Free Razumov's Tomb by Darius Hinks

focussed,” said Gabriel in his usual deadpan voice.
    Caspar suddenly found Gabriel’s blank, skull-like face as terrifying as the vision had been. He glanced briefly at the wizard’s neck and noticed that the expanse of transparent skin had risen higher. The lower workings of his throat were now visible. He could see the man’s gullet twitching as he swallowed.
    Gabriel noticed the direction of his master’s gaze and pulled his robes a little higher. “You must not deviate,” he insisted. “Recite the words as we rehearsed them.”
    The old man hesitated for a few seconds then touched his fingers to Gabriel’s and closed his eyes again.
    “The winds of magic will appear,” said Gabriel flatly, “but in many guises. Do not be distracted. The crucial moment will be brief. We must latch onto the current that is most rich in azyr. Then I will withdraw and allow my portion of the magic to enter you. If the ritual has been successful, you will feel Razumov’s tomb rising beneath you and be able to use it to harness more power.”
    Caspar nodded, but as he began to mouth the incantation, a terrible thought occurred to him. Had he been wise to trust so completely in this strange man? He had told no one else of their destination—apart from Tylo Sulzer, and the old letch was on the other side of the Empire, chasing drunken women.
    An unnatural breeze struck up from nowhere and began to circle them, ruffling their robes and drawing sparks from the wall of smoke. As the ground beneath them began to buckle and shake, the Grand Astromancer realised that the whole building was starting to tremble. There was a series of jangling blasts as the windows imploded, then the walls groaned mournfully as great cracks spread across the stones. As the spell neared its completion, the smoke circle became a whining cyclone of magic, snatching blue flames from his staff and flooding his limbs with vigour.
    Great shocks of arcane power blasted through Caspar’s old bones and as he uttered the final word of the spell he started to laugh.

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT

    Von Südenhorst cried out in frustration and stumbled back into the crush of bodies. As he fell, his sword slipped from his blood-slick gauntlet and clattered across the road. The rest of his armour was equally drenched in gore and his shield had been wrenched from his arm. The hulking, bull-horned leader of the beastmen was tantalisingly close, but every time he got near, one of the lesser monsters had blocked his way. As the reiksgraf cursed his luck, another goat-faced mutant loomed over him, raising a battered iron sword.
    The reiksgraf cried out as the weapon shaved off a portion of his left shoulder. The blade sliced through armour and muscle with sickening ease and the beastman let out a bellow of pleasure as the general’s blood filled the air.
    Von Südenhorst scrambled backwards, clutching his arm, furious at his lack of progress. The monsters had massed in such incredible numbers that tactics had become meaningless. As his men tried to hack them down, they simply drowned beneath a crush of iron-clad hooves and stinking, scarred flesh. Dozens of them had died in the first ten minutes of battle.
    “Regroup!” he cried, managing to briefly raise his head above the mass of heaving bodies and flailing swords. “Defend the town hall!”
    As the beastman swung its sword for another blow, the reiksgraf drew a knife and jammed it deep into the monster’s belly.
    The beastman belched black blood and tried to throttle the knight, but as its viscera fell away, so did its strength and it collapsed on top of him with a final grunt.
    The general screamed as the creature’s bulk crushed him down into the mound of corpses. A sharp pain flashed in his neck as his head twisted at an unnatural angle and for a moment he lost consciousness. Then, as the weight of the advancing army pressed down on him, the knight wrenched himself free and climbed to his feet.
    A fist slammed into the visor