Zucharov laughed, the laughter of his dark god, a dry, rattling sound like
bones stirring in a grave. “I will leave this place only when I am ready,” he
said. “And I am not ready yet. As for you, I wish only to show you the true
meaning of power. How you may attain it, and what riches it may buy.”
Anaise drank down Zucharov’s words. She wasn’t sure yet whether the creature
of Chaos could possibly be believed. But she knew that she wanted to believe,
wanted with a passion that burned inside her. She had been born to power. If
Zucharov was right, and Sigmarsgeist and all that Konstantin stood for came to
nothing but dust, then her whole life would have been in vain. All of this—Zucharov, Bea, Kumansky and his comrade—had come to pass for a reason. And the
reason was surely her. The time of reckoning was close at hand.
But Anaise was not driven by impulse alone. Not for the first time, reason
and suspicion intervened. “You haven’t come here to offer me something for
nothing,” she said, carefully. “If you are offering me such riches, then you
must want something in return.”
Zucharov nodded once, signalling that he had understood. “What would you
give, my lady Anaise?” His eyes flashed dark thunder. “What would you give in
return for the keys to eternity?”
Anaise hesitated over her answer for just an instant. So far, she might just
have been toying with this painted monster. But if she went further, this would
be real. A bargain would have to be struck. Did that matter? In her mind she was
already envisaging the time when Zucharov would have outlived his purpose. That
would be the moment when he would be destroyed. If she turned back now, called
back the guards and had him thrown into the cells, it would be over. Zucharov
would rot in the dungeons of Sigmarsgeist, and Anaise von Augen would once again
be captive to her brother’s dreams of—what? Mere survival?
That was not the better world for which she had sacrificed more than ten
precious years of her life. That was not the promise that they had made, when
the first foundation stone had been laid. Zucharov was right, though she had not
conceded it. Her brother had grown weak; his courage and his vision had waned.
He could no longer be trusted to carry the hopes of all his people. She must take
her destiny into her own hands.
Anaise could still hear the other voices, those warning her to turn back from
this course whilst there was still time. But she was no longer listening to
their counsel. She had made her decision. In that instant of lightening thought,
she had convinced herself. There was nothing to lose, and all eternity to be
gained.
“There is a girl,” she said, calmly. “A healer. She has gifts far greater than
she knows. Tal Dur has drawn her here. It is calling to her, and she will heed
the call. Her gift can lead me to the well-spring, the source of its magical
power.”
She took a deep breath, and parted with the next words as though
relinquishing a treasured gift. “I will share that gift with you,” she said.
Zucharov’s expression did not alter. Anaise was disappointed, and angered. It
was as if her revelation held no surprise for the tattooed man. Zucharov stood,
his head slightly to one side. He was not listening to Anaise now. Her voice
faded away as the words of Kyros entered his mind.
There is more…
“There is more,” Anaise continued, insistently. “I have something else to
offer you. A chance to purge your past.”
An image flashed into Zucharov’s mind, a face drawn from the pool of fading
memory that was all that remained of his former life.
“Show me,” he said.
In an instant, the other man was on top of Stefan, bearing down upon him in
the darkness. Through the gloom Stefan saw the steel blade of the knife and
recognised the zigzag scar running down the side of the Norscan’s face. It
seemed the time had come for the bloody resolution of their differences. Stefan
blocked the first blow then stepped out of range of the blade. He was about to
strike back at the Norscan when someone took hold of both his arms from behind,
holding him as though in a vice. Rancid breath wafted in his nostrils, and a
voice, heavily accented, spat out: “Kislevite scum!”
Stefan struggled to pull himself free, but with his arms pinioned by his side
there was little he could do. The guards—either by accident or design—had
melted away, as had the other prisoners. He was trapped in the darkness deep
below the ground, alone save for two natural enemies who were determined to kill
him.
He found some movement in one arm, enough to jab an elbow back into the body
of the man holding him. The blow had some force, but it was not enough. The
Norscan grunted then redoubled his efforts, gripping hold of Stefan even more
tightly. The first man took a step closer. Stefan could see him clearly now,
even through the murk of the mine. He was a thick-set man Stefan’s own age, or
slightly older. His straw blond hair was matted with grease, and his once
pale-white complexion was tinged with a faint luminescence, the first glimmering
of the evil blooming inside of him. He fixed Stefan with a lopsided grin, and
licked his lips. He passed the knife through the air in front of Stefan’s face,
like a butcher ready to cut away at a carcass.
Satisfied that Stefan was no longer a threat, the Norscan dropped his guard.
As he positioned himself to cut Stefan with the knife, Stefan lashed out with his booted foot, putting as much of
his weight as he could into a kick placed squarely between the Norscan’s legs.
The Norscan howled in agony and the knife clattered upon the stones at their
feet. With the first Norscan doubled up on the ground in agony, the second was
now torn between keeping hold of Stefan, and retrieving the knife. His
hesitation was just enough to grant Stefan the space he needed. He clamped his
hands around the beefy arms holding him captive, and shifting his weight, heaved
the man’s body over his shoulders. The Norscan hit the ground hard, causing a
storm of grit and stone to hail down from the roof of the cavern. Stefan wiped
the filth from out of his eyes and plunged forward towards where he hoped the
knife would be.
For a moment there was nothing but confusion, Stefan and the two Norscans all
scrambling upon the ground, trying to locate the blade. Stefan found it first,
fastening a grip upon the short shank of the weapon and stabbing it up into the
face of the Norscan who had been holding him. The man screamed, the sound
echoing through the mine, and Stefan’s own face was suddenly wet with hot blood.
The Norscan fell forward like a toppled oak, on top of Stefan. As Stefan pushed
the body aside, he felt something tug at his hand, and in a moment the knife was
gone.
The remaining Norscan was on him in a second, stabbing out wildly with the
short knife. A thrust missed Stefan’s body by less than an inch, deflecting away
off the hard rock. As he struck out again, Stefan caught hold of his attacker’s
wrist with both hands. Now it was a trial of pure strength: the Norscan trying
to turn the blade towards Stefan’s face, Stefan pushing it back toward the
cavern wall. He twisted his body and found room to bring his knee up hard into
the other man’s gut. The Norscan gasped and flinched back.
Stefan compressed all that remained of his energy into a final push, and
slammed the other man’s arm against the wall of rock. The Norscan released his
grip, and Stefan punched him hard in the face. The blow would have felled an
ordinary man but the Norscan hardly flinched. It did buy Stefan enough time to
seize the knife. As the Norscan lunged back at him, Stefan thrust the blade squarely into the throat of the other
man. There was a moment of almost total silence as the Norscan stood staring at
Stefan, blood dribbling from each corner of his mouth. He aimed a last desperate
blow at Stefan, a blow that was never struck. The Norscan sank slowly to his
knees, and his head dropped.
Stefan watched him for a few moments, then tucked the knife away beneath his
tunic. He could hear footsteps now, and voices in the tunnel behind him. He
didn’t know who it was, and, right now, he didn’t care. He had no strength left.
The Red Guards quickly surrounded him, four of them materialising out of the
darkness as fast as they had disappeared. One made a cursory check of the
Norscans, just to be sure that both were dead. A second kicked out at Stefan, a
half-hearted blow aimed at his ribs.
“You were trying to escape,” one of them said, matter-of-factly. “The
punishment is death.”
“I was trying to stay alive,” Stefan shot back. “I only hope you managed to
collect whatever bribe my Norscan friends were offering you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said another, ignoring Stefan’s comment. “All dissent is
punishable by death, for the greater glory of Sigmarsgeist. Get him up.”
Two of the guards took hold of Stefan and hauled him to his feet. The knife
was plucked away from him in a single, deft movement.
“This time you’re lucky,” the same guard told him again. He seized Stefan by
the hair, and turned his face towards his own. “Seems someone wants you back up
above,” he said, a vexed curiosity mixed with the anger in his voice. He had the
bloodied knife in his hand, but Stefan knew he wasn’t going to use it. Not this
time.
“Looks like you have friends in high places,” the guard told him. “Very high
places indeed.”
“Better pull yourself together,” the second man advised. “You’re on your way
back to the palace.”
Stefan made the long journey back from the mines alone save for the half
dozen silent soldiers charged with guarding him. There had received no word, nor
seen any sign of Bruno. They reached the heart of the citadel as dusk fell, and
Stefan was led to a cavernous room in the upper reaches of the palace, a place
with bare, featureless walls that rose to a high, curved ceiling. Thick ropes
hung down from ceiling to floor on pulleys, giving the chamber the appearance of
a huge bell tower.
A familiar figure walked towards him. Anaise looked Stefan up and down,
taking in his tattered, filthy garments and his bruised and bloodied arms. Her
face settled into an expression of compassion and concern.
“Stefan,” she said, softly, as though mildly surprised to see him standing
there. “I’m so heartened to see you still alive and well. I’ve been worrying about
you, and Bea has been too.”
Stefan returned her gaze but not her greeting. He was unmoved by the Guide’s
show of pity, and in no mood to trade pleasantries. “Is this how you show your
concern? Having Bruno and myself locked up, and trying to have me killed?” he replied, curtly. “Unless you have something particular to say,
I’d rather we waste no more time on this charade.”
Anaise gazed at him, earnestly. “You know your imprisonment was Konstantin’s
doing,” she said. “I had no part in it. As for having you killed—you must
believe I know nothing of that. But the mines are a treacherous place. I’m glad
I got to you in time.”
“What’s all this about?” Stefan asked. “And where’s Bea? What have you done
with her?”
“Bea is fine, she is safe and resting,” Anaise assured him, trying to soothe
Stefan’s anger. “She has been hard at work, tending to the sick and wounded
amongst our workers. Bea is my jewel. She, at least, has embraced the true
spirit of Sigmarsgeist,” she added.
Stefan cared only to see this audience over. “I want to see her,” he said,
flatly. “Bea. I want to see her now.”
“You are in no position to make demands,” Anaise asserted. “You will see
her,” she went on, “but not just yet.”
“So, what is all this about?”
Anaise expelled a long breath, and took a step closer. She motioned to the
guards either side of Stefan, signalling for them to loosen his bonds, and step
to one side.
“I want to try and mend our differences, Stefan Kumansky. Settle our
misunderstanding.” She sighed again. “Stefan, Stefan, I had such high hopes of
you.” She reached a hand out towards his cheek, but Stefan pulled his face away.
“Our ‘misunderstanding’ began when you and your men started murdering
innocent people in Mielstadt,” he snapped back at her. “Or was it in Grunwald,
or some other village that wouldn’t pay its dues to Sigmarsgeist?”
Anaise shook her head, sorrowfully. “I thought you understood,” she replied.
“Clearly, you have not. Those people—the villagers and townsfolk you are so
ready to defend—they are like children, Stefan. They need to be shown the true
path, they must be guided, and directed.” She bowed her head. “And, sometimes,
when they stray from the true path, they must be punished. Punished for their
own good.”
“You do a lot of things for other people’s own good,” Stefan commented. “But
I don’t hear many extolling the virtue of your good works outside the city. Take me back to the mines, or to your
cells. If yours is the true path, then I will take the opposite way.”
Anaise narrowed her gaze, and her expression hardened. The demure, almost
diffident manner of a few moments before evaporated. In that instant she was
again the ruthless warrior he had witnessed on the plains of Ostermark.
“You will follow
my
way,” she snarled, then hastily added, “the way of
Sigmarsgeist, the true path.” She nodded to the guards standing by. “You shall
follow that path, willingly or not.” She hesitated, apparently lost in thought.
Her voice softened once again and she lowered her heavy lids just enough to
break the intensity in her eyes.
“But I would that we could earn your will, and your heart.” She moved a step
closer. “When you first came to us, I had you marked for our champion,” she
confided. “With our great vision, and your strength of passion there is little
that we could not have achieved.”
She smiled, wistfully. “It could still be so, Stefan,” she said. “Just a word
from you and all this could be changed.”