Chapter 7: Murder

That afternoon Vladimir napped as peacefully as he could, despite his throbbing limb, in the diffused sunlight that slanted through the frosted glass of the infirmary window. He dreamed of Liesel, as he often did. He saw her sitting in an old rocking chair, wrapped up in a blanket, crying softly. In her hand she held the book of poems that he had given her. He longed to wipe away her tears, to hold her, to tell her everything would be alright, but that would be a lie. Nothing would be alright.

Thankfully, a gentle hand on his shoulder woke Vladimir from the gloomy dream before his grief could carry him any further. He opened his eyes to see Father Heiler placing a tray on the table, with a steaming pot of tea.

“Back so soon, Father?” he asked, perplexed. “You just changed my bandage this morning.”

“Vladimir, it has been six days since you were burned,” Father Heiler said, avoiding Vladimir’s gaze. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, as if he were about to plunge into cold water. “I was hoping the damage was not as extensive as it seemed, and that the poultice would aid the healing…but that isn’t the case. Your hand is not mending, and if I don’t remove it soon I fear you will die.” Vladimir closed his eyes and let his chin sink slowly to his chest. The news was devastating, but instead of grief or despair he only felt numb. He shed no tears, nor did he sob or cry. Father Reichel sat with him in silence for a while, then patted him on the shoulder.

“I want you to drink this,” he said, lifting the teapot and pouring a cup. He reached into his robes and produced a paper packet. He emptied the contents, a white powder, into the steaming liquid and stirred it gently. He carefully handed the cup to Vladimir. “You must drink all of this tea. It will help you sleep. You need to be rested and strong tomorrow. When you wake I will perform the surgery. It will also help with the pain.”

Vladimir lifted the cup to his lips and slowly poured the steaming liquid into his mouth. It was still too hot to drink, and it burned his tongue and throat, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to drown the utter hopelessness he felt. When he had emptied the cup, he simply let it fall from his hand. It rolled off of his chest and broke on the floor. The faint aftertaste of sweet ginger filled his mouth. Father Heiler knelt down to pick up the broken pieces of the cup, then gathered up his things and turned to leave.

“I know things seem bleak right now, but all is not lost,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “Many men have lost limbs and led happy, productive lives. You will just have to learn new ways of doing things. I can teach you. I can help.”

Vladimir stared through the window, ignoring the priest, until he left. There was no one who could help him now. Only Liesel could assuage his sorrow, and he would never see her again, except in his dreams. He hoped the powder would deaden his mind, chase away his dreams, let him escape the damnable misery of it all. Better yet, maybe he would die in his sleep.

The medicine worked quickly. First his lips and ears went numb, then his tongue and fingertips. His thoughts began to slow and his eyelids became increasingly heavy. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and he could feel warmth radiate from his body. He tried to touch his face, and he could see his hand paw clumsily at his cheek, but he was not sure who was controlling it. His thoughts were wrapped in a thick fog. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift aimlessly. Blessed oblivion.

All is not lost. The barely perceptible whisper crept into his mind. Unlike before, Vladimir knew that these were not his own thoughts, that he was communicating with a being from beyond. He also knew that the being was most likely aligned with the forces of chaos. At this point he didn’t care.

With It, you could heal yourself, the whisper continued.

But Father Heiler said my hand was damaged beyond healing, Vladimir thought into the void.

Beyond his healing, perhaps. He is limited by the laws of your world. With It in your possession, you would not be bound by such restrictions.

Hope, long forgotten, bloomed in Vladimir’s heart. Could it be true? Could he save his arm?

Vladimir paused in his thoughts, awed at the enormity of what he was considering. Until now he had been a victim of the Torc, its unwilling captive. To use it, even to do nothing more than to heal himself would be to purposefully use the force of chaos for his own end.

His intentions, however, were pure. The injury was done to him through no fault of his own. His only motivation was to escape life-long suffering for what Pavel had done to him. He would use it just the once, and then beg Sigmar to forgive him. After all, he was not a minion of the Ruinous Powers bent on destroying the world, he simply wanted to set things right. He would wait for cover of darkness, then creep down to the cellar. How he would get through the locked door, or explain his miraculously healed appendage never entered his sluggish thoughts.

No time. The Priest is already on his way to take It away. Vladimir bolted upright so quickly it made his head swim. The drug was in full effect, and Vladimir had to steady himself to keep from falling over. He had to get to the torc before Reichel.

Vladimir stumbled through the halls of Erengrad monastery, trailing his fingers along the wall to keep himself going straight. He had no idea how long he had lain in a stupor in the infirmary, but the sun had long set and the full moons were shining through the windows. He fell three times on his staggering journey, and blood now stained the bandage wrapped around his ruined hand. The pain seemed far away, like a fire on the horizon. He willed his legs to keep moving.

If anyone saw him, all would be lost. They would take him back to his cell and tomorrow they would saw his arm off. Even this late at night some priests or the occasional initiate may be found on an errand, but it appeared that Vladimir’s luck was holding. He made it into the library and down to the basement undetected. He leaned against the oaken door that led down to the cell. His heart was pounding in his ears, and his mouth dry enough to make him wretch when he tried to swallow.

So I am here, he thought to himself. How do I get in?

The key, He has the key, the voice whispered in his mind. This close to the torc it was as clear as a bell. Vladimir’s clouded mind struggled to comprehend. Then it came to him. Reichel.

He is not going to let me in. I must get It before he comes for it.

He comes for it now… The voice trailed off, and was replaced by the rhythmic tapping of shoes on flagstones.

Before Vladimir could react, Father Reichel swept around the corner and glided into view. He was dressed in a heavy woolen traveling cloak. His eyes were downcast as he walked, deep in thought. He did not notice Vladimir slumped against the door until he was almost on top of him. Reichel looked up, startled. Vladimir could not remember ever seeing the priest surprised.

“Vladimir, my boy, what are you doing here?” he said, kneeling by Vladimir’s side. The novice did not remember sitting down.

“They are going to cut off my arm,” he slurred, holding the blood-stained bandages aloft for the priest to see.

“Yes, Vladimir, I heard. I am very sorry for that. I wish there were something I could do.”

“There is something,” Vladimir grunted, sitting up with a supreme effort.

“Anything. Name it,” Reichel said, brushing Vladimir’s hair out of his eyes. Vladimir swallowed hard.

“Let me see the torc,” he said. The priest frowned.

“Vladimir, you and I both know that would be a bad idea.”

“No, no, I don’t want to keep it,” Vladimir explained, hysteria creeping into his voice. “I just need to see it. Just long enough to heal my hand. So they won’t have to cut it off. Then you can take it away and destroy it.”

“My boy, that thing cannot heal you. The Ruinous Powers are not interested in healing or preserving life, only in destroying it.”

“That’s not true. You don’t understand. It can heal me. I know it can. Please,” Vladimir pleaded, gripping Reichel’s cloak with his good hand. “Please don’t let them cut off my arm.”

“Vladimir, I cannot allow you to come into contact with the talisman,” Father Reichel said, gently but firmly removing Vladimir’s hand from his cloak. “You are not yourself. I will take you back to the infirmary. Tomorrow, when you wake, I will be gone and your ordeal will be past.”

Reichel lifted Vladimir to his feet and began to walk him toward the stairs. Angry, Vladimir shook off his assistance.

“I can walk,” he said through clenched teeth, glaring at the priest. He stood upright and, with a supreme effort, managed to stalk away without swaying or stumbling. When he got around the first bookcase he gripped the shelves to steady himself. His head was throbbing now. Anger and despair warred in his head. Instinctually, Vladimir sought the refuge of the ‘free state’. The slow haze of the drugs working on his mind changed to the elusive fog of chaos. The pain was still distant, and now the anger and despair were as well. The wet blanket sluggishness that had wrapped his muscles was gone, and his thoughts flowed freely.

Vladimir circled around the stacks until he had a good vantage, and a clear path, to the door. Reichel’s back was to him. Vladimir could hear the jingle of the keys as the priest worked the lock. The novice’s heart raced faster and faster. The lock clicked and Reichel swung the door outward.

You must act now, urged the voice.

What can I do? Vladimir asked in his head.

Do what you must do. Grim determination crept over Vladimir’s face. He must get to the torc. No matter what.

He crouched down and began to move. He covered the ground between them in loping strides, desperately trying to be quiet. He feared that the breath rasping in his throat or the thunderous beating of his heart would betray him. The groan of metal and wood as the door to the cell opened concealed his advance. Reichel took one step down the stairs, reaching for the torch that lay in the sconce on the wall.

Vladimir lowered his shoulder as he closed the last few feet, catching Reichel unawares, slamming into his lower back. His momentum carried them forward and they both fell hard. Vladimir landed on top of Reichel audibly forcing the air out of the priest’s lungs. They began to tumble down the stairs together, their limbs hopelessly tangled. Vladimir felt the hard edges of the stone steps jab into his ribs, his legs and his back as he rolled. A sharp pain knifed into his temple and he knew no more.

Darkness. Pain. A hot, coppery taste. Vladimir regained consciousness slowly. Father Heiler’s drug was still working, keeping the pain distant and dull. It was dark, no light to filtered into the room from the staircase. Reichel had thankfully not lit the torch before Vladimir tackled him. The novice hoped that the good priest was not injured. Although he hoped that he was still unconscious, and had not already gone to fetch Father Larsen. Or worse, Maximilien.

Vladimir forced himself to sit up, earning a cacophony of complaints from his body, almost enough to burn completely through the medicine’s haze. His head throbbed most of all. The novice probed about and found a knot and a gash over his left eye, his fingers slick with his own blood. He must hurry.

In the utter darkness he had no idea where the stairs or the table or the torches were, but he could say with complete certainty where It was. He crawled across the cold stone until his trembling hands found the object of his most fundamental desire. It was cold as well, the metal was hard and unyielding. Vladimir paused for a moment, holding his breath, waiting for any other alternative to miraculously present itself. When it did not, he closed his eyes and slipped the torc around his neck.

The cold metal touching his skin sent a shockwave through his mind. His whole body spasmed, throwing his head back, causing him to lose his balance and writhe on the floor. Breath hissed in through his clenched teeth. Countless explosions of light detonated behind his clenched eyelids. After what seemed like an eternity, the fit passed.

Vladimir opened his eyes to the dim light filtering in from the staircase. He could make out Reichel’s prone form at the bottom. The novice wondered how he did not perceive the light before. His nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of dust and aging paper from the stacks above, and the pungent herbal scent of the salve from underneath his bandages. He could hear the wind moaning across the rooftops, a rodent scrabbling at a baseboard in the corner, a door slamming in the distance. All of his senses were sharpened, amplified. Colors were sharper, details clearer. The drug induced haze was gone, but there was more. It was like he had been drugged his entire life and was clear-headed for the first time.

Instinctively, Vladimir’s hand sought out the gash on his brow. It was still there, and still bleeding. He tried to flex his left hand. It remained still and lifeless. Panic seized his heart. On hands and knees he scrambled to Reichel’s motionless form. The priest lay flat on his belly, his head turned to the side at a frightening angle. Gingerly Vladimir brushed Reichel’s cheek with the back of his hand. It was cool to the touch. He placed his fingers under the priest’s nose, but no breath warmed them. He looked closely at the priest’s face, his eyes were open.

“Oh great Sigmar, save me,” he whispered, clenching his hands together and rocking back and forth on his knees.

He can’t save you. Even if he could, I doubt he would now, chimed the voice, no longer a whisper.

“Who are you?” Vladimir asked.

I am your…guide, you might say.

“You lied to me,” Vladimir accused. “You said the torc would heal me.”

I told you that ‘with the torc you can heal yourself.’ That is the truth. Using the torc, and with sufficient training, you will be able to heal yourself.

“That isn’t the same!” Vladimir was getting angry.

One often hears only what one wishes to hear. Now, I suggest you quickly and quietly leave, before anyone discovers you.

“Leave? I cannot leave. This is my home.” Vladimir said.

You are wearing the torc. You killed the priest. Do you really think you can stay?

“It was an accident!” Vladimir shouted. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

Was it? Besides, I hardly think your Father Maximilien will be so understanding.

Vladimir knew it was true. He had to find a way out. If he were to put the torc back on the floor and sneak back to the infirmary, no one would be the wiser. He was supposed to be drugged and asleep, no one would suspect that he was anywhere near the cell. He reached up and grasped the torc, attempting to remove it, but it would not budge. He pulled harder but to no avail. He may as well have been trying to pry out his collarbone.

You cannot remove it, the voice cautioned.

“Why not?” Vladimir asked, genuine panic making his voice waver. “Tell me how to take it off.”

Very well. There are, in fact, two ways to remove the torc. One is to die. Once you are dead the torc may be removed with little effort. The other is to master the use of mana, therefore eliminating its purpose. At that time it will fall off of its own accord. Until one of those two things happens, I am afraid you have little choice in the matter.

“What shall I do?” Vladimir pleaded.

Follow my advice. Leave.

“Where will I go?”

Where is for later. Right now let us focus on getting you out of the Monastery.

Vladimir sat back on his heels, hanging his head. How could he just go? How could he leave everything he had ever known? Truthfully, he had no choice. It was either go or die. Resignedly, Vladimir heaved a sigh and struggled to his feet. He carefully stepped around Father Reichel’s corpse and made his way up the stairs, wincing in pain with every step. The effects of the drug had peaked and were beginning to lessen.

By the position of the moons it was close to midnight. The corridors were clear, but not as dark as they used to appear. At first Vladimir was dismayed at all of the noise he was making. His bare feet slapping against the stones, no matter how carefully he placed them. His robe swishing against the floor. His breathing. He realized that is sharpened senses were to blame. At one point in his skulking, he passed within one hundred yards and four closed doors of the kitchen, and he could detect the lingering scent of baking bread.

The only door to the outside that Vladimir could open at this hour and escape notice would be the service tunnel to the arboretum. Like he had done so many times before, Vladimir snuck down the long hall past the clock and entered the steamy warmth of the conservatory. He paused for a moment and just stood, committing all of it to memory. Every flower, every tree, every mossy hillock. The best times of his life happened right here, and he wanted to remember them perfectly.

He pushed the door to the tunnel open and started down, wishing he had stopped and found some shoes, but there was no going back now. The longer he stayed, the greater his chance of being caught. At the bottom of the tunnel was another door, bolted from the inside. He slid the bolt and pushed the door open.

The cold bit into his bones, his breath misting as he tried to catch his breath. He assumed the free state to chase away the pain. He opened his eyes and was surprised to find that he could maintain the state with almost no concentration. He attributed that to the torc, which weighed heavily around his neck.

He had rarely been outside the monastery, nor had he needed to leave. Until the dire events of this evening it had been his whole world. Despite never having been out the arboretum door, the countryside seemed familiar to him. Then it struck him. His dreams…or more likely visions. He had seen the gentle slope leading away from the stone walls, the sparse forests, the tiny lights in the distance. The lights belonged to a little hamlet by a frozen stream. Just to the south of that hamlet was a farmstead, with a stone barn with a thatched roof…and Liesel.

Vladimir started down the slope as quickly as he could. He heard his feet crunch in the snow, and felt the frigid winter wind whip his robes about, but the cold did not touch him. Despite the scudding clouds obscuring the waning moons the novice…ex-novice could see as clearly as if the summer sun had been shining.

Although the free state kept the pain and cold at bay, it did not protect him from the elements. Soon his toes turned blue and he was wracked with constant shudders. As he crossed the snow covered field that led to Liesel’s home, he noticed that the tracks he left in the snow had a pink tinge to them. His feet were bleeding. There was nothing he could do about it until he got inside somewhere, and he needed to do it quickly.

At last the stone barn with the thatched roof hove into view. It was still hours until dawn, and Vladimir did not want to knock on their door at this hour. He decided to wait in the barn, out of the elements, until Liesel awoke and began her chores. After all he was a fugitive, and it would not do to have her father involved. He crawled slowly over the low stone wall, being careful not to cut himself any further. Between the gash on his temple, his ruined arm, and his lacerated feet he had lost a lot of blood already.

He pushed the barn door open as slowly and quietly as possible. It was dark inside, but his enhanced vision picked out the finest details, from the bucket of oats by the stalls to the cobwebs that lined the corners. Vladimir closed the door behind him and proceeded slowly. The animals appeared agitated at his presence, the cow rolled its eyes and stomped the earth with her hooves, but thankfully none of them uttered a sound. Vladimir found a stall at the end of the row that was used to store hay for the animals. It was dry and in a convenient mound. Vladimir threw himself into it. Compared to his bed at home…in the monastery, it was stiff and scratchy, but after his trek through the icy countryside he found it to be luxurious and warm.

Vladimir lay in the straw bed and tried to formulate a plan. Clearly he could not live in Liesel’s barn forever. He needed to find a way to heal himself, and then get rid of the torc. What he would do after that was beyond him. He pondered his future until sleep overtook him.

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