Instead it was Litzenreich who halted.

  “Keep on in this direction,” he said, and his voice was faint.

  “What will I find?”

  The sorcerer shook his head. “I must go back,” he said, almost whispering.

  In the dim light Konrad noticed his face. It had suddenly become old, very old. Litzenreich had appeared middle-aged, but now his true age was revealed. Above his white beard, his face was deeply creased; his left hand was withered and gnarled; and his back was bent, his whole body hunched. He had become the oldest human that Konrad had ever seen.

  “I deserted Wolf once,” Litzenreich continued, his breath coming in short bursts. “I left him to die. Perhaps I can make amends if we die together. And together maybe we can hold back the skaven a little longer—so that you can go on.”

  “But why?” Konrad demanded. “Go on where?”

  The ancient wizard seemed not to hear. He made his way back along the passage, returning towards the sounds of wild animals locked in deadly combat, his crooked shape vanishing into the shadows.

  Litzenreich was an old man, Wolf was a canine beast. And they were both about to die in order that Konrad could continue down through the black tunnel which lay ahead.

  Konrad stood without moving for a while, unwilling to advance into the unknown darkness. His doomed companions both seemed to know far more than he did about why he was here and what lay ahead.

  He made up his mind—and turned and ran back. He and Wolf had been comrades for so long that he could not abandon him, and Litzenreich had become an ally. They would all survive together, or not at all.

  He sprinted through the tunnels, led by the sounds of desperate combat, finally seeing a faint glow of light in the tunnel ahead. The air reeked of the pungent odour of skaven blood.

  When he reached the cavern, he halted as he gazed at the scene of carnage. Swarms of skaven had been massacred, but there were still as many of them armed and fighting. Wolf was in their midst, more dead than alive. Instead of a white wolf, he was now red, every inch of his fur matted with blood—and much of it must have been his own. He was bleeding from a hundred wounds, but still he fought, his jaws snapping, his claws slashing. At any moment he would be defeated, drowned by the pestilential tide of skaven which flowed towards him, screeching and hacking.

  Litzenreich was also there, standing near the end of the tunnel, again ignored as if he were no threat.

  This would be the final battle, Konrad knew. There could be no escape from the subterranean chamber. But what better way was there to die than with a sword in one’s hand, fighting with one’s comrades against the most hated adversary of all?

  He started to advance, but then suddenly halted when Litzenreich spun around, gazing at him.

  The wizard thrust his staff at Konrad, gesturing for him to go back, and then he drove the end of his staff upwards, and a single bolt of white lighting flashed. A moment later came a tremendous crack, the sound of massive rocks being split asunder. Then the whole roof of the cave collapsed. Countless tons of rock crashed down, crushing all of those beneath—both skaven, human and once human.

  There was no way that Litzenreich or Wolf could have survived.

  They had died so that Konrad could continue, and so all he could do was turn and go on.

  He headed deeper into the darkness and towards his nemesis.

  Having passed beyond the point where Litzenreich had turned back, Konrad instinctively took the left fork when the tunnel branched into two. At the next dark junction he went right, again aware that this was the direction which he must take, although still unsure of what his destination would be. It was almost like seeing, as if his lost talent of foresight had returned to guide his direction.

  With the mysterious shield in one hand, his new blade in the other, Konrad advanced deeper into the gloom, his route illuminated by the flickering lanterns, their reflections beckoning him onwards.

  All was totally silent. There could be no clash of weapons far behind, no agonized screams of death. The exit from the cavern had been totally blocked by fallen rocks, and no ravening rodent horde would pursue him—for a while, at least.

  But this underworld was the skaven domain, and they would know every labyrinthine route beneath the Imperial capital. Konrad would not be alone for very long, and he listened for the distant echo of his verminous foes.

  The only sounds were of his own boots treading the cold stone floor, of the shield occasionally brushing against the narrow sides of the damp passage. Konrad’s pulse had slowed since the ferocious battle across the cave, but he could still feel the blood race through his veins; he imagined that he could hear his own heart pounding, that the sound was like an alarm to the enemies who lurked ahead.

  Perhaps the ratbeasts had been joined by swarms of their hideous allies. Every step which he took brought him closer to another ambush, and he expected to be attacked every second; but every step led to another, and then another, and there was still no sign of any skaven. And each step took Konrad deeper beneath the city, further away from the surface.

  It was almost as if he were no longer in command of his own body, that even had he wished to halt and turn back he could not have done so. This was where he was destined to be, what he was fated to do, and he must live out the role which had been assigned to him—and for which Wolf and Litzenreich had laid down their own lives.

  He reached another junction, and he immediately went to the left, and he saw a distant light ahead; but this was not one of the oil lamps which he had kept passing. It was a single line of natural light, its intensity unwavering; and it was at ground level, like the light which spilled out from beneath a doorway.

  He moved forward cautiously. There was indeed a door directly ahead, he realized. It seemed as if it led out of the maze of tunnels, because daylight was visible beneath. But that was impossible; he was far too deep underground.

  Konrad halted at the end of the passage, a sword’s length from the wooden door. The door seemed familiar, as if he should recognize it. His heartbeat began to increase once more, cold sweat to break out again on his hot flesh. He looked around, staring over his shoulder into the darkness. The narrow tunnel was still absolutely silent, and yet he knew that he was no longer alone. There was something ahead, something waiting for him beyond the door.

  Something or someone.

  It would have been so simple to open the door, but he was terrified of what he might discover within.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. His face was sticky with the blood from his own wounds and the streaks of gore from the skaven he had slain.

  Konrad had no idea how long he stood in the silent darkness, his sword poised to strike whatever might appear in front of him when the door opened. But the door would not open, not unless he were the one to do it.

  He touched the tip of his warpblade against one of the wooden planks, stretched out his arm and pushed the door open, then leapt through, poised to defend himself from whatever was waiting to attack.

  As he had suspected, he did not find himself outside.

  He was inside—inside Adolf Brandenheimer’s tavern!

  The door slammed shut behind Konrad, trapping him in the past, capturing him within the tavern where he had slaved for most of his life.

  This was all an illusion, a vision of the past designed to ensnare him. The inn had burned down the day that the Chaos swarms had totally annihilated the village.

  The place was devoid of people, but every detail of the building was accurate: the fire in the hearth, the straw upon the dirt floor, the roughly hewn tables and benches, the blackened thatch ceiling. Konrad could see that the rest of the village was visible through the windows. A boar was roasting over the fire, pewter tankards stood on the table in front of the barrels of ale. At any moment Brandenheimer would be yelling at Konrad to turn the spit or to fill the beer steins.

  But the landlord was long dead. Konrad had watched as Brandenheimer’s head had been used as the ball in a vicious game which the triumphant mutants had played after the slaughter.

  None of this was real.

  Then Konrad’s attention was caught by something which did not belong in the tavern, and he moved for the first time, slowly walking towards the table upon which the misplaced object lay.

  It was an oval mirror; the frame and back and handle were silver, studded with jewels.

  It had been Elyssa’s mirror.

  It was the mirror in which Konrad had first seen his own image, first seen that his eyes were of different colours, and first seen so much more…

  This must also have been an enchantment, but he found himself shrugging the shield from his left arm, setting it down on the table, picking up the mirror, not wanting to look into the glass, but unable to prevent himself from so doing, studying his reflection in the glass, bearded and bloody, and remembering that he had seen himself like this before—exactly like this.

  Then his face seemed to dissolve, replaced by that of someone else, someone much younger but whose eyes were also of different colours: one green, one gold.

  And Konrad realized that he was staring at himself as he had once been, seeing his younger self on the day that he had first gazed into a mirror—this very mirror.

  He sensed someone behind him and he spun around.

  It was Skullface!

  He was sitting at one of the tables, quaffing a tankard of ale.

  “A drink?” he offered, sliding another stein towards Konrad. “You look as though you need one.”

  Konrad sprang forward, his blood-streaked blade aimed at the seated figure. Skullface did not move. His pale figure was still preternaturally thin, his cadaverous face and head completely without hair. He was clad in the outfit of a courtier: green cloak, embroidered tunic, fancy breeches, shiny boots; but he seemed to have no weapon, no elaborately hilted rapier at his hip.

  He glanced down at the tip of the sword which was poised a few inches from his torso, and he sipped at his ale.

  “Even when I was human I had no heart,” he said, and he smiled ironically.

  There could be no doubting what he meant. He was referring to the time when Konrad had shot an arrow into his chest—and drawn not even a drop of blood.

  Konrad had been waiting for this moment so long, for the time when he had a chance to kill Skullface. But how could he slay an immortal?

  He had believed that he would be terrified of Skullface, but he felt very calm. So much had happened in the years since he had first encountered the gaunt figure which stepped unharmed from the inferno of the Kastring manor house.

  Konrad had seen far stranger deeds, witnessed even more unbelievable events.

  They stared at each other, and the inhuman’s unblinking gaze seemed very familiar. Pupil and iris were both jet black; his eyes were exactly like those of Elyssa.

  “Where’s Elyssa?” Konrad asked. “What have you done to her? If you’ve harmed her…”

  “I would never harm my own daughter.”

  “Your daughter!”

  “I told you—I used to be human. Why shouldn’t I have a daughter?”

  “But…” Konrad shook his head. His mind was a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and memories, ideas and suspicions.

  He had come to believe every part of his life was connected, that all the people he had ever encountered were linked by some invisible web which held him inextricably trapped. And it was Skullface who had spun the intricate network of threads in which Konrad had been entangled for so long.

  He was the spider drawing him towards the centre of his lethal web, and here was his lair.

  “Put down your sword, Konrad,” said Skullface. “You can’t kill me with steel, not even with warpdust welded into the blade.”

  Konrad continued to stare at the spectral figure who had haunted his life for so long.

  “I know everything,” replied Skullface, answering the unasked question. “Drink,” he added, his bony fingers pushing the tankard towards Konrad again.

  Konrad kept his sword levelled at his eternal enemy, but he put the mirror down on the table and reached for the ale with his left hand. He raised the tankard to his lips, sniffing at the liquid, then tasting it.

  “Who are you?” he asked, and he drank deeply.

  “Elyssa’s father.”

  “Who are you?” Konrad repeated. “What debased Chaos god do you serve? Whoever it is, your evil plan did not succeed. Karl-Franz lives, he’s still the Emperor. The skaven plot failed.”

  “The skaven!” Skullface laughed without humour. He took another mouthful of beer and looked up at Konrad again. “The Emperor is of little consequence, Konrad. You are far more important to the future of the Empire. That is why you have to die. And I’ve tried to bring about your death several times.”

  “The village?” said Konrad.

  “It was wiped out so you would be killed. Then the mine.” Skullface shrugged, a gesture which seemed almost human. “A few other times. You are very resilient. That is why you were brought here, beneath Altdorf, so that you could be destroyed. The plot against the Emperor was merely a ruse to ensure your destruction. But perhaps I shouldn’t have left it to the skaven to finish you off.”

  Konrad shook his head in total disbelief as he tried to absorb what he had been told. He was more important than the Emperor…?

  “They would have succeeded,” Skullface added, “if it weren’t for those other two, the wizard and the mercenary. They sacrificed themselves so that you could survive. Only humans willingly surrender their lives for the sake of one of their own.” He sipped at his beer. “It makes me almost proud that I used to be one of your kind.”

  “You could never have been one of my kind,” said Konrad, defiantly.

  “But I was, until I became…” He broke off.

  “Became what?” Konrad demanded.

  Skullface still seemed more human than not. He showed no real signs of mutation, and he did not wear the insignia of any of the Chaos powers. He was one of the damned, and his master had rewarded him with the skills to walk through fire, to survive what would be a fatal wound to any other living creature. Far more than a mere benighted servant, Skullface must have been a champion of one of the malevolent deities.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Konrad asked, when there was no reply.

  “I could have killed you in your village had I wished,” replied Skullface, “but I do not kill.”

  “No—you get others to do that for you.”

  The skeletal figure raised his tankard in acknowledgment of Konrad’s perception.

  And Konrad knew then which of the Chaos lords Skullface served.

  There was only one who made an art of deceit and treachery, who manipulated every other being for its own debased purposes. Sometimes he was known as the Changer of the Ways, or else as the Great Conspirator; others referred to him as the Architect of Fate or Master of Fortune.

  “Tzeentch!” hissed Konrad.

  “You could also serve my master, Konrad,” said Skullface.

  “What?”

  He was still standing over the inhuman, his new blade aimed at the champion’s chest.

  “You have a great part to play in the future of the Empire, of the Old World. Why not play that role for your own benefit? There is no need for us to be enemies, Konrad, not when we can be allies.”

  “What kind of trick is this?”

  “A trick? Me?” Skullface laughed. He looked past Konrad, towards the triangular shield. “I thought that would interest you.”

  Konrad had believed that the shield originally belonged to an elf, and that the same elf was Elyssa’s real father. But now he was sure that Skullface was telling the truth; it was he who was Elyssa’s father.

  Their eyes were the same, and she must have inherited her magical skills from him.

  “Why should it interest me?” asked Konrad.

  “The crest. It was the same as the one on the arrow you fired at me. That’s why I gave the shield to Gaxar’s bodyguard, so you would see it, pursue it.”

  “You gave the shield to him? And where did you get it?”

  “From your father.”

  “What?”

  Konrad stared deep into Skullface’s black eyes. Totally confused, he glanced down for a moment, and his eyes focused on the oval mirror.

  Skullface should have been reflected in the glass, but instead the image revealed another figure seated at the table.

  Elyssa!

  Skullface was gone. Elyssa was sitting in his place. Perhaps he had never been there, and the girl had disguised herself as her father—or possibly the Champion of Tzeentch was now masking his appearance with the image of his daughter.

  Elyssa’s jet black hair hung to her waist, and she wore a woollen dress, white and unadorned. She had aged since Konrad knew her, and her face stared back at him with a malevolent glare. It was a look he had seen before, and he remembered what his talent had foreseen that same long ago time: how Elyssa would become changed, and how she would one day cause his death.

  This was that day.

  They gazed at each other, and he could see himself reflected in her jet black eyes.

  “I gave you your name,” she said. “I gave you everything. I made you, Konrad.”

  “And I loved you,” he replied.

  Elyssa was a creature of Chaos, possibly she always had been, and perhaps it was true that the only way to fight Chaos was with Chaos.

  He gripped the hilt of his sword even tighter.

  This was no longer Elyssa, he told himself. This was not the girl he had loved, not the girl who he still loved.

  He swung the sword, arcing the blade towards her neck, and he closed his eyes an instant before the metal sliced through the girl’s flesh, decapitating her.

  “We shall meet again, Konrad,” said a soft voice—a voice Konrad was not sure whether he truly heard or only imagined, a voice which could have been that of Elyssa or Skullface.

  He gazed at the severed head which lay upon the ground, trying to ignore the blood mingling with the dirt. Elyssa’s eyes were open and they seemed to be staring directly up at Konrad, but there was no hatred in her expression. She appeared young again, her features relaxed and peaceful. Perhaps in death she had been saved, her soul redeemed.

 

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