The creature of Chaos cast three times, each razor-edged shard of bone flying
just wide. Now the two riders were at arms’ length. The Chaos warrior ripped
another bloody blade from its carcass and stabbed out at Stefan, aiming at his
throat in a short, slashing motion. Stefan flung his head back, a sudden,
violent motion that all but toppled him from his horse. For a moment he fought
to stay in the saddle. If he fell now, it would all be over. He grabbed
frantically at the reins and regained balance.
The mutant struck out again, but this time wide of the mark. As the creature
swung back, Stefan aimed a firm blow into the mutant’s body, wedging the point
of his sword into the open cavity. Flesh tore and bone splintered and cracked as
Stefan twisted the blade. The mutant swore and writhed, desperately trying to
free itself, but Stefan held firm, driving his sword ever deeper into the
monster’s body. When he was sure it was dead he pulled his sword clear to lash
it one final time across the body, hurling the shattered corpse to the ground.
A wave of nausea washed over Stefan as the shock of the encounter kicked in.
He looked around, gasping for breath, and found himself in a clear space. The
plain was littered with the bodies of the fallen. Stefan counted four Chaos
marauders dead for each of the six soldiers of Sigmar that had given their
lives. The tide had turned, the battle was all but won.
A horseman burst through the skirmish of riders just ahead of him. It took
Stefan a few moments before he recognised Anaise. Her white singlet was now a
filthy red, and her face was spattered with the bloody gore of her enemies. But
she was filled with an energy that was almost frightening to behold. Her face
was wreathed in smiles, and her eyes shone with an almost manic excitement. She saw Stefan and saluted him, her voice
trembling.
“Seven dead by my sword!” she shouted to him, elated. “Seven sons of darkness
who’ll never taint the light of day again!” She pulled her horse about, coming
into tandem with Stefan. “How many have you taken?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Five, I think,” Stefan replied. “Maybe six. It seems you have the better of
me.” He tried to shape some sense of celebration into his words, but he could
not. He felt cold, almost numb. There was something stark, something shocking
about the raw blood lust he saw in Anaise. For a moment he found himself looking
at her, but thinking about himself, in a way he had never done before. Was this
how it was for him, as he emerged, victorious from battle? Was this how he
felt?
And, in that moment, he was seized with a sense of awe, and a quiet
horror.
Rilke stepped from the shadows into the circle of light at the centre of his
master’s chamber. In the gloom behind him stood a cluster of Red Guards and two
other figures, one of them weighed down with every manner of rope and chain
imaginable. Rilke bowed before the seated figure of Konstantin von Augen, his
grave expression mirroring that of his master.
“They are here, my lord.”
Konstantin peered into the gloom and beckoned for the guards to approach.
They shuffled forward, ushering Lothar Koenig and his prisoner into the
interior. Once in place, the guards stood round the prisoner with their swords
held ready, drawing a ring of steel around the figure of Alexei Zucharov.
Konstantin von Augen sat, taking in the man stood before him. A look of
sorrow, and deep and ancient enmity crossed the Guide’s face.
“The creatures of the night come to Sigmarsgeist,” he murmured. “Like moths to
the eternal flame, they come.”
The prisoner looked down upon the Guide as though staring through him, gazing
upon something in the far distance.
Konstantin returned the gaze steadily and without fear. The terrors of
darkness would hold no dominion here. Finally, he turned to Koenig, who had been
standing on one side, his head lowered in a posture of supplication.
“Tell me your story,” Konstantin commanded. The bounty hunter executed a low
bow before the Guide. “My lord, I captured this man with my own hands, and at
great risk to my life, after a ferocious battle at the foot of the Ostravska
valley. I knew at once where I must bring him.”
“Does he not speak?” Konstantin asked.
“My lord, he has uttered barely a word whilst in my keeping. I believe the
Dark Gods have poisoned his tongue.”
Konstantin looked to Rilke. “Was he alone at the gates?”
“Quite alone,” Rilke said. “Apart from this.” He raised his arm. Lamplight
fell upon a battered and blood-caked object: the severed head of the bandit
lord, Carl Durer.
“The mortal remains of a thief and a murderer,” Lothar explained, hastily. “I
was taking proof of his death to Talabheim, hoping to earn some favour for my
deeds there.”
Konstantin nodded to Rilke. “Have your men dispose of it,” he said, waving
aside Lothar’s pleas. He looked long and hard at the prisoner. Alexei Zucharov
hadn’t moved so much as a muscle since being led to the chamber.
“A fearsome looking warrior,” Konstantin observed. “And doubtless the poison of
evil run deep in his veins. But what of it? The dungeons of Sigmarsgeist are
full of creatures such as this. What do you think?” he asked Rilke. “Shall we
have this one put to the sword and be done?”
“Please,” Lothar protested. “Look closer, I beg you. My lord, look closer at
his arm.”
Konstantin said nothing for a few moments then, slowly and deliberately, rose
from his seat and took a few steps towards the prisoner. He nodded to the
guards, signalling that they should lift Zucharov’s arm for him to see. The
metal of the amulet shone like fire under the lights, but it was not the golden
band that caused the Guide to draw in a sharp breath.
The living tattoo upon Zucharov’s flesh covered all of his arm, mapping every
inch of his skin. Konstantin took another step closer, unable quite to believe what he was seeing. As he looked
at the tiny figures and images etched in the lines of the tattoo, he could swear
that they began to move, coming to life before his eyes. He looked up, into
Zucharov’s eyes. For the first time Zucharov seemed to acknowledge him, and
something akin to a smile crossed his dark features. Zucharov rotated his arm,
the metal chains groaning as he opened the palm of his hand. Konstantin looked
down, and let out a gasp of shock.
He was looking at the citadel, his creation reproduced upon the man’s flesh.
At the centre of the tiny image, two faces, their likeness unmistakable.
Konstantin jolted back, the shock upon his face clear for all in the room to
see. The Guide took a moment, struggling to regain his composure.
“Take him to the cells,” he commanded, his voice shaking. “Our physicks must
know more of this. They must divine what manner of witchcraft this is, and what
it portends.” He looked around the room. “Rilke, do you hear me?”
The White Guard nodded, acknowledging his master. But he was not looking at
Konstantin any longer. His focus was elsewhere, his gaze locked upon the figure
of Alexei Zucharov, intense and unflinching.
“I feel terrible,” Bruno declared, getting up and pacing the floor for a
second or third time. Bea regarded him without too much sympathy.
“Come on,” she cajoled. “It’s only a scratch.”
“I don’t mean
this
,” Bruno said, holding up his bandaged arm. “I mean
letting Stefan down. I should have been there with him when they rode out.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Bea replied. “I’m a good healer, but I can’t work
miracles, not yet. If you will go lumbering around near falling buildings then
you’ve only yourself to blame.”
“It’s just bad luck,” Bruno continued. “Getting myself injured at the very
time I need my sword. The worst of luck.” He settled himself back by Bea’s side,
but continued to look out of the turret window, towards the citadel walls.
“I should be there,” he said, mostly to himself. “I should have been
with them.”
“Sorry yet again,” Bea answered, a hurt tone creeping into her voice. “Sorry
for being such poor company.”
Bruno looked round, and his face flushed. “No,” he said, hurriedly. “That’s
not what I meant at all. I meant that I didn’t want to let Stefan down, that’s
all.” He looked away, unable to meet Bea’s eye, his face growing ever redder.
“You’re not poor company at all. Quite the opposite, in fact…” His voice
trailed off and he sat in silence, lost for words. Bea waited a moment then took
Bruno’s hand.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Bruno muttered. “I’m not exactly making myself
clear.”
“I think you are,” Bea said, her voice warmer, more gentle now. She smiled,
and moved closer towards him. Something fastened at Bruno’s neck flickered gold
in the low light of the lamp.
“Let me see that,” Bea asked. “Please.” Bruno hesitated. From beneath his
shirt he pulled a thin gold chain bearing a pendant. “It’s an icon of the
Goddess Shallya,” he explained. “It means—”
“I know what it is,” Bea said, softly, “and I know what it means. May I?”
Without waiting for an answer, she took the chain in her hand, leant forward,
and lightly kissed the icon. “It means you are a pious man,” she said. “And a
good man. But I knew that. I knew it as soon as I first set eyes upon you.”
Bruno turned until they were face to face in the lamplight, their bodies all
but touching. The tension of unspoken words hung in the air between them.
Finally, Bruno broke away. “It’s stupid,” he said, running his fingers through
his hair. “Or, rather I’m stupid. But I could swear that tower, or whatever it
was, had sprung out of nowhere.” He glanced at her again. Bea was looking at him
intently, no hint of mockery on her face. “Perhaps I’m going mad,” he suggested.
“No, you’re not,” Bea replied, sounding suddenly very certain. She paused, as
though weighing something up. “Actually, I’ve seen them too. Lots of them. All
over the citadel.”
“You have?” Bruno asked. “These columns, you mean?”
“I’m not sure what I’d call them,” Bea said. “But whatever they are, it’s
like something growing out of the ground, pushing through whatever was there
before, breaking it apart.”
“Yes,” Bruno agreed, excitedly. “That’s exactly it. Like—like a carcass,
broken open, and something bursting out.” He broke off, reflecting on his words.
“That doesn’t sound very healthy to me.”
Now it was Bea’s turn to be silent. She looked at Bruno, then away again. She
realised that she wanted to share everything with Bruno: her thoughts, her
hopes, her secrets. Most of all, she wanted to share what she had learnt since
they had arrived in Sigmarsgeist. For a moment the urge to tell Bruno battled
with her loyalty to Anaise. Hadn’t the Guide confided in her precisely because
no one else would understand? But, finally, Bea decided that she could stay
silent no longer. Anaise would understand. After all, she hadn’t directly asked
Bea not to mention their conversation to the others.
“You remember a while ago, soon after we left Mielstadt. I mentioned
something. A place.”
Bruno thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “Sorry, I don’t.”
Bea clasped his hand again, more tightly this time. “Yes,” she insisted. “You
do remember. Tal Dur. The healing waters of Tal Dur. A magical place.”
Bruno shrugged, tentatively. “Yes, all right. But I don’t understand—”
“Tal Dur is
here
,” Bea blurted out. “I mean—somewhere here. Once,
long ago maybe, the waters of Tal Dur flowed right beneath the citadel, perhaps
before it was even Sigmarsgeist. But they ran here. Maybe right through the
city. Maybe they filled the moat that we can see all around the walls.”
Bruno shook his head. “Are you saying that has something to do with the
pillars, or whatever they may be, springing up everywhere?”
“I don’t know,” Bea conceded. “I can’t be sure. But of one thing I’m certain.
This is a place of great confluence. A place where flows of magic met, fusing together into a mighty power. I know it. I
can feel it. And if Tal Dur is no longer here, then it isn’t far away. I’m sure
of it, Bruno.”
She stopped and pulled away from him, trying to read what was in Bruno’s
face. “Now I’m the one who’s mad,” she said, disappointed. “You think so, don’t
you?”
Bruno looked at her, meeting her full gaze. After a while he took her hand
again, and turned her to face him. Bea started to protest, but he put a finger
to her lips, to silence her.
“I think you have something very special, a real gift,” he said, slowly.
“More than that,” he took his finger away, and moved closer. “I think you’re
beautiful.”
Bea frowned, then smiled. She was about to contradict him, almost a reflex
response. But then she stopped, and allowed herself to do what her body was
urging her. Bruno cupped his hand behind the nape of her neck, and drew her
gently towards him.
The battle had ended as quickly as it had begun, breaking up into a series of
single combats as the mutants and their Norscan allies fled, each trying to find
their own avenue of escape. For most it was a road that led only to death. The
men of Sigmarsgeist hunted them down with a bitter, dogged determination, giving
no quarter to the remnants of the Chaos horde. But, inevitably, a few still
managed to break away, shedding most of the plunder that had been weighing down
their horses to make good their escape into the fading day.
Around Stefan, the victorious soldiers of Sigmar began debating what they
should do. Some favoured splitting up, others urged they hunt as a pack. There
were even those who thought the day’s deeds now done. They had accounted for at
least thirty enemies, at a cost of eight men fallen, and could return home with
a great victory. But Stefan sensed there would be no going back, not yet. There
was at least one amongst them for whom it was far from over, who would not rest
easily whilst any of the marauders remained unaccounted for.
Anaise von Augen gathered her men round, urging them to find the strength for
one final foray. “They will not escape us,” she declared. “Not while I still have
strength.”