Razumov's Tomb (10 page)

Caspar felt the tower crumbling beneath his fingers. The building was spinning with such ferocity that he could no longer see the battle, or even the town. The world flew by in a whirl of magic and astral fire. His head pounded as he tried to keep his thoughts sane and fixed on the present. The power ripping through his mind was heady and irresistible, but he knew that a moment’s hesitation would see him hurled out into the vortex. Beneath him, he could still make out the jerking, irregular movements of Razumov, clambering across the drifting stones. The sorcerer—Caspar no longer doubted his identity—had ceased vying for control of the magic. At the sound of the old woman’s cries, he had abandoned the contest and begun climbing down towards her.

What a fool, thought Caspar as he watched the man clamber towards his centuries-old beloved. As the torrent of azyr poured through him, Caspar felt the years tumbling away. He straightened his back and flexed his muscles, groaning with pleasure. “
I
am the Grand Astromancer!” He saw now how ridiculous his fears had been. How could Gabriel ever have replaced him? The prophecy was ridiculous. Tylo Sulzer was a fool. As his words left his mouth, they formed a gout of green fire that snaked up into the heavens.

As he watched the pair of ancient lovers approaching each other, Caspar guessed at some of their story. He realised that the old woman must have bargained with the Ruinous Powers. How else could she still be alive after all these centuries? The strangeness that had overtaken Schwarzbach must be a result of her dark magic. Caspar couldn’t imagine what foul rituals she had performed to bring her plans to fruition.

As the old crone reached out to Razumov, her cries of delight sliced through the fury of the cyclone. Caspar shook his head at her incredible gall. She must have engineered this whole situation, bringing a powerful Celestial wizard to her lover’s grave, in the knowledge that no one else would have the power to channel the storm that was brewing. And all for nothing. With this much power, destroying Razumov would be no harder than crushing a beetle.

Caspar raised his staff and channelled a tiny portion of the storm into the knotted yew, then levelled it at the two figures below, preparing to end their romance in a funeral pyre.

Before he struck, Caspar paused to watch the bizarre turn of events that was unfolding. As Razumov reached his devoted lover, he knocked her down with a fierce backhanded blow, sending her sprawling to the ground.

Caspar shook his head, astounded by the sorcerer’s ingratitude.

Razumov ignored her protestations and snatched the horned, black staff from her hands. Then he let out a long, inhuman howl of ecstasy.

The old woman grasped at his robes, wailing with grief, but he simply kicked her away and clutched the staff to his chest, cradling it like a child.

Caspar shrugged and poured green flames down the centre of the spinning tower, aiming the rippling blast at Razumov’s head.

Just before the column of light struck home, Razumov looked up. There was a grin on his face as he raised his staff, catching the blast in the crescent of horns and hurling it back.

The world stopped.

The tower ceased to spin and the noise of the storm vanished as abruptly as if a door had been closed.

Caspar stumbled forwards, confused by the sudden lack of momentum and only just managing to grab the tower’s spire before he fell. The silence was horrendous. After the raging fury of the cyclone, to hear nothing was almost unbearable. He looked around in confusion and saw that, although the tower was now motionless, the world outside was not. Beyond the ancient masonry, a sickening torrent of scenes was pulsing in and out of view, and none of them made any sense. He saw virginal, frozen wastes and heaving, bottle-green oceans, but no glimpse of Schwarzbach.

“What—?” he began, but then cut himself off mid-sentence. Although he had spoken quietly, his words boomed through the tower.

His question was answered by the scraping sound of fingers scrabbling over rock. Caspar looked down and saw that Razumov was climbing back up the tower. His earlier urgency had vanished, and there was now a sardonic smile on his rotting face as he pulled himself up the stones.

“Razumov,” cried the woman sprawled at the base of the tower. “My love? Don’t you recognise me? It’s Natalya!”

Her voice was cracked and inhuman but Caspar realised he could now understand every word. I’m omniscient, he thought, thrilled by his growing power.

Razumov did not look back as he answered in the same shredded tones. “Of course I remember you, you wretched witch. I remember
everything
.”

Natalya shook her head fiercely. “Razumov, please! I’ve turned the world on its head, just so that the Emperor’s stargazers would come here and return you to me. I even kept your staff safe, so you could continue your work. I’ve paid for my treachery!”

Razumov paused to glare at her. “You’ve paid for
nothing!”
He levelled his staff at the woman. “You ruined everything.
Everything!
I have lain rotting in the ground for all these long centuries, because of you! I could have been a god by now, if you had not let me down.”

Natalya clutched her grey, sunken cheeks and shrieked. “I panicked! I thought that I would lose you forever if you completed the ritual.”

“So you murdered me?”

“No!” Natalya’s voice became an agonised screech. “I never meant for you to die. I thought that if I omitted one small phrase, the spell would simply fail and we could continue as we were, together!”

Razumov whined, clawing at his own face as he listened to the woman’s words. “You betrayed me!” he cried, jabbing his staff in her direction. A deafening boom filled the tower and a finger of lightning splintered from the crescent-shaped horns, knifing into the woman’s chest.

She spun from view with a final hideous croak.

Caspar shook his head, amazed by the bickering Kislevites. Then he raised his own staff and unleashed a gout of blue fire.

Razumov blocked the column of light, catching it in the circle of horns for a second time and hurling it back.

Caspar screamed as a terrible grinding sound filled his ears. It felt as though his mind were being torn apart. For a few seconds he could do nothing but crouch in a ball and shiver as white noise tore through his head. Then the sound cut off and silence returned.

Caspar opened his eyes to an inky void speckled with shimmering points of light. He was drifting through vague, luminous clouds and as he looked down at his own body, he cried out in confusion and delight. “I’m made of stars!” He tried to reach out and touch his new form, but instead of an arm he saw a trail of meteors burning through the darkness. He laughed at the beauty of it but, instead of sound, he emitted a spiral of astral particles. Stars, gas and dust clouds poured out of him, looping, billowing and spinning through the empyrean. Caspar’s laughter grew hysterical as his mind dissolved into the waltzing heavens. Then he paused, trying to steady himself, sensing danger.

There was another presence in this celestial dream.

Somewhere beneath him a shadow was forming, devouring light as it tumbled and writhed through the firmament. Caspar’s laughter became a scream as the blackness engulfed him, filling his astral flesh with agony.

Grasping for the remnants of his physical self, Caspar recalled his hand, clutching a gnarled staff. He breathed a half-remembered spell and replaced the darkness with a dazzling green fire.

The awful grinding sound returned and when it stopped, the scene had changed again.

Caspar was swimming through an ocean of red. He was material once more, but rather than seeing the tower, he found himself hurtling through a vast quivering tunnel. He panicked, believing he was drowning, but then realised he had no lungs or mouth. He was a pulse of blood, thundering through warm, living flesh. The world was filled with the sound of a massive, booming drum and as Caspar surged along the tunnel, the sound grew louder. In the liquid darkness ahead, he saw a vast shape, pulsing in time to the beat—a crimson cathedral of muscle, pounding faster and faster as he approached it.

My heart, he thought.

As the booming grew in volume, Caspar sensed the same malignant presence he had felt in the stars. It was Razumov, he realised, pursuing him through the heaving tide.

A shadow was spreading across the walls of the tunnel, painting the glistening red walls grey as it raced towards the pounding heart.

Caspar cried out again and pictured his staff once more, imagining his previous self launching another bolt at the hooded Kislevite.

The heartbeat doubled in speed and Caspar spun out control, losing all sense of self and purpose.

The grinding sound wrenched through the tunnel and the scene changed again.

Caspar was perched once more at the top of the tower, but for a few seconds he could not recognise anything. Even his own body looked utterly alien. He panted in confusion, feeling his heart racing beneath his scorched robes. He clutched his chest, recalling the grey stain that was racing towards his heart.

A bitter curse rang out from below.

Caspar looked down to see Razumov, sprawled on one of the tower’s ancient steps, with a blackened hole where his chest should have been.

The sorcerer groaned and hauled himself into a sitting position, grabbing his staff from the floor and looking up at Caspar with a dazed expression.

As Caspar looked at the ragged wound, his eyes began to play tricks on him. It looked as though the hole was turning into a mouth. The torn flesh and shattered bones reminded him of the fanged grin he had seen earlier that day, when he and Gabriel began their spell. A strange hysteria gripped him and as he stared into the bloody hole he began to giggle.

Razumov saw his chance and clambered to his feet, ignoring the glut of black liquid that poured from between his broken ribs. The wound seemed to have no effect on him as he bounded up the now-stationary rocks. Within seconds he was at Caspar’s side.

The astromancer came to his senses with Razumov just a few feet away. He swung his staff, smashing it into the sorcerer’s corpse-face with a wet crunch and lighting up his skull like a green lantern.

At the same instant, Razumov jabbed the horns of his staff into Caspar’s belly, filling his robes with crimson fire.

The two colours combined into a dazzling white flash, silhouetting the two men in a blazing corona. They both froze, fixed in place by the currents raging through their bodies.

The smell of cooking meat filled the air.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gabriel woke with a start. The ground was heaving beneath him like the deck of a ship and the town was filled with light. It looked as though Morrslieb had achieved its aim and enveloped the landscape. The wizard climbed unsteadily to his feet and looked around. He could just about make out the vague shapes of knights, beastmen, dragons and other, even stranger things. The whole riotous menagerie was tumbling back and forth across the square and none of the combatants seemed quite sure who they were meant to be fighting. It was less like a battle than a panicked riot. Buildings were toppling all over the town and the people of Schwarzbach had abandoned the relative safety of their cellars and lofts to flee in terror. Monsters devoured half of them before they reached the town gates, and Gabriel dreaded to think what would be waiting for those who reached the hills.

He looked back towards the tower, wondering how things could have gone so spectacularly wrong. He had to shield his eyes from the incandescent column of light and, as he stepped closer, his hairless face started to redden and blister. He ignored the pain and peered into the blaze. After a few seconds he saw a rotund, silhouetted figure, standing near the base of the fire.

He hurried towards him. “Move back! You’ll be destroyed!”

As the bürgermeister turned around, Gabriel saw that even though his face was hideously burned, it was locked in a manic grin.

“It’s working!” he cried, his voice little more than a croak.

Gabriel stepped closer, grimacing at the heat. “What? Has my master harnessed the power of the stars?”

Groot laughed wildly and dropped to his knees. “No, you idiot. I’m talking about my mistress. Natalya’s centuries of grief are finally over.” He collapsed onto his back, still laughing as blood bubbled up between his teeth.

Gabriel reached into the inferno and grabbed the man’s foot. Groot was much lighter than he expected and he managed to drag him back across the rippling flagstones to the steps. He shoved him behind a stump of ruined wall and knelt by his side. “What do you mean? Who is Natalya?”

Groot was seconds from death, but his blood-slick chins were still quivering with laughter. “Razumov’s love, you pallid freak. You and your senile master have done nothing but her bidding since you left Altdorf.”

“Her bidding?”

“Yes, her
bidding,
you simpleton!”

Gabriel leaned back, shaking his head. “How—” he began, but he realised that Groot was beyond hearing. The flames had utterly destroyed his lungs and he was coughing up thick, clotted lumps of blackened flesh. As his massive body shook, a morbid curiosity overtook the wizard and he gently pulled open the man’s robes, confused as to how someone so huge could weigh so little.

As the charred cloth fell open, Gabriel hissed and leapt to his feet, backing away quickly from the dying man. Groot’s body was covered in gaping mouths, lined with tiny fangs. They were opening and closing as he shivered and moaned, consumed by hunger, even as they died.

Gabriel looked back at the tower. “It’s a trick,” he droned. “A cult.” He lifted his staff, preparing to brave the flames, but before he had taken more than a few steps the world tilted on its axis and threw him through the air, smashing him into the crowds of battling figures. As he rolled and stumbled through the tumult, he saw something almost too strange to bear. The storm was raging with such power that it had torn the whole town from the earth. He glimpsed a crater—a vast bowl of scarred earth, where Schwarzbach should have been—then he slammed into a wall and lost consciousness.