“That much is true,” Konstantin conceded. “But I will not countenance folly
such as I have just witnessed. What in the name of Sigmar was in your mind?”
Anaise raised her eyebrow in surprise. “Nothing but the search for the
truth,” she protested. “Either of these warriors might serve our cause, and
serve it mightily. But they are opposed, one against the other. Each has defamed
the other. We must decide who is just, and who has deceived us. All I did was
place that decision in the provenance of the gods, that they might let justice
prevail in combat.”
Konstantin grunted with derision, unconvinced by his sister’s oratory.
“Kumansky is a prisoner, guilty of murder. He has had his justice. As for the
other—it is there for all to see what he is. The mark of mutation could not be
plainer upon him.”
“Nonetheless,” Anaise continued, “there may be ways in which he can serve.
For the glory of Sigmarsgeist.”
“The glory of Sigmarsgeist is already tarnished!” Konstantin shouted at her.
He pointed across the city, towards the tangled mass of structures choking the
life from the citadel. “I have kept my counsel for long enough. Too long,” he
reflected, with bitterness as well as anger. “Too long I have played the loving
brother, indulging his sister’s magical designs. Designs, you tell me, that will
hasten the rise of Sigmarsgeist as a great power.”
In a sudden fit of anger he seized hold of his sister, and forced her to the
window.
“Is
this
our great design?” he demanded of her. “Is this what our
glory has come to?”
“It is none of my doing,” Anaise responded coldly, shrugging him off.
“Are you saying it is mine?”
“You are the architect of Sigmarsgeist,” she told him. “Are you now disowning
the fruits of your designs?” When Konstantin did not respond, she continued, her
tone more conciliatory. “Listen,” she urged. “There is a magical energy at work
here, a power beyond our understanding. It is the same elemental power which
drew us to Sigmarsgeist, and led us to set our first stones here. Without it,
Sigmarsgeist would be nothing, just another pitiful village huddled upon the
windswept plain.” She drew her brother to one side and led him back to his seat,
her hands resting gently on Konstantin’s shoulders. “It is true this energy
works in ways we cannot always control. But I shall master it in time, dear
brother, you may be assured of that. The elemental forces shall serve
Sigmarsgeist, just as we have harnessed mortal will. You must be patient,
brother,” she insisted, “and you must place your trust in me.”
Konstantin took Anaise’s hand from his shoulder, and stroked it
absent-mindedly. His sister could use words with the guile of a conjuror, and he
knew he was being cleverly placated. But it was not a disagreeable experience,
and he felt himself growing calmer. When he looked up at her again, he was
unable to suppress a momentary smile.
“Your champions would have torn each other apart like dogs had I not
intervened.”
“Maybe so,” Anaise agreed, non-committally. “As it is, they both survived.”
Konstantin pondered for a while. “No reason why Kumansky cannot be put back
to work,” he said at length. “There is use in him yet awhile, I imagine.”
Anaise said nothing, but nodded her head in agreement.
“But the one marked by Chaos is too dangerous,” Konstantin went on. “He must
stay in captivity. Unless you would have our physicks make examination of him?”
“Neither,” Anaise replied curtly. Konstantin’s eyes widened in surprise.
Anaise’s expression hardened. “There are things best left to my domain,” she told
him. “Things that you do not understand. You must hold your trust in me,” she said again. “Only then
will all that is promised come to pass.”
The descent back into the mine was little more than a blur to Stefan. His
body was suffused with pain, and it took all of what little strength remained
for him to safely negotiate the ropes and the steep iron ladders as he worked
his slow progress down below ground. The guards gave him no quarter, nor did he
expect any. But once, when he faltered upon the step and seemed about to fall,
one of the men in red thrust out an arm to steady him. They don’t want me dead
just yet, Stefan realised. There was a purpose to this that had not yet been
revealed.
Rather than being put straight to work, he was taken first to a chamber, not
much more than a large, hollowed-out cave, deep in the interior of the mine.
This was where the prisoners waited to be assigned to their duties and, whilst
they could, take some rest. From the stink of unwashed bodies carried by what
little air wafted through the gloomy galley, Stefan could tell the place was
already well-stocked. He stumbled over a line of prostrate prisoners then
collapsed upon the first clear space he came upon. His body had nothing left to
give. The fight with Zucharov had taken him to his limit. He could think of
nothing except that he had had a chance to end it, and he had not taken it. Only
time would tell how costly his indecision would prove.
He stretched out as best he could, and groaned despite himself. At that
moment he felt a cloth pressed lightly to his brow, and some of the pain was
eased. “Merciful Shallya,” he muttered. “Is that you, Bea?”
“Hardly,” a voice replied. “But the comparison flatters me.”
“Blood of the just,” Stefan
exclaimed. “Bruno.” He opened his eyes, and saw his companion standing over him.
Bruno was bruised and filthy, but he had a great grin upon his face.
“Thank the gods, Stefan! Thank the gods, you’re safe.” Bruno embraced his comrade joyfully
“When you didn’t return from the mine, I was filled with all manners of hopes
and fears. Hope, perhaps that you had met with Rilke, and found a way out.”
“No sign of Rilke,” Stefan said. “But there’s something more—”
“Wait a moment!” Bruno interjected, abruptly. “In Taal’s name,” he said,
“What am I thinking of?”
“What is it?”
“News,” Bruno told him. “Important news. I’ve been talking to our friend over
there—” He broke off abruptly. Stefan looked up as a guard passed by, probing
and prodding at the exhausted prisoners with his staff. The guard met Stefan’s
eye for an instant and then moved on.
Bruno lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve been talking to our friend over
there…” He pointed towards a figure sitting hunched by the thin light of a
tallow lamp. Stefan recognised Lothar Koenig.
“The fellow we were talking to before. The one who thinks his captivity is
just a big misunderstanding,” he said.
Bruno nodded. “He wants out all right,” he said. “And he’s not stupid. He’s
guessed we’re planning to get out. I think he wants us to take him with us.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” Bruno replied, breathlessly. “It’s not. This man’s a bounty hunter. He
brought a prisoner here to Sigmarsgeist, hoping to sell him. And not just any
prisoner, Stefan. It sounds like it might be—”
“Zucharov? You’re right, my friend. Alexei is here, in Sigmarsgeist.”
Bruno pulled back, astonished. “You’ve seen him?”
“More than seen him,” Stefan replied. “I’ve come within an inch of losing my
life to him.”
“Taal’s breath, where did this happen?”
Stefan paused, waiting for the guard to pass out of earshot. “In the palace,”
he whispered.
“The palace?” Bruno replied. “Do the Guides know of this?”
“More than know of it,” Stefan told him. “My meeting with Alexei was
contrived. A little sport for Anaise von Augen.”
Bruno shook his head. “Then there is a darkness falling over Sigmarsgeist.” He
looked up, a flicker of hope passing across his face. “In the palace—did you
get any news of—”
“Of Bea? I’m sorry, no,” Stefan said. “Though there is no reason to suppose
her harmed. Not so long as she’s useful to them.”
“I must go back for her, Stefan,” Bruno said. “I must find a way. I vowed to
do as much.”
Stefan’s reply was cut short by a command shouted out by one of the soldiers
standing close by. All around, the prisoners that had been sitting gnawing
bread, or trying to get some sleep now began to stand up, and form into a weary
line near the entrance to the chamber.
“Come on, you filthy rabble,” the guard shouted out. “Work’s barely begun.”
Stefan and Bruno were shoved forward, into the waiting line. Stefan sought
out the shuffling figure of Lothar Koenig, a few paces ahead of them. He pushed
his way through the slow-moving line until he was shoulder to shoulder with the
bounty hunter. Koenig looked as if he’d aged several years since Stefan had last
seen him. His back was bowed, and he walked with a heavy limp. The steely
determination in his eyes had dimmed, but it was still alive.
“Quickly,” Stefan said to him. “Before they split us up. Tell me about the
man you brought here. The mutant.”
Lothar weighed Stefan up carefully. For a moment he was no longer a prisoner,
but Koenig the bounty hunter, Koenig the opportunist. “Everything has a price,”
he said. “Even down here.”
“What’s yours?” Stefan demanded.
“Company,” Lothar told him, simply. “If you’re planning to escape—and don’t
tell me you’re not—I want you to take me with you.”
“Maybe,” Stefan replied. He exchanged glances with Bruno.
“You wouldn’t regret it,” Lothar boasted. “I’m a useful man to have on your
side. The best tracker this side of the Grey Mountains.”
“Tell us about the mutant, Zucharov,” Stefan said. “How did he come to be your
prisoner?”
Lothar drew himself up, painfully, to his full height. A look of bravado
flickered momentarily on his face, then vanished as he let out a long sigh. “I
suppose if I told you I bettered him in combat, you wouldn’t believe me,” he said.
“I wouldn’t. And I don’t,” Stefan confirmed. “You’ll have to do better than
that.”
Koenig sighed again. “I’m a survivor, friend,” he said, looking around him.
“As Sigmar is my judge, I’ll survive this, somehow I will. But I swear, the
tattooed mutant could have torn me apart at any time of his choosing.”
“You’re telling us he
let
you capture him?” Bruno asked. “Let you
bring him here?”
Koenig nodded. “That’s how it seemed to me.”
“Then it’s no accident that he’s here,” Stefan said. “There is a purpose to
it.”
“There’s a purpose to everything, friend,” Koenig agreed. “If only we can find
it.” He smiled, enigmatically. “And I can find anything, given time. I’ll find a
way out of here. Wait and see.”
The line of prisoners ahead of them came to a halt. They had reached the
bottom of a shallow slope, leading to a quarry face. Men were being set to work,
pounding at the ore with their picks, gathering it into barrows and sacks with
their bare hands.
“Here we go again,” Bruno muttered.
Stefan saw a figure wearing the white of the elite guard step from the
shadows and speak to two of the Red Guard standing on watch at the head of the
line. As the man turned towards the light, Stefan recognised Rilke. The White
Guard ran his eye along the line of prisoners until he found Stefan standing
with Bruno towards the back.
“Those are the ones,” he said out loud. “Those two. Bring them out here.”
The Red Guards moved forward and hauled Stefan and Bruno out of the line,
marching them across to where Rilke stood, arms folded across his chest. Rilke
dismissed the guards with a curt nod.
“Plotting another insurrection?” Rilke accused them loudly. “How did you
think you were going to get away with it?”
“If you plan to have us killed just get on with it,” Bruno countered,
angrily. “Don’t waste our time with imaginary plots.”
Rilke seized hold of Bruno and pulled him closer. He lowered his voice to a
whisper. “I said I would get you out of here and I will,” he said. He looked to
Stefan. “I hadn’t bargained for Anaise’s little diversion with you. This may be
our only chance.”
“Why should we trust you?” Stefan asked him. “How do I know this isn’t
another attempt to put a knife in my back?”
“You don’t know anything,” Rilke said. “But you don’t have much choice, do
you?”
Stefan looked around. One of the guards at the head of the line was keeping a
wary eye on the conversation, one hand hovering over his sword.
Stefan had no reason to trust Rilke but right now, there was no other choice
but to trust the man. “Very well,” he said. He saw Koenig on the fringe of the
group of prisoners, still looking in his direction. “That man over there,” he
said to Rilke. “He comes too.”
A look of disbelief passed over Rilke’s face. “Are you mad? I’m risking my
life just trying to get the two of you out.”
“One more won’t make any difference,” Stefan insisted. From the corner of his
eye, he saw the watching guard unsheath his sword.
“Very well,” Rilke snapped. He gestured, impatiently, for Koenig to be pulled
from the line. Two guards stepped forward to seize the bounty hunter. Koenig
made a convincing show of resistance as he was pulled, kicking and protesting
his innocence, towards the waiting Rilke.
“A third conspirator,” Rilke announced. He struck Koenig hard upon on the
side of his face, stifling his protests. “Get the rest of them to work,” he told
the guards. “I’m taking these ones back above.”
“You’ll need an escort,” a guard said, half as a question and half as a
statement of fact. Rilke held his sword out for the Red Guard’s inspection. He
glowered at the other man.
“Are you suggesting I can’t take care of these wretches on my own?”
The guard shook his head, vigorously. “Just orders, that’s all.”
“Forget orders,” Rilke barked back at him. “I can take care of them.”
The guard wavered for a moment, but finally shook his head. “Best I come with
you, all the same,” he said, emphatically. Rilke stared back and him, and
shrugged.
“As you will,” he said, and prodded Koenig with his sword. “Get moving,” he
snapped. “Get moving, all of you.”