand grip his arm so tightly he almost cried out. It was clear the Red Witch was also moved to anger, but she was wise enough not to speak. As her fingers dug into the flesh of his arm, Waylian decided it was best he follow her example.

Crannock Marghil finally nodded his ancient head. ‘Your message is delivered. Return to your Elharim master and tell him we will think on it.’

Massoum Abbasi bowed, touching his forehead and lips one last time. ‘That is all he asks, O great master.’

With that he backed away from the five pulpits and retreated from the chamber, followed by the Raven Knights, and leaving the five rag dolls behind.

Gelredida strode forward, careful not to step near the dolls. ‘It is clear you all have much to discuss,’ she said.

‘And it’s clear you have much to do,’ said Master Folds, obviously disturbed by what had occurred. Waylian had no idea of the dolls’ significance, but felt it must have been grave indeed.

Gelredida inclined her head then turned to leave. Waylian followed her out of the huge brass doors, daring a single glance back as they were closed behind him. If the Archmasters had much to discuss they were in no hurry to begin; and, as the door slammed shut, each of them looked solemn in his own way, his mouth closed, eyes fixed on the dolls that bore such a striking resemblance to each of the five men.

‘You are not to speak of what you have witnessed here today,’ said the Magistra after the manacles had been removed from her wrists and they made their way down the huge winding staircase that ran the entire height of the Tower.

‘I don’t understand any of it, anyway.’

She stopped before him, turning to look him in the eye. He could see her assessing him, as though she were weighing up the value of explaining things to such a useless apprentice.

‘There is a high price to pay for the use of magick, Waylian. It is a price you may one day have to pay, if you ever manifest any talent. The Archmasters are fearful old men, and Amon Tugha has just exploited that fear. Those dolls represent the magicks of the old days, of the wytchworkers and the shamans of the northern lands. Each of the Archmasters is now marked, cursed with old magicks that will exact a heavy cost in the countering. But Amon Tugha has made it clear there will be no price to pay if they sit on their behinds and do nothing.’

‘And is that why they would not offer you any more aid in capturing the rogue? Because of what it would cost?’

Gelredida smiled at him. It was a small gesture, but one Waylian had never received before, and it took him aback.

‘You are learning, Waylian. We might make an apprentice of you yet.’ With that she turned and made her way down the stairs. ‘That will be all for today. I think you’ve earned some respite from my company.’

It was a respite Waylian would gladly have accepted on any other day, but he had to admit: the old bird was starting to grow on him. Nevertheless, he wasn’t one to pass up a free afternoon, so as soon as she headed off to her chambers, Waylian could barely stop himself sprinting for his own.

When he finally reached them, almost breathless from his run and grateful he hadn’t bumped into any of the other apprentices, he stopped suddenly. The door to his chamber was ajar, and there was the faintest flicker of candlelight from within.

Waylian gingerly pushed his door open, wondering what would be waiting to greet him. What he saw inside was beyond anything he could have imagined.

On his bed, laid out as though ready for her funeral, was the naked form of Gerdy. Her hair had been splayed out on his pillow, her flesh smooth and soft in the winking light. Beside her, smiling from ear to ear, stood Rembram Thule.

‘Ta da!’ he said, gesturing to Gerdy’s supine body as if he’d just conjured her from thin air.

Waylian quickly entered the room and slammed the door behind him before anyone else saw what Bram had brought him.

‘What the fuck is this?’ he asked, his voice shriller than he’d have liked, but under the circumstances it was probably appropriate.

‘I’ve brought you a gift, Grimm,’ replied Bram. ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

‘Yes … no … well, not like this. What have you done to her?’

Bram stepped forward and tousled Gerdy’s hair. ‘Oh, just a couple of drops of mugwort infused with tangleroot. Elementary stuff, Grimm. Even you could manage it.’

‘You’ve drugged her?’

Bram frowned. ‘How else was I supposed to get her here?’

Waylian could only look down at Gerdy in dismay. ‘But … what am I supposed to do with her now?’

‘Anything you want, Grimm. That’s kind of the idea.’ He gave a suggestive wink. ‘Anyway, I’m guessing you don’t want an audience, so I’ll see you later.’ As Waylian stared at Gerdy on his bed, Bram sidled past and opened the door, pausing for a moment. ‘Do let me know how you get on, won’t you?’ And with another wink, he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Waylian stared after him, suddenly not wanting to look at the naked girl on his bed.

What in the hells was Bram thinking?

And what was he supposed to do now?

He supposed he could wait for her to wake up, then try to explain what had happened. But then, Bram wasn’t here. There was no one to back up his story. If Gerdy woke up naked in a strange room she was likely to scream the place down. Waylian was damned if he was going to hang around for that.

Half-heartedly he grabbed a spare blanket and flung it over Gerdy in a limp gesture to spare her modesty. Then, without a glance back, he ran out the door and fled down the corridor.

He could only hope she’d wake up, wonder how in the hells she’d got there and just go back to her own chamber.

With any luck she wouldn’t wake up yelling for the Raven Knights that she’d been drugged by some raper. And who would they all point the finger at then?

Yes, Waylian Grimm, that’s who.

As he ran down the corridor, he’d never wished for the quiet boredom of his hometown of Groffham quite so much.