“Gods preserve us,” Bea exclaimed. “He’s lost all memory of the last days.”
“You rode out with the hunting party,” Bruno said, insistently. “To find the
Chaos marauders. You must remember that.”
Stefan cursed the confusion swilling inside his mind. He sifted through the
jumbled memories, trying to make some order from them.
“I do recall the battle,” he said at last. “We were heavily outnumbered, but
we destroyed the forces of Chaos all the same. At least—” he said, uncertainly,
“I think that’s what happened. Is that where I was injured? Struck down in the
battle?”
Before Bruno could answer, the door opened and a third person entered the
room. Stefan caught a glimpse of a stark red uniform, and a face that, though familiar, he struggled to name.
“Your injury came later, Stefan,” the newcomer explained. “Whilst we were
pursuing the last of the marauders. You were unlucky.”
“But we got them all,” Baecker continued. “Every last one. Our mission was
successful, Stefan. Once again, you come to Sigmarsgeist a hero.”
“I can’t say I remember much of the getting here,” Stefan said. He turned his
head, experimentally. The slightest movement corresponded with a bolt of pain,
but it was becoming steadily more bearable.
“You were struck down from behind, Stefan,” Bruno told him. “One of the
Norscans, I think?”
Baecker nodded in confirmation.
“A last desperate act. Luckily he managed only to catch you a glancing blow,
or the damage could have been worse. Don’t worry,” he assured Stefan, “our
Norscan friend was paid in full for his trouble. I cut the vile brute down
myself.”
Stefan looked around the room, his eyes now growing more comfortable with the
light.
“In that case,” he said to Baecker. “It seems I owe you a debt. I’m only
sorry I have no memory of your bravery.”
Baecker grinned broadly. “The main thing is, you are safely returned, and your
wounds will mend.” He glanced at Bea. “He is mending, your patient, isn’t he?”
“The blow he suffered did more harm than I would have expected,” Bea said.
“But, gods be thanked, he is through the worst of it now.”
“That’s all I need to know,” Baecker replied. “I’ll leave the three of you in
peace. But you must rest. Stay here.” He saluted Stefan smartly. “Someone will
come for you when it is time.”
Stefan waited a few moments after Baecker had left the room. “Is he gone?” he
asked at last.
Bruno checked the passage. “I think so,” he said, and frowned at Stefan,
slightly perplexed. Bea came and seated herself next to Stefan, and touched her
fingers against his forehead again. “Have you truly no memory of what happened once the battle
begun?”
“Not a lot,” Stefan confirmed. “The things I can remember seem broken up—as
though they don’t fit together properly. Everything seems mixed up with the
dream.”
“The dream?” Bea asked.
“The dream about your village, when you were child?” Bruno interjected. “Have
you been dreaming of Odensk again?”
“Yes, there was something like that,” Stefan began, then hesitated. There had
been a dream, a dream of darkness and smoke, of houses burning. It was the same
dream he had been having since before even they had arrived in Sigmarsgeist. And
Bruno was right, it was like the old dream that haunted him, the dream of
Odensk. Except that something was different. Except that it
wasn’t
Odensk. And that was what was troubling him.
The pieces of memory were gradually coming together. It was starting to make
sense now. He had been in Mielstadt again, he remembered that now. And there was
something else, something lurking just in the shadow of memory that he was
clutching for, as well.
“What was his name,” he demanded, suddenly sitting up. “Bea, the graf of
Mielstadt. What was his name?”
“Sierck,” Bea replied, puzzled. “Augustus Sierck.”
Now Stefan saw him. The pompous dignitary strutting around his office. And
the frightened man upon his knees in the town square. Two different occasions,
but the same man: Augustus Sierck. As Stefan made the connection, he knew then
that Baecker had lied. There had been no Norscan, no savage attack fended off by
Baecker’s avenging blade. But important though it was, this wasn’t the detail
that was occupying Stefan now. He was back with the dream, with the fires and
the screams of the dying. He thought the gods had been taking him back to
Odensk, but they hadn’t. It was somewhere else.
“Bruno,” he said. “What was the name of the village? The name I said we must
hold in our hearts?”
“The village?” Bruno asked, confused. “You mean Grunwald, the one that had
been destroyed by the mutants?”
“Grunwald, yes,” Stefan replied. With the name came the answer to a puzzle.
Something that had been gnawing at him incessantly, whispering a warning that he
only now began to understand. Now, he knew what the dream had been telling him.
“It wasn’t the mutants who destroyed Grunwald,” he said.
“But,” Bruno protested, “we found a body there.”
“We did,” Stefan agreed. “But the mutant didn’t die fighting the villagers.
And, unless I’m badly mistaken, the villagers didn’t die fighting the mutants,
either.” He got up, ignoring the pain still throbbing inside his head.
“Throw me over my boots,” he said to Bruno. “We need to get moving.”
“Just a moment,” Bea interrupted. “You won’t be in a fit state to go anywhere
for a while yet.” She looked to Bruno for support. “Bruno, tell him.”
But Stefan was already on his feet, fastening his tunic. He looked around for
his belt and sword. Neither of them were anywhere in the room.
“My sword,” he said to Bruno. “Was it with me when they brought me here?”
Bruno shrugged. “I’m sorry, Stefan. I didn’t notice.”
“What about you, are you armed?”
Bruno lifted his coat. His sword harness hung empty about his waist. “Stefan,
Bea’s probably right,” he urged. “Maybe you should rest a while yet.”
Stefan seized hold of Bruno, and brought him round to face him. “If I’m
right, then we may not have much time,” he said. “Bruno, you’re going to have to
trust me on this. Please, go to the door, and see if the way is clear outside.”
Bruno hesitated for a moment, then did as Stefan had bid.
“There are guards at the end of the corridor,” he said, puzzled. “Two of them,
and definitely armed.”
Stefan nodded. “I don’t suppose they’re there for our own safety,” he
commented. He turned to find Bea. “We’re going to need some help,” he said.
* * *
Deep below ground, Alexei Zucharov prowled the airless gloom of his narrow
cell, and cursed the trick of fate that had brought him to such a bitter end. In
a fury, he beat against the granite walls until his fists were raw and bloodied,
and strained with all his might against the irons that anchored his body to the
bare stone floor. Kyros had promised him treasure beyond his wildest imaginings,
a path to glory in return for his humiliation by the bounty hunter. Instead, he
found himself trapped within a grey tomb, with only the tortured screams of the
foul servants of Chaos for company. Was this how his life was to end, not with
the thunder of battle, but with his body slowly rotting away, lost and forgotten
in some Morr-forsaken hole?
Zucharov railed against the injustice, against the false god that had led him
here. And he cursed the insidious power of the gold band that had lured and
trapped him more surely than chains or prison walls ever could. But all his
anger, all his rage was for nothing. As hour followed hour he remained as he
was, alone in the darkness.
Finally, his rage was spent, leaving him with despair as his sole companion.
Only then, finally, did Kyros come to him. Only then did the Dark Lord whisper
to him of what would come to pass.
Your faith is barely tested, and yet you founder,
Kyros chided. This
is not strength.
“Set me free of this poisonous trinket,” Zucharov said out loud. “And I’ll
show you what my strength can achieve.”
That will never come to pass. Only death will part you from the amulet now.
“Then let it be so,” Zucharov screamed out loud. Let death come, for he would
rather die than live another day as a prisoner.
But death would not come, he knew that. Death would not take him, not yet,
for there were tasks for him to fulfil before he left this mortal world. His
life in service to the Lord of Change was only now beginning.
And as Zucharov sat within his cell he thought he saw the enveloping gloom
start to lift, as though an unseen candle had been brought to light the
darkness. He looked down at the gold band, glowing like cold fire upon his wrist, and at the
black shadow of the tattoo. The disfiguring mark now covered all of his arm, and
was already beginning to spread in a dark web across his chest. As he looked,
the picture written in the tattoo started to move again. Zucharov sat,
spellbound, and watched the story come alive. After a few moments the glow from
the amulet faded, and Zucharov was alone with the darkness again. But he knew he
would not be alone for long. He had read the future in the figures that crawled
upon his skin. He waited. For a while there was nothing but the anguished
wailing of the creatures chained in the blackness of their cells, a sound like a
sea of torment rising and falling against the rocks of despair.
But then came another, distinct sound. Of footsteps, moving down the
passageway towards his cell. Quick, purposeful footsteps. Zucharov knew where
they would stop, and, when he heard the first of the keys grinding in the lock
of the door, he was expecting it. He waited another moment, as the iron panel in
the door was pushed back, and then looked up.
Someone was staring in at him, their face illuminated by the flicker of an
oil lamp. As Zucharov met the gaze of those searching eyes, he smiled. They had
never met before in this life, but it was a smile of recognition nonetheless.
The time of waiting was almost over.
Anaise von Augen stood back, and waited whilst the door was hauled open.
There was a few seconds’ delay whilst the first, and then the second locks were
turned, and the bolts placed at intervals across the door drawn back. Then it
was done, and she was standing upon the threshold of the cell, almost within
touching distance of whoever—or whatever—the gods had seen fit to gift her.
The figure crouched in the darkness was fastened by chains attached to both
his arms and his legs, chains embedded securely in the stone floor of the cell.
There was surely no risk to her safety, and yet Anaise was trembling as she took
a step further into the cell.
“Bring more light,” she commanded. “Let me see properly what we have here.”
Two guards followed her into the cell, each carrying a lantern.
“The prisoner is quite secure?” she asked them. And then, without waiting for
the answer told them, “Put the lamps down upon the floor. Leave me with him for
a while.”
A shiver of fear ran through Anaise as the door closed at her back. She took
a deep breath, and pulled herself up to her full height. She would not let any
creature of the night intimidate her, no matter how cruel or terrifying the
disfigurement that Chaos had worked upon it. She folded her arms across her
chest and took a step forward, remaining just beyond the prisoner’s reach.
“Do you know where you are?” she asked. The creature made no answer, but
continued to return her stare with a steady, unblinking gaze. Anaise had the
sudden, uncomfortable feeling that she had somehow been expected. And the
feeling that it was not she who was truly in control.
“You have been brought to Sigmarsgeist,” she continued, hurriedly, “and here
you will be judged and your sins will be accounted for.” She lifted one of the
lamps, so that a wash of light fell across the figure shackled before her. “What
do you have to offer us, that might possibly postpone your miserable end?”
But she already had the answer to that question. There was no doubt that this
was the fugitive that Kumansky and his friends had been pursuing. Her eyes took
in the thickly muscled body of the warrior, the animal power barely contained by
the chains. She saw the amulet, the polished gold shimmering in the light of the
lamp, more wondrous than Konstantin had described it, impossibly beautiful. And
below the beauty, the ugly stain: the tableau printed upon the flesh. The tattoo
was surely the visible embodiment of evil, yet somehow impossibly intoxicating.
Anaise had been edging steadily forward towards Zucharov. She suddenly
stopped short, pulling herself back. “You are an abomination of Chaos,” she
declared. “A creature of darkness. You will die here in Sigmarsgeist, and your death will purge a
blight from the world.”
Zucharov turned his head to one side, the same smile still playing across his
face. “We have waited long for you,” he said at last. “Here our destinies
intertwine.”
Anaise gasped. Part of her was outraged by the profanity she had just heard.
But another part, hidden within her, had jolted in shock in recognition of the
deeper truth.
“How dare you presume to speak to me as an equal!” she retorted. “I should
order you to be hacked apart here in your cell, and your poisoned corpse fed to
the rats.” She edged back towards the wall, a sudden wave of giddiness flooding
through her.
“Whatever could link my destiny with a spawn of damnation such as you?”
By way of answer, Alexei Zucharov raised his arm towards the light. The tiny
figures etched upon his arm began to twist and turn, moving in a slow dance
amongst the shadows cast by the lamp. Anaise wanted to close her eyes, but she
knew that she had no choice but to look. Zucharov flexed his arm, and opened his
hand to Anaise like a flower coming into bloom. Anaise looked down, and saw the
waters cascading down to the rocks below.