Konstantin von Augen waited to see how his words would play with Stefan. His
worn but still vigorous face betrayed no hint of guile or duplicity. Stefan had
no doubt that he meant every word of what he said with a passion and a
conviction that could only be admired.
For all that, Stefan was feeling less at his ease in the Guide’s presence
that morning. He had become uncomfortable with Konstantin’s zeal and certainty,
and uncomfortable, too, with the thought that he had found himself so readily
seduced by it. There was no disputing that there was much in what he had seen
and heard that found a place in his heart. In so many ways, Sigmarsgeist offered
a vision of the world that he had been unable to find anywhere else in his
years of searching. He should feel at home here. And, the gods knew, he had
waited long enough for that.
But instead, Stefan was feeling vaguely troubled. Something was worrying him,
some nagging memory that lay just out of reach. Had he found what they had seen,
deep below ground, shocking? Stefan would not have thought it possible. All his
life, since the night of childhood when life changed forever, Stefan had lived
to see the world purged of the forces of Chaos. Anything, surely, that led along
that road must be right, must be honourable? And yet, and yet…
Konstantin read the doubt clouding his features. “What is it, Stefan? You
must tell me honestly what is in your heart.” The Guide cast his eyes around the
small chamber. “It’s all right,” he added. “We speak privately here. Whatever
you have to say to me goes no further.”
“I don’t know,” Stefan told him. “Perhaps I’m just tired, that’s all.” It was
true, he was tired. He had slept badly, the night hours punctuated by dreams of
running through the streets of a village, between houses wracked with flame,
thick, oily smoke pouring from every window. In the dream, Stefan had been
chasing someone, a person who always kept ahead of him, just out of sight. That
in itself did not perturb him much. Dreams of smoke and fire had been his
nocturnal companions on countless occasions since that night in Odensk, and
given what had happened in the last few days it was perhaps little surprise that
they had returned to haunt him now.
“You look tired,” Konstantin agreed. “There is something lacking in your
quarters, perhaps?”
“No, no,” Stefan assured him. “It’s just—” he paused, searching for the right
words. “I’m just wondering whether soon we must take our leave of Sigmarsgeist.”
Konstantin nodded, sympathetically. “I know, you have a quest to fulfil,” he
said. “I would be the last to stand in the way of that. But do you truly know
where that quest will take you from here?”
“No,” Stefan answered him, truthfully. “I do not.”
“Then why not stay?” Konstantin urged. “Sigmarsgeist is still young, Stefan.
What you have seen is only the birth, the seed that has yet to grow into a
mighty tree. You could be part of that.” He placed his hands firmly upon
Stefan’s shoulders. “We have great need of men such as you, Stefan. Your skills
would be prized here.”
“Maybe so,” Stefan conceded. “But my life belongs upon the road, I think. I’m
happier seeking out trouble than waiting for it to find me.”
It was a good answer, and not without truth. Over time he could have chosen
any number of well-paid, and probably comfortable, lives as a bodyguard, armed
retainer or chief of a private militia. And before he left Erengrad, Gastez
Castelguerre had made him a better offer yet. To join the secret few, the men
known as the Keepers of the Flame, pledged to stand in eternal defiance of the
forces of darkness. Then, as now, Stefan had been honoured. But he had said no,
as surely he must now. It was his destiny to be the restless soldier, always on
the move. And as long as Alexei Zucharov and his kind were waiting, somewhere in
the world beyond, it would have to remain that way.
Konstantin sat weighing Stefan’s words, and considering his response. “Of
course,” he replied at length, a knowing smile upon his face. “You must leave
whenever you see fit. But if your thirst must have you seek out evil, then you
need seek no further than here. Evil is all around us, Stefan, it is
everywhere.”
“I understand,” Stefan told him. “I appreciate what you believe you must do
for the coming time. But I’m not sure I can wait that long.”
“No,” Konstantin said, gravely. “You do not understand. We are not simply
sitting here waiting, waiting like sheep in the field for the wolf to come. We
are taking our struggle to the acolytes of darkness, Stefan. Seeking them out.
Destroying them wherever we find them.”
Stefan had experienced most of his life as a series of clear decisions. Often
life or death had hung upon the outcome, but the way had always seemed clear. To
find himself torn between two paths was something new, unusual. Instinct told him that they had already spent too long in Sigmarsgeist, that they
should be back upon the road before they outstayed a generous welcome. But
something urged him still to stay. It was true: what he had seen in the dungeons
of the citadel
had
troubled him. The rules of conflict by which he had
lived most of his life had been turned upside down.
“What you stand
against
is clear,” the Guide said. “You stand against
all evil, against the foul, corrupting tide that threatens to engulf our lands.
I give praise for that. Would that there were more like you.” He paused, letting
the silence add weight to his words. “But let me ask you this. Can you tell me
what you stand
for?
What causes will you champion? Where will your road
lead you?”
Stefan said nothing. In his heart, he knew he had no answer to give.
“Join us,” Konstantin entreated. “Join with us and share our goal, our vision
of the world to come. You belong here, Stefan. You are as one with us.”
The words struck a chord with Stefan that could not be denied. Here, in
Sigmarsgeist, he had no need to try and explain himself. No need to justify his
driven, single-minded quest. No need to explain why he could not rest whilst the
followers of Chaos still hid within the shadows of the Old World. No need,
because that was exactly the spirit that had given birth to the citadel. He could
never go home from Sigmarsgeist, Stefan reflected, because he was already there.
“I’ll need to confer with my comrades,” Stefan replied at length, conscious
that he was only buying time by such an answer.
“Of course,” Konstantin agreed. He truly seemed to have no wish to pressure
Stefan into a decision. But the look on his face signalled his belief in what
the answer would be. “I promise you,” he said, “joining the True Followers of
Sigmar will be the defining moment of your life.”
Stefan bowed, and turned to leave. He opened the door to find himself face to
face with Rilke, the White Guard who had spoken against them at the meeting of
the council. The look on the other man’s face suggested that nothing had softened his opinion
of the newcomers, and Stefan had the distinct impression that he had been
standing by the door for quite some time. Rilke stood staring at him for a
moment, quite unembarrassed to have been discovered. Somewhat grudgingly, he
moved aside to let Stefan pass. Stefan didn’t move.
“You should have come in,” Stefan said. “That way you’d have better heard what
passed between the Guide and myself.”
Rilke held Stefan’s gaze, unflinchingly. There was no humour or apology in
his eyes. “I hear everything I need to hear,” he said, acidly. “Nothing you do
or say is likely to escape me.” He made to push his way past Stefan, who was now
barring his way into Konstantin’s chamber. “Let me pass,” he demanded. “I have
urgent news for the Guide.”
Stefan held steady, keeping his body as a barrier between the man in white
and the door. “You and I seem to have got off on the wrong foot,” he commented.
“I hope it proves to be just a misunderstanding.” He barely caught Rilke’s
muttered reply.
“There is nothing to understand,” he said. “I have a duty to do, and I’m going
to do it.”
Bruno had risen early with the idea of exploring Sigmarsgeist on his own.
Although it was still barely past dawn, the heart of the citadel was already
busy. Bruno stepped from the quiet of the palace on to streets full to
overflowing with people going about their work. He had no particular direction
or destination in mind, although a part of him was still reluctant to believe
that in all Sigmarsgeist there wasn’t a single beer-house or tavern. And if
there was even one, then he would find it.
He emerged from the palace gates and started to walk down the broad avenue
that passed directly through the heart of the citadel. Bruno’s sense of
direction was good and it was no idle boast that he would only need be taken
somewhere once in order to commit it to memory. So he followed the same sequence
of streets that they had passed along in the carriage the previous day, this time taking in his surroundings at his
own leisurely pace.
After an hour, he was lost. None of the streets he now passed through seemed
to bear any resemblance to those he had seen the day before. Bruno couldn’t
fathom it; he was sure that he had followed the same precise route, street by
street. But it didn’t worry him unduly. Before long, he was sure, he would
recognise a landmark. If not well then, there was no shortage of people to help
him find his way.
In the meantime, he took good note of what he saw around him, and what he
didn’t see. No inns or beer houses, for sure, not a single one. And no
dwellings, at least none resembling the haphazard, ramshackle collections
familiar from home. When he at last came to the residential quarter, it
resembled nothing he had ever seen before. Instead of single houses there were
great misshapen stone edifices, each large enough to house a dozen families or
more.
Bruno gazed up in wonder at the carved facades, each with its array of tiny
windows. He stood for a few moments, marvelling at the strangeness of it all.
People, men, women and a few children poured from every doorway in a steady
stream whilst those returning from their labours were coming the other way,
ready to take their place in the communal homes.
Like a nest of termites, Bruno caught himself thinking. The comparison seemed
harsh, but somehow apt. To a man, the workers were immersed in their daily
routine, those now leaving the houses hurrying to relieve the workers returning
home. But all seemed to Bruno to be in good heart, and, if most ignored him or
greeted him only with the most cursory of nods, then he guessed it was because
they were focused upon the day to come, or else the rest that would be their
reward for their labours. He stood a while longer taking in the extraordinary
scene, then walked on.
The communal quarters gave way to a road lined with storehouses, and then, in
turn, to a street occupied by a huge, smoke-belching armoury, its red-bricked
chimneys standing like sentries against the sky. Bruno took his time, stopping
to look through the open gates and between doors, marvelling at the intensity of the heat generated by the mighty furnaces
within. Outside the gates, teams of horses hauled wagons slowly up the hill past
Bruno, each wagon laden with the produce of labour: heavy broadswords, axes and
pikestaffs fashioned from fresh-minted steel. Truly, Bruno reflected, this was a
people readying themselves for war. Could the rest of the world really have left
themselves so unprepared?
Turning the corner at the head of the road, he came to a plot of open ground
framed by tall, spindly trees. It was a rare enough sight in the citadel. Bruno
remembered noting the scene during their journey the day before, and
congratulated himself on regaining his bearings. He remembered the square as
empty save for the trees, and a squat, rectangular structure at its centre,
flanked by statues of the gods Taal and Ulric. Bruno had marked it for a temple
or shrine of some sort.
Now, he looked on, puzzled, wondering if his memory had deceived him. The
yellowish shell of the building had been almost split apart, ripped open by a
tall finger of bleached white stone shaped like a pillar that had burst through
the roof of the other building. Both of the statues had been felled. The holy
gods lay upon the ground, their likenesses broken into several pieces.
Bruno stood and stared at the improbable structure that seemed to grow from
out of the ruined temple. It looked to be made of some kind of marble, and
rather than climbing straight as a chimney might, bent and twisted along its
length, giving Bruno the absurd impression that it had grown up out of the
ground. The column stood taller than any of the trees, and was carved from top
to bottom with runes of the most intricate design. There was no way that he
could not have noticed it before, and equally surely no way that such a large
and elaborate structure could have been built so quickly. The white marble
glinted in the sunlight, teetering above the older structure like a predator
over its prey.
So distracted was he by the sight that Bruno did not notice Hans Baecker
walking towards him until the two of them were almost face to face.
“What’s the matter?” Baecker demanded of Bruno, cheerily. “Are you lost?”
“No,” Bruno replied, shaking his head forcefully, hoping either memory or
vision would resolve itself. “But I’d swear that yesterday that pillar—or
whatever it is—wasn’t there.”
Baecker edged forward, and took a few steps around the temple, keeping a
careful distance. “What are you saying?” he asked at last. “That all this has
been built overnight?”
“Not all of it,” Bruno said. “Just the pillar.”
Baecker looked the pillar up and down, taking in its considerable height and
the carvings etched upon its surface. “That seems unlikely,” he replied,
doubtfully. “We work hard here in Sigmarsgeist, but, all the same…”
“I’m sure I’m not imagining it,” Bruno went on. Then laughed. “But, perhaps I
am! Perhaps I’m actually seeing things. In which case,” he added, “only one way
to find out.”