Karl Franz cursed. The land above the dry gulch was open, offering precious little cover, and a griffon was a big creature to hide, even at night. ‘Wait!’ he urged, struggling up after it.
They broke into higher ground, and the earth ran away from them in all directions, empty and featureless. The strange lights in the sky were more visible up there – they were like ripples of ink across the heavens, and it made him nauseous to look at them.
There were no troops marching across the ink-black wasteland, only the wind, as frigid and merciless as ever.
Deathclaw, however, remained agitated. It tried to flap its wings again, only to give up in agony. By then, Karl Franz could hear something for himself – a rhythmic beating on the air, followed by a faint tang of foulness.
He advanced warily, peering up into the unquiet skies, seeking out the source. He saw nothing, but the beating became stronger. The air shifted, stirred by some powerful force above him.
He gripped his sword-hilt two-handed.
So it comes at last, he thought, knowing that whatever approached would be far more powerful than the scattered warbands he had previously encountered. The word must have got out – he had a sudden mental flash of the zombie dragon tearing towards him, its empty eye sockets flaming.
Then something huge and dark burst from the clouds, plummeting fast. Deathclaw hissed, and rose up, its claws extended. Karl Franz crouched, his sword held point-up, coiling for the spring.
‘My liege, put your weapon down, if it please you!’ cried a gruff, part-panicked voice from above.
A second later, and the huge profile of a war-griffon emerged above them, holding position awkwardly less than twenty feet from the ground.
Karl Franz straightened. He knew that beast. He knew all the griffons stabled in the Imperial Menagerie. It was young, barely broken-in, hellish to control. It should have been unrideable.
With a sudden flare of joy, he realised what that meant – loyal men still lived. Even if all else had failed, even if his northern armies had been utterly destroyed, something still remained.
‘Declare yourself,’ Karl Franz ordered, keeping his blade raised. Deathclaw remained at his side, hissing angrily.
‘Gregor Martak, Amber College,’ came the voice from above, as harsh as rotten tree-bark. And then, as if he were strangely embarrassed by the addition, ‘Supreme Patriarch.’
Karl Franz remained wary. There had been too many deceptions for him to take him at his word, and he did not even recognise the name. ‘Supreme Patriarch, you say. Who authorised this?’
‘My fellows, as is the way of the colleges,’ came the defensive reply. ‘De Champney, Reichart, Theiss.’
Karl Franz frowned. ‘Those are deputies.’ The true Heads of the Colleges had accompanied him to the war at the Bastion, including Gormann, Starke and Kant. If they were no longer involved in decision-making, then that hardly boded well.
‘These are confused times, my liege,’ said Martak. ‘We do what we can. May I land?’
Karl Franz almost laughed at that. The wizard was a comically bad griffon rider, and his mount was quick to display its contempt, nearly throwing him from his seat as it laboured in position. ‘If you can manage it,’ he said, sheathing his sword and reaching out a calming hand to Deathclaw.
Martak’s mount crashed to earth, and the wizard slipped awkwardly from between its wings, losing footing as he landed and sprawling onto the ground. He picked himself up, swearing under his breath as he brushed himself down.
Karl Franz observed the man coolly. He was dishevelled, even for one of his wild Order. A matted beard hung from a grimy face, and his loose robes were streaked with mud. He hardly bore himself with the demeanour of a magister. Gelt would have descended from the heavens wreathed with coronets of fire and accompanied by a glittering staff of gold.
This is what we have been reduced to, Karl Franz thought grimly.
‘My pardon, lord, for taking so long,’ muttered Martak, retrieving his own knotted mage-staff from amid his griffon’s ruffled plumage. ‘The Winds are disarranged, and searching for a single soul, even one as mighty as yours, is no longer as easy as it was.’
Karl Franz folded his arms. ‘You come from Altdorf. It still stands?’
‘When I left it, it did. I don’t know for how long, what with an idiot of a Reiksmarshal in charge.’
‘So Helborg lives.’ The relief almost made his voice shake.
‘He does, aye.’
‘And Schwarzhelm? Huss?’
‘They were not there.’ Martak fixed him with a half-guilty, half-anxious look. ‘To be frank, it matters little – the city will fall. I have seen it, and I have seen the state of the defences. I could have stayed and died, but I chose to find you. While you live, something can be salvaged. There may be armies still intact somewhere. Middenheim, or Nuln, perhaps.’
Karl Franz lost his smile. ‘You are not speaking seriously.’
Martak sighed. ‘I knew this would be your response, but please, believe me. There is nothing to be done for Altdorf.’ His brown eyes stared out at the Emperor from the dark. ‘I have witnessed your death there, lord. Night after night, and the visions do not lie.’
‘Then why come to find me at all?’
‘Because fate can be cheated,’ said Martak, almost desperately. ‘You were never destined to die out here, alone. Nor do you need to die in the city. There will be other ways.’
Karl Franz smiled thinly. It was interesting how other men regarded their fate within the world. Some, he knew, cared greatly for their own preservation, or for glory, or for evasion of duty. He had never so much disapproved of those men as found them baffling. Not to be governed by duty – the iron vice of obedience to a higher power – was so far removed from his philosophy as to be almost unintelligible.
‘I thank you for searching me out, wizard,’ said Karl Franz, sincerely enough. ‘You have done what none of your fellows managed, and that alone earns you your rank. But if you have come here to persuade me to abandon the city, you are more a fool than you look. It is my place. I instructed Helborg to hold it, and if there is any chance I can join him in its defence, I must take it.’
The wizard stared back at him, looking like he was earnestly thinking of a way to change his mind. Then he shook his shaggy head. ‘You will not be persuaded.’
‘Persuasion is for debutantes and diplomats, wizard, and I am neither.’
That seemed to remind Martak of just who he was talking to. The wizard nodded wearily. ‘Don’t think I was running away,’ he muttered. ‘I’d have stood and fought, if I thought I couldn’t find you. There are... good people there, ones who don’t deserve to be abandoned.’
‘Good or not, none deserve that.’ Karl Franz turned to look at Deathclaw. The griffon was wheezing in pain, just as it had done since its rescue. It looked barely able to remain on its feet, let alone take to the skies. ‘But I fear your quest has damned one of us to remain in the north. My steed will not fly.’
Martak limped up to the griffon, studying it hard. He reached out with a calloused hand, and Deathclaw bucked.
‘Steady,’ whispered Karl Franz.
‘I can heal your creature, if it will let me,’ said Martak, running his hand down Deathclaw’s snapped pinion.
Karl Franz raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘I am a magister of the Lore of Ghur. I may be a weak scryer and a poor judge of visions, but I know beasts.’
‘You do not know how to fly them.’
Martak grimaced ruefully. ‘My feet were never meant to leave the earth.’ Then he looked more serious. ‘Come to that, I should never have been elected. If Gormann or Starke had been in Altdorf when the news of Gelt’s fall had come in, I would not have received so much as a vote. But consider this: as fate has it, you were found by an Amber wizard. None of them would have been able to make this creature whole again, but I can.’