Baecker’s hand was inches away from the mechanism, another second or two
would be all he needed to set the beam in motion and smash a great fissure in
the wall. In the last instant he saw Zucharov coming for him, and swerved aside.
The manoeuvre saved Baecker’s life, but it cost him the chance to launch the
battering ram. Before he could recover, Zucharov was on him, wielding his blade
with awesome speed. Baecker was dwarfed by his opponent, but stood his ground,
fending off Zucharov’s first strikes and even finding space to strike back at
the tattooed mutant towering over him. Just for an instant, Zucharov experienced a feeling akin to shock, or surprise. For just that fleeting
moment, as Baecker lashed out at him with a vigour born of desperation, Zucharov
remembered what it was like to be mortal, and his sense of invulnerability fell
under threat. He reacted to that threat with another bellicose howl of rage,
redoubling the speed and ferocity of his sword.
Baecker parried three, then four, shattering blows in succession, but his
strength was waning. Zucharov’s fifth stroke spun Baecker off-balance, and the
sixth prised the sword from out of his hand.
Zucharov pulled back, on the threshold of the seventh, decisive strike. He
looked down at his own chest, where a rivulet of ruby blood was running into the
contours of the dark images etched upon his flesh. He sheathed his sword, and
raised a hand to his chest, wiping the blood away contemptuously.
Hans Baecker launched a last desperate attack, charging full on at Zucharov,
his fists held high. Zucharov grabbed the man’s arm and twisted, the sharp crack
of splintering bone met by Baecker’s scream of agony. Zucharov drew his other
arm around his opponent’s neck and held him firm. Baecker was twisting and
writhing like a wild animal, but Zucharov was able to hold him with ease. He let
Baecker struggle for a few moments more, then, with his free hand, clamped hold
of Baecker by the hair, and snapped his head back, breaking his neck.
He kicked the body to one side, and stood back. The wall had not been
breached. The final chance to save Sigmarsgeist had gone. The rushing waters
hastened to cover the siege engine and the bodies of its crew. Soon they would
all be submerged. It was time for Zucharov to move on. There was still more to
be done.
He opened his hands and gazed down at his palms. The jet-black lines of the
tattoo melted and reformed, swirling like the waters assailing the citadel. As
Zucharov looked on, the image resting in each hand took on a similar, but
different, shape and form. Finally the likeness of two faces came into view. The
faces of two women, opposite and opposed, but united now in one purpose: to deliver Tal Dur to Kyros and his servant.
Bruno forced out his words between painful gasps of breath as he lay on the
upper floor of the ruined house.
“That’s as close as I ever want to come to drowning,” he gasped. “If I never
cast eyes on another drop of water, then I won’t be sorry.”
“Not something you’ll be worrying about for a while,” Lothar panted in reply.
“I have a feeling there’ll be plenty of water about for a while yet.”
“I have a feeling you’re right,” Stefan added. He got to his feet and peered
out through the narrow, slitted window, looking down onto the fast-flowing river
that, only minutes before, had been a street.
They had escaped with their lives from the warren of sewer tunnels by the
narrowest of margins, clambering clear into the daylight with the sound of the
pursuing waters like the roaring of a wild beasts in their ears. They were on
dry land for no more than a few seconds before the waters had burst from the
tunnels with an unstoppable force, and Stefan and his companions were thrust
into a battle for simple survival.
The abandoned house would provide at best temporary refuge. Stefan had
calculated that, at the pace the waters were rising, the upper floor and finally
the whole building would be below water in less than an hour. But, for the
moment at least, it was a place that offered concealment and a chance for them
to take stock. The families of workers who had occupied the building were gone,
escaped to dry ground, or else drowned in the attempt. The threadbare, makeshift
furnishings decorating the rooms and the remnants of a meagre meal still left on
a table were all that was left of them, all that was left of the better world
that should have been Sigmarsgeist.
“I wonder if they still thought it was worth it,” Bruno mused, looking over
the scraps of the abandoned lives. “The dream of Sigmarsgeist. Whether they still
believed, right to the end.”
Lothar Koenig reached across Stefan and picked the rotting remains of an
apple core from off the table. He put it into his mouth in one piece, and chewed
on it noisily. “It’s all about winning and losing,” he said. “If you win, your
dreams are real. If you lose, then all is dust. That’s the way it’s always
been.”
“I’m glad it’s so simple for you,” Bruno observed.
“Wait a minute.” Stefan was back at the window. He beckoned the two of them
to be quiet.
“What is it?” Bruno whispered.
Stefan crouched down by the window, careful not to make himself conspicuous.
The light outside was fading fast, and most of the lamps in this area of the
citadel had already been extinguished by the flood. But he could see something
moving along the skyline marked out by the rooftops on the far side of the
street.
“What is it?” Bruno hissed again. “What can you see?”
“Company,” Stefan told him. “At least a dozen men clambering about at roof
level, just across from here.”
“The Red Guard,” Bruno surmised. “I was wondering when they were going to show
up.”
“No,” Stefan said quietly. “These wear the white.”
“The elite guard? Rilke’s men?”
Stefan peered again at the clambering figures. The pale skin and blond
complexions of the men seemed to confirm his fears.
“They’re dressed as White Guard, but it’s not Rilke, nor any of his men,”
Stefan concluded. He turned back into the room. “Bruno,” he said. “I think
they’re Norscans.”
“Taal’s blood,” Bruno swore. “That’s the last thing we need. How did they get
loose?”
“Things are much changed around here,” Stefan muttered. “And changed for the
worse, however unlikely that might seem.”
“Do you think they’ve any idea we might be here?” Lothar asked.
Stefan was saved the trouble of answering by the sound of splintering wood,
and the shattering of glass somewhere nearby.
“They soon will,” Stefan said, evenly.
Bruno turned to Lothar. “Looks like you can let your sword do your talking
for once,” he declared. “Think you’re up to it?”
“I’m as ready as you are,” Lothar retorted, defiantly. “I intend to make sure
I come out of this alive.”
“Gods willing, so shall we all,” Stefan concurred. The crippled building shook
to the sound of heavy-booted feet upon the narrow stairs. “Stand ready,” he said.
“Here they come.”
Who the Norscans were looking for wasn’t clear. The original inhabitants of
the house, perhaps, or any other innocent citizen of Sigmarsgeist who hadn’t yet
perished. What they obviously hadn’t been expecting to encounter was three armed
men, ready to return their favours in kind. The first marauder broke down the
fastened door and burst into the room, casting his gaze about for plunder or
bloody sport. His eagerness earned him the length of Stefan’s blade, rammed to
the hilt into his belly.
The Norscan was dead before he could even cry out, but the sound of his body
crashing to the floor was enough to bring his comrades stamping up the narrow
stairway in pursuit.
The first of them, a red-eyed youth rash enough to take the vanguard, was cut
down by a stroke from Bruno’s blade. But hard on his heels were four more muscular warriors, and by now the advantage
of surprise was lost. The Norscans cried out, giving their blood-lust full
voice, and flung themselves into the combat. The air rang with the sound of
clashing steel as the adversaries locked swords. Stefan focused upon his target,
an ugly, thick-set Norscan with a pock-marked face that he took to be the
leader. The man towered over Stefan, bettering him both in height and bulk. The
Norscan spat contemptuously, anticipating an easy victory over this lesser
opponent, and then struck out. His first blows were delivered with a savage
force, and some accuracy, but Stefan kept one step ahead, slipping just out of
range of each murderous strike, all the time drawing the Norscan towards him.
The big man struck a third, and then a fourth blow, each time missing his mark
by bare inches. Stefan grinned, and dropped his hands by his side.
“This make it easier for you?” he taunted.
The Norscan screamed out at Stefan in rage and frustration, and swung his
sword in a blind fury, aiming at Stefan’s unprotected flank. Stefan dodged the
blow, and the sword bit deep into the stout wooden beam that stood behind him.
As the Norscan tugged desperately at the blade to pull it free, Stefan struck
back, finding the exposed flesh of the Norscan’s throat with one, telling thrust
of his sword. Now the odds were at least even.
Or better than even. Stefan had feared that Lothar Koenig would prove little
match for the brutal Norsemen, or, worse, would flee in the confusion of the
battle. Wrong on both counts. The bounty hunter was very much with them, and
more than holding his own against his opponent, making up in cunning and skill
what he lacked in bulk and speed. But that still left Bruno facing the remaining
two Norscans on his own. Bruno was a match for most swordsmen, but he was being
forced back by the sheer force of the onslaught from his two attackers. The
Norscans had him cornered, and, amidst a hail of sword strokes, some of their
blows were beginning to find their mark.
Stefan shouted out—something, anything to draw the Norscans’ attention—and flung himself across the room towards them. One of the Norscans paid no heed, and continued to tear at
Bruno with a manic energy. But the other pulled up, and turned, caught between
attack and self-defence. Stefan made him pay dearly for his indecision, knocking
the man’s sword from his grasp with a mighty kick then following through with
his sword, a two-handed blow that cleaved the Norscan’s arm from his shoulder.
The Norscan staggered but did not fall, so Stefan struck him again, and then a
third time, pouring all he had into the blows until his enemy was beaten to the
ground.
Bruno was wounded, but now took new heart, digging deep to find last reserves
of strength. His opponent struck at him again, but before long he was using his
sword to fend off the blows, not to deliver them. Stefan saw the man glance
round and take stock of the situation. The cruel grin on his face was replaced
by desperation as he began to look about for a means of escape. There would be
none.
Bruno landed the decisive blow, his sword biting deep into the flesh below
the Norscan’s ribs. Stefan met him as he fell back, two scything strokes of his
blade ending the argument for good.
Stefan’s first concern was for Bruno. His comrade was covered in blood, and
the cuts on his face and arms were many, but they were not deep. Stefan looked
for Lothar, already marshalling what energy he had left for one last, desperate,
assault. But Lothar had no need of their help. In the space of a few minutes he
had turned the tables on his opponent. Stefan saw him standing on the far side
of the room, one foot pressing down upon the prostrate form of the Norscan,
sword poised to deliver the final blow.
“Wait!” Stefan shouted to him. “Hold off.” He crossed the room and reached
out to stay the bounty hunter’s hand. “Just a minute. We might be able to learn
something useful from this creature.” He knelt down and grabbed the man by his
straw-blond hair, pulling his face up towards his own.
“Tell us who your leaders are, and where we can find them,” he demanded. “Tell
us, and we may spare your miserable life.”
The other man looked up at Stefan. He was young—probably little more than
twenty summers, younger than Stefan himself. But a cruel savagery had run deep
through that short life.
Stefan could find no kinship in the other’s eyes, nor even the faintest
glimmer of compassion. The Norscan sneered up at Stefan.
“If I’d cared about preserving my life, I’d have made other choices long
ago,” he muttered.
“Answer me,” Stefan insisted. “Who leads you? Who freed you from the cells?”
The dying Norscan parted his lips, and spat in Stefan’s face. “I will tell
you nothing,” he said.
Stefan stood up, disgusted, and glanced at Lothar, still poised with the
sword.
“Go ahead.”
As soon as the way was clear, they got out of the building. They could have
delayed little longer. The waters were still rising fast, and the bottom half of
the stairway was already submerged.
Stefan led the way out through one of the upper windows, and onto the flat
roof. For a while the three men just sat, watching the scene unfolding around
them. The citadel had a quite different look now. To the south, it had become a
drowned world with only crests of stonework left poking through the churning
waters like islands in the sea. They had to keep ahead of the flood, keep moving
toward the higher ground, around the palace, at the northern edge of
Sigmarsgeist.
“What’s our plan?” Bruno asked.
Stefan thought for a moment. “First we have to get to a place of safety,” he
said. “And try and keep out of the way of the Norscans.”
“How many more do you think there might be?”
“A lot, I fear,” Stefan replied. “Too many for us to account for on our own.”
“Where are Rilke’s men?” Bruno wondered. “And the Red Guard?”
“Where indeed,” Stefan agreed. “We need to find the answer to that question if
we’re going to stand any real chance of defeating the Norscans.”