“Excuse me,” Lothar cut in. “But when you’re talking about ‘we’, I hope
you’re not including me in your plans?”
“It’s your choice,” Stefan replied. “But it stands to reason you’d be safer
if you stayed with us.”
Lothar Koenig smiled, and shook his head. “No offence, friend,” he said, “but
you seem to attract trouble like a lamp gathers moths. Besides,” he said,
getting up and looking around, “you and I have quite different quests to fulfil.
You want to save the world, and all good people in it. Me—” he sheathed his
sword, and fastened the buckle of his belt tight around his waist. “I just want
to get out of this a rich man.”
“I’m afraid there’s no certainty any of us will get out of this at all,”
Stefan said, quietly.
“Be that as it may, I’ll take my chances. You go your way, I’ll go mine.” He
held out his hand. “No offence.”
Stefan took the bounty hunter’s hand, and shook it. “You owe us nothing,” he
said. “And we owe you a good deal. Take whatever path you must, and take our
good wishes with you.”
Bruno nodded, but said nothing. Lothar Koenig looked them up and down once
more, then raised his hand in a brief salute, and was gone.
“That man,” Bruno said at last. “Is nothing better than a looter, out to line
his filthy pockets.”
“Maybe,” Stefan concurred. “But if so, then he’s a brave one.” He watched the
bounty hunter for a while longer as he picked his way along the skyline with an
agility that belied his years. “Actually,” Stefan said, “I think he’s just a
survivor. Not good, nor bad. Just a man doing whatever he has to do to see him
through this life.”
Bruno looked round at Stefan, faintly surprised. “A while ago you wouldn’t
have talked like that,” he observed. “You’d have had no truck with the likes of
him.”
“That might be so,” Stefan agreed. “Perhaps I’ve started to see things
differently. Perhaps the line between black and white, good and bad, isn’t as
clear as I once thought it was.”
He got to his feet, and helped Bruno up in turn. He clapped a hand on his
friend’s shoulder.
“This isn’t the place or time for such discussions,” he said. “We need to get
moving too.”
“Agreed,” Bruno said. “But to where?”
“I want to know what’s happened to the Red Guard,” Stefan said. “I can’t
believe they’ve all been swept aside in such a short space of time. I need to
find Konstantin.”
“Konstantin?”
“He should have command over every man in this city. And we can’t hope to
turn this situation about without them.”
“Do you really think Konstantin will help us? We were hardly honoured guests
last time we came before him.”
“Things have changed,” Stefan said. “And they’ll change a good deal more before
long unless we can act.”
“And Anaise?”
“Anaise has contributed to this evil, knowingly or not. But we stand a better
chance of dealing with her if we can sway Konstantin.”
Bruno fell silent, pondering Stefan’s words. “You’re right,” he said. “
We
must reach the palace then, if we can.” His head was nodding agreement, but
his face told a different story. It took Stefan a moment to realise what must be
going through his mind.
“Of course,” he said then. “Bea.”
“I’m sorry, Stefan,” Bruno blurted out. “I know there are more important
matters to be resolved. But I can’t just forget about her.”
“No, no,” Stefan assured him. “It’s I who should apologise.” He took hold of
Bruno. “Of course you must go,” he told him. “You must do whatever you can. But—”
he hesitated. “Is it not possible that Bea is still inside the palace too?”
“Possible, yes, but…” Bruno shook his head, firmly. “There’s only one place
she would want to be,” he said. “Amongst the fallen, tending to the wounded as
best she can. She’s out here, somewhere. I’m sure of that.”
Stefan mulled over his words. “You may be right,” he concluded. “Then we must
go our separate ways.” He thought for a moment.
“We’ll stay together until we reach dry ground,” he concluded. “Then I’ll head
in towards the heart of the citadel, and the palace.”
“And I will look for Bea,” Bruno said. “Wherever she is, I’ll find her.”
“I pray you will,” Stefan said. “And may the gods smile kindly upon us
both.”
Anaise held out the battered metal bowl, and all but forced it into Bea’s
hands.
“Take it!” she demanded. “What are you waiting for? This is water drawn from
the holy flood. It can heal your patient, can’t it? Or will you now deny
everything that you have ever believed?”
“This same water has claimed the lives of countless of your people,” Bea
countered, quietly. Anaise stared at her, unblinking.
“Water touched with the gift of Tal Dur,” she insisted. “In the right hands—the hands of a healer—it can restore the powers of life. Isn’t that so?” she
demanded.
Bea shrugged, and tried in vain to evade Anaise’s grasp, her burning stare.
In truth she no longer knew what to believe. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t
know anything anymore.”
Anaise cast her eyes down at the injured woman, barely more than a bundle of
rags, lying on the damp floor between them. She had been trapped between two
buildings when one had collapsed into the other. Anaise knew little enough of
the arts of medicine, but she knew that the woman would die soon, and she knew
that Bea knew it too.
“Why do you hesitate?” she pressed. “You know that the waters are her only
hope. ‘That which lays waste may also yet make whole.’ Isn’t that what the
prophesies tell us?”
Bea shook her head, unhappily. There was no point in denying the truth of
what the Guide had said. Without another word, she took the proffered bowl and
began to dab water from it lightly upon the injured woman’s brow. She waited a
moment then dipped her fingers carefully in the bowl again, this time letting
drops of water fall where the woman’s wounds were gravest. The woman stirred, fitfully, then began to
breathe more easily.
Anaise jumped to her feet, her eyes ablaze with excitement. “There!” she
exclaimed, delightedly. “You see! The gifts of Tal Dur begin to work their
magic!”
“They channel their powers through me,” Bea said, hesitantly.
“Then they shall channel that power through me, too,” Anaise declared. “You
shall show me, Bea.” She crouched down once more and put her hands either side
of Bea’s face, running her fingers through her curled brown hair as though she
were a treasure. Bea shrugged her off and turned back to her patient.
“This is not Tal Dur,” she said, “only a weak reflection of its magic. The
true power of Tal Dur will only be found at the water’s source.”
“But that cannot be far from here,” Anaise insisted. “It cannot.”
“No,” Bea conceded, wearily. “It cannot be far.” She was tired. Too tired for
any more subterfuge, any more trying to divine what was the right thing to do.
She just wanted to be left alone, left to answer the call of healing.
The woman coughed, and her body went into a sudden spasm, then, for the first
time since Bea had come to her, opened her eyes. Bea turned to the woman’s
husband, a pitiful figure who had been sitting mute on the sidelines whilst she
tried to work her healing.
“Keep her warm,” she told the man. “Pray, and she will live, I’m sure of it.”
“The waters cured her,” the man replied, his voice cracked and thin. “She
should take more of them.”
“No,” Bea said, firmly. “It’s not safe for you to do what I did. You would
cause more harm than good.”
Anaise’s patience had worn thin. She tugged Bea to her feet, roughly and
without ceremony. “You know where the source can be found,” she insisted. “Where
is it, Bea? Where?”
Bea struggled half-heartedly, but knew she could never evade Anaise. Only one
thing would satisfy her now, she was blind to all else.
“All right,” she said at last. “Very well. My sense is that the waters will
converge near the bottom of the Well of Sadness. That, if anywhere, is where the
locus of Tal Dur may be found.”
Anaise glowered. “Nonsense,” she retorted. “I spent long hours sitting at its
edge only this day. It was dry as tinder.”
“The ways of Tal Dur are not so transparent,” Bea said, obdurately. “The first
waters were channelled elsewhere, to surface at the lower part of the citadel.
But I will wager my all,” she went on, “when the springs at the very heart of
Tal Dur burst forth, it will be through the Well of Sadness.”
“Then that is where we go,” Anaise declared. She seized Bea and started to
drag her along behind her. “We go there now. I’ve waited long enough.”
Fortune had favoured Stefan, at least as far as the gates of the palace. His
journey across the rooftops of the city towards the higher ground had taken a
zig-zag course, following the paths connecting the taller buildings that still
held out against the flood. There had been times, when two buildings were
separated only by a short span of water, that he had been tempted to leap into
the flow and swim. But he did not. Some instinct of nature told him to avoid the
dark sea that was slowly swallowing up the citadel, even if it meant finding a
much longer way around. Progress was steady, but slow.
For the most part, he managed to stay clear of the Norscans. Once or twice he
had seen gangs of them, patrolling the distant skyline, or traversing the flood
waters in makeshift boats. It seemed that they were unopposed. With no sign
anywhere of the Red Guard, the Norscans had taken complete control of the
citadel. Just once, Stefan encountered a single northerner, climbing from the
shattered window of a building. He was laden with plunder he had stripped from
the house, and hadn’t been expecting to find an armed adversary waiting for him.
The combat was brief and bloody, and left another Norscan body floating on the
tide. But otherwise Stefan avoided contact where he could. This was not the time
to fight, not yet.
In time he reached the heart of the citadel, where the waters had only just
begun to penetrate. Now, as he came within sight of the palace, Stefan realised
what had happened to the Red Guard. They were here, scores of them, lining every
wall and standing guard upon every door and gateway, even though there was no
obvious sign of Norscan attack.
Stefan sheathed his weapon as he climbed the hill that led to the great
courtyard. The streets beyond the palace were teeming with people, workers no
longer, now simply refugees from the unforgiving flood. But there was to be no
refuge for them within the palace, the guards surrounding the walls refused to
let them inside.
Stefan fought his way through the crowd and approached the gates with his
hands high above his head. There was no way he could hope to fight his way in.
It would have to be his word, not his sword, that served him now.
An exchange of shouts greeted Stefan as he approached the gates. Several of
the guards had recognised him and had drawn their swords. They looked on, some
incredulously, as Stefan drew out his own weapon then held it out towards the
men in scarlet. “I am a prisoner,” he said. “I offer you my surrender.”
Konstantin von Augen had taken his customary place in the chamber of the High
Council. Although at least a dozen of his men were with him, he looked very much
alone. When he at last looked up, Stefan saw he was much altered. The madness
that had seized hold of Sigmarsgeist had taken a different path in Konstantin.
The elegant, lined face with its mane of iron-grey hair was unchanged, but his
eyes were empty, devoid of hope or inspiration. Konstantin looked like a man
already contemplating the aftermath of defeat.
He looked up at Stefan for a few moments before seeming to recognise him.
“Ah,” he said at last. “It is you, then. I thought it might be Baecker. I am
waiting news of his return.”
One of the attendant guards stepped forward and knelt by the Guide. He
coughed, awkwardly. “Sire,” he began, a tone of careful deference to his voice. “You will recall the news that was brought
earlier. Hans Baecker is dead. My men have recovered his body.”
Konstantin nodded, absentmindedly, oblivious to what had been said. “Baecker
has a plan,” he told Stefan. “A plan to save Sigmarsgeist.”
“Konstantin,” Stefan said. “I must speak with you. I need you to hear what I
have to say.” The guards standing around the chamber looked from Stefan to the
Guide, uncertain whether Stefan was to be treated as a prisoner or an emissary.
When Stefan took a step closer to the Guide, he was not opposed. Stefan moved
within arms’ length of Konstantin, then settled upon the floor of the chamber,
facing the Guide.
“Why do you keep your men here?” he began. “Don’t you realise that the
Norscans will soon have the run of Sigmarsgeist? Your people are being tortured
and killed. Sigmarsgeist is being torn apart.”
Konstantin drew himself upright and stared back at Stefan. For a moment he
assumed the grandeur and authority of old.
“My men will defend the sanctity of Sigmarsgeist,” he said. “No enemy—neither man nor flood—shall pass through these gates. Sigmarsgeist shall
prevail, ready to face the dark tide to come.”
Stefan wanted to grab hold of Konstantin and shake him. But instead he
mustered all of his patience. Reason, he told himself, reason must prevail.
“Look around you,” he told the Guide. “You devoted your life to building a
fortress, a great wall to keep the forces of evil at bay.” He paused, and took
another breath. Konstantin still gazed at him, his blank expression unchanged.
“But all you have kept at bay are your own, frightened people,” Stefan continued.
“Somewhere, Konstantin, your purpose was lost. You became what you wanted to
destroy, and opened the gates to the very thing you wished to oppose. The great
battle against the darkness that you spoke of so eloquently. It is
not ahead, in some distant time yet to be imagined,” he told the Guide. “It is
here. And it is now.”