He could not fathom how so many new buildings could have sprung up in such a
short space of time. But he understood clearly now why their lives—and those
of the worn-down wretches around them—had been reprieved. The equation was
simple. Sigmarsgeist was growing at an unimaginable rate, far outstripping the
capacity of its workforce. Labour was their most precious commodity, and for as
long as he and Bruno kept their strength, he guessed that they would be spared.
He slowed his pace to take in the strangeness of it all. In several places,
houses had been damaged, walls broken down or roofs ripped apart by pale
alabaster columns that seemed to have nothing in common with the surrounding
structures. The columns rose, straight and tall, out of the wreckage of brickwork, before looping and bending like branches of a tree,
lacing together like a bizarre stone latticework.
“What do you make of that?” he asked Bruno.
“I don’t know,” Bruno replied. “But I’ve seen something like it before.” He
held his hand out towards Stefan. “That’s how I got my injury, remember? Bea has
seen them, too, in other parts of the city. It looks almost like something
alive, growing, not built.”
“All part of Konstantin’s grand design?” Stefan mused. “Or something moving
out of control?”
He was answered by a jab to his ribs from a sword. “I told you once,” the
guard barked. “Shut up. Keep moving.”
Stefan eyed Bruno, and walked on in silence. For the next thirty minutes or
so, they marched through the streets towards the edge of the city. The townsfolk
who crossed their path weren’t greeting them as heroes now, and many hurled
abuse or spat upon the prisoners as they passed. Finally they had left the
crowded streets behind, and had come within sight of the high walls that
encircled the citadel. Walls to keep intruders out, and Stefan realised now, to
keep prisoners in.
The prisoners were driven left, herded like cattle along the line of the
fortification by the guards. After a while they came to a gap, a breach the
width of a pair of wagons. The stonework had been deliberately demolished,
knocked through so that a new wall could be erected further out, extending the
outer boundary of the citadel. The new wall already stood at twenty feet, and
teams of workers were labouring upon the ramparts, building up the walls layer
by layer. Along the wall was placed a row of ladders, up and down which figures
streamed like ants, each weighed down with sack-loads of fresh stone for the
artisans working up above. It would be back-breaking work for even the fittest
of men.
“That’s the end of your stroll,” the guard announced. “Get in line over there.
Each of you’ll be given a sack. Make sure it’s filled—there’s a beating
waiting for any man who doesn’t.”
For a moment the troop of prisoners stood where they were. The open wall
stood before them. For many, this was probably as close to freedom as they would
ever get again. More than one must have thought of escape, a last desperate bid
for freedom. But the soldiers guarding the work party now almost outnumbered the
prisoners, and all of them were armed. In any case, Stefan realised, they were
in no position yet to leave Sigmarsgeist, not with Bea still somewhere inside
the citadel.
“Come on,” he muttered to Bruno. “We’ll see this out.” He marched to the head
of the line, and took a coarse fabric sack from the pile. The quarried stone was
stacked in a series of wagons, waiting to be carried up to where other teams of
prisoners were at work, raising the level of the walls. Stefan walked to the
first of the wagons and began loading stones into the sack, all the time watched
by a brace of guards. When the sack was filled he hefted it over his back and
carried his load over to a ladder. The ladders were at least securely fixed
against the walls; the builders of Sigmarsgeist had no intention of killing
their slave workers, at least not by accident.
Stefan put a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, and, after shifting his
load to get a better balance, began to climb up. In a few seconds he was at the
top, and swinging the laden sack down off his back.
Bruno was right behind him, both men now standing atop of the growing wall.
“This isn’t too bad,” Bruno said, gulping down breath. “We can take it.”
“At the moment,” Stefan agreed.
The second sack that he loaded upon his back seemed heavier by far than the
first. By the time he and Bruno had carried three more sack-loads to the top of
the ladders, the burden felt as though it was doubling each and every time.
Others amongst the prisoners fell by the wayside, dropping where they stood,
unable to lift another stone, or toppling from the ladders under the weight of
the sacks.
The guards spared no mercy for those unable to go on. Stefan had to look on
as they rained blows down upon one prisoner who had collapsed under the weight of his load. The Red Guard beat
the prisoner until his whimpers turned to screams, and then they beat him some
more. Casualties were of no interest to them. There would be plenty more where
they had come from.
The prisoners worked on through most of the day, without food or a break.
Long before the end, Stefan’s whole body ached, and his back felt like it would
break under the punishment, but he kept going. They had to get through this. The
prisoners fell into their routine, hauling the laden sacks from the foot of the
walls to empty them for the work party laying the stone up above. It was a
routine that got harder with every load. All the while, the sun beat down upon
them, unyielding and relentless. Finally, late in the day, they were allowed to
rest, and food—bread, and a little water—was handed out. Even the guards
acknowledged they would get no more work out of their prisoners until they had
been given some rest.
Their vantage point gave them a commanding view over the citadel.
Sigmarsgeist lay spread before them through the gap in the old fortifications.
The bizarre expansion of the city was now all too plain to see. From above it
looked like some inexplicable multiplication was underway, a growth that was
barely controlled or contained. Structures—recognisable and unrecognisable—sprouted everywhere, crammed into every available plot or space, haphazardly
blocking roads and streets.
“It looks like a city gone insane,” Bruno said quietly. Stefan agreed, but it
looked like more than that. Many of the new buildings reached skywards then
stopped, unfinished and without purpose, and at least half seemed to bear no
relation in design or function to those that they stood next to.
“Like a city feeding upon itself,” Stefan reflected. “Forever destroying and
remaking itself anew.”
Bruno lay back, exhausted. His hands were bloodied and chafed, and his face
and hands were covered in a fine white dust from the stone, giving him the look
of a man already dead.
“Where will it all end?” he asked.
Stefan shook his head. He had no answers now. No way of telling where the
path they found themselves upon would lead.
A party of guards moved along the line of prisoners resting on top of the
walls, prodding bodies with staffs and swords, pushing those that still had
strength left in their bodies back to work. Most struggled back to their feet;
those that could not were thrown without ceremony from the walls. Stefan watched
the bodies being collected like refuse in one of the empty wagons below.
“Is this the great bright future that Sigmarsgeist was created for?” Bruno
asked. “By the gods, they have become the very evil that they would oppose.”
“And now we must set our face against them,” Stefan replied. “Our allies are
become our enemies.”
The prisoners were being moved on again. “Make the most of your day in the
sun,” a guard sneered. “It’ll be the mines for you tomorrow. A few hours down
there and you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
However reluctantly, Bea had taken heed of Anaise’s words. Her impulse at
their last meeting had been to run from her chambers, run and keep running,
until Anaise and every tangled, confused thought of Sigmarsgeist had been swept
from her mind.
But years of surviving had taught Bea a measure of prudence. There was
nowhere for her to go. Whatever Anaise’s motives, for the moment Bea was safer
with the Guide’s protection than without it. After that last, troubling meeting,
she had fled, but she had not fled far. And for the next day, Bea had confined
herself to the areas of the palace where Anaise, alone, held jurisdiction.
There, at least, she would be safe—if she felt anything but secure.
She had been waiting for what seemed like hours for Anaise to return. Early
that morning, Anaise had gone, apparently in search of news of Stefan and Bruno.
Bea had been left alone, waiting whilst the long hours of morning dragged on.
Finally, when she thought that she must indeed have been abandoned, the Guide
swept back into the room. Anaise glanced at Bea, but did not speak. Bea got to her feet and rushed after her, eager to hear any news.
“Have you seen them?” she asked, anxiously. “Are they all right? When can I
go to them?”
Anaise placed her hands upon Bea’s shoulders, steering her gently back to her
seat. “Peace,” she implored. “Patience, Bea. You have so many questions, I
understand that. But remember that I am like you. I have gifts. But I can not
work miracles.” She waited for Bea to compose herself, then sat down beside her.
“I have not seen them,” she began. Bea’s face fell, and Anaise quickly put a
finger to the girl’s lips to cut short her protest. “No, Bea, I did not promise
you that. But I
did
promise that I would speak to Konstantin, and that I
have done.”
Bea leaned forward, anxiously. “And?” she asked. “What did he say?”
“He promised that Stefan and Bruno have not been harmed. He was minded to
have them killed, but has been persuaded against that course for now.”
“Then when can I see them?” Bea demanded.
Anaise furrowed her brow in a frown. “You ask so much of me,” she sighed, as
if in exasperation. “Very well—I’ll have to trust you. I’ve interceded on their
behalf, I’m doing what I can. But you must understand that they killed a soldier
of the Red Guard, which is a grievous offence.”
Bea nodded unhappily.
“I have convinced Konstantin that you played no part in any treachery. I have
also convinced him that your gift of healing should not be wasted, and that you
could be set to work tending to those who are building the citadel. Just like
our soldiers, each one of them is valuable if the glory of Sigmarsgeist is to be
realised.”
“I will do that work gladly,” Bea affirmed. “It is my calling. But—”
“Bruno and Stefan are to be put to work in the quarries and mines outside
Sigmarsgeist,” Anaise interjected.
“In the mines? Will they be safe there?”
“Safer than being put to death by Konstantin’s executioner? I would say so,
yes.” She looked at Bea and saw the anxiety on her face. Her voice took on a more conciliatory tone. “Look,” she
said, “you’ll see them, soon enough. In the meantime, I am keeping them safe, as
far as is possible. Bea, I am doing everything I can for you.”
Bea bit upon her lip. “I know you are,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
to sound ungrateful.” She took a breath, then sighed. “And it’s some relief to
hear that they are safe.” She smiled at the Guide, recovering some composure.
“Thank you, Anaise,” she said. “I know that you have taken risks on my behalf.”
“I made you a promise, and I always honour my promises,” Anaise told her. She
took Bea’s hand, and squeezed it gently. “But trust must run both ways,” she
said.
“Now, you must do something for me.”
It was too cold in the cell for sleep, too cold for anything except to lie in
the dark, nursing bruised and aching bodies. Finally, Stefan had dozed only to
be woken minutes later by the sound of someone moaning in pain. He was lying on
a hard stone floor somewhere within a cramped, lightless space. A thin blanket
covered his body, but made little difference to the numb ache that had set deep
into his limbs. His hands were shackled together with a short length of chain,
anchored at the other end to the floor. Stefan tugged briefly at the metal
links, expending only enough strength to be sure there was no prospect of
escape.
He stretched out one hand as far as the chains would allow. Almost
immediately it met resistance—a wall, coarse flint under his fingers, slightly
damp to the touch. Stefan raised himself onto his knees and stretched out in the
opposite direction until he found the opposite side of what he now understood to
be a cell. The two walls were little more than the width of a man’s body apart.
Stefan began to map the dimensions of the cell in his mind, since he could still
see nothing through the blackness.
He remembered coming down from the ramparts with what by then remained of the
work party. Around half the prisoners had not returned, and Stefan did not
imagine for a moment that he would see any of them again.
He checked himself over as best he could in the gloom. Every muscle in his
body ached, and his hands felt as if they had been scoured of skin. But he was
intact; as far as he could tell no bones had been broken, and any blood from his
scrapes and cuts had dried. So far, so good. Stefan didn’t expect it was going
to get any better for quite a while.
Down by his feet, something rustled and stirred. Stefan stepped back quickly,
aware that he would have to do any fighting equipped only with his bare hands.
Through the gloom he made out something that looked like a bundle of rags moving
upon the floor at his feet. The bundle coughed and groaned, announcing itself as
Bruno. Stefan helped his comrade to sit up, and waited for his coughing to
subside.
“Are you all right?” Stefan asked.