The most important task now was to eliminate the Norscans, and find the man
who led them. The man he had once known as his friend. For the moment the hopes
of the people had to be ignored. In the end, it was their only true hope of
survival.
There had been no time for Stefan to win the trust of the men he now
commanded. But the scarlet-clad soldiers had so far fought more bravely, more
defiantly than he had dared hope. Their belief in the future that was to have
been Sigmarsgeist might have been built upon a falsehood, but it was deeply
held, and they would cling to that belief until every last drop of their blood
was spilled.
At the very edge of the flooded area, a group of women had taken shelter in a
chapel, a place of humble worship to the goddess Shallya. The women—twenty or
thirty of them—had huddled together inside as the waters rose around them,
united in their fear, and in their hope that the watchful goddess, and the very
safety of their number, would protect them. The Norscans had fallen upon them
like wolves, taking what pleasures they liked before slaughtering the women
indiscriminately.
Stefan and his men heard the screams from afar, the sounds guiding them like
a beacon to that forsaken place. But by the time the Red Guard arrived, the grim
deed was done, and the Norscans, clad to a man in mocking white, were spilling
back out onto the street, already seeking the next diversion to
feed their bestial greed.
Stefan and his men saw to it that that they had all the diversion they could
handle, and plenty more besides. They swarmed over the Norscans, the Red far
outnumbering the White, totally overwhelming them. It was a small revenge, only
a beginning, but victory tasted no less sweet for it. Stefan waded in amongst
the clashing steel, and settled upon his target. A large, grinning Norscan was
emerging from the chapel, tightening his breeches as he went. The man was
oblivious to what was going on until it was too late. Stefan didn’t wait for the
man to find his sword. Before the Norscan had even moved, Stefan took aim and
plunged home his blade. A flower of dark blood blossomed out over the white
uniform as the Norscan screamed out in agony. Stefan pulled the sword clear and,
with the next stroke, sliced off the man’s head.
He looked around for likely opponents, but with the Red Guard in the
ascendant the battle was already all but won. A flash of movement caught
Stefan’s eye. He turned, and saw a figure slip out from the chapel, running for
cover. Another moment and the Norscan would be out of reach. Stefan pulled the
knife from his belt and took careful aim before hurling the blade. The knife
arrowed through the air before catching the Norscan below one shoulder. The
Norscan slowed, stumbled, and fell.
Stefan hurried across to the prostrate enemy. This one he would keep alive,
for a while at least. He pulled the knife free then turned the Norscan onto his
back. The pale face stared up at Stefan, defiance in his eyes.
The man started to swear at Stefan, harsh curses from his barbaric land.
Stefan slapped him hard across the face. “Be quiet,” he commanded. “Tell me
about the mutant, the tattooed mutant.”
The Norscan struggled, trying to break free, but Stefan held him down. The
marauder glared up at Stefan. “The tattooed one? He’ll swallow you whole and spit
your bones out into the water,” he sneered. “Head south if you’re in a hurry to
meet your death.”
“Get up,” Stefan said curtly, tugging the man to his feet.
Weak from blood loss, the Norscan was unable to put up much resistance.
Stefan wordlessly dragged his prisoner along behind him, back towards the
chapel. The battle was over, all the other Norscans were either dead or dying. Of
the Red Guard, all but three had come through the encounter unharmed. It was as
good a start as Stefan could have hoped for, but now there were hard decisions
to be made.
“You’ve had a taste of what it feels like to get your own back,” he said to
them. “I hope it tastes good.” His words were met by a chorus of cheers from the
Red Guard.
“You’ll have plenty more chances to enjoy that taste,” Stefan assured them.
“But it’s not going to be so easy from here.” He looked round at the men,
meeting the gaze of as many as he could. “There are Norscans everywhere,” he told
them. “And doubtless things far worse than them, too, creatures touched by Chaos.
We have to spread out, form ourselves into smaller units.” He took a breath,
measuring up what needed to be done.
“I need a few men to come with me,” he said, “five or six, no more than that.
I warn you, mine will be the party at most risk. You others, form into three
groups. My group will head south. The rest of you cover the other quarters of
the city, as far as you can go towards the water line. Do what you can for your
people, but your priority must be the Norscans. They must be destroyed at all
costs.”
“What about this one?” a voice from the back demanded. Stefan glanced around
at his prisoner, seized the man by the scruff of the neck and threw him back
towards the gathering of Red Guards. “Deal with him as you will,” he said.
No longer would there be safety, nor security, in numbers. Stefan had left
the gates of the palace at the head of a formidable force, a troop approaching a
hundred men. For a short while, he had felt invulnerable. Now, he headed back
across the dark, watery wasteland of the citadel in search of Zucharov with a
bare half dozen guards at his side. Now he was both hunter and hunted once
again.
Still the exodus came, long lines of bedraggled people heading in the
opposite direction, fleeing the merciless waters with whatever they could carry.
Whenever he could, Stefan spoke to them, always with the same question. But none
of the frightened refugees would admit to any knowledge of the tattooed mutant.
Most would struggle past without making any response, and those few who did meet
his eye only answered with a short shake of the head. Before long, even the last
of the refugees had disappeared. Stefan and his men had reached the flood line
and were wading in water that was knee deep and still rising. The citadel seemed
to have emptied.
Stefan looked around, increasingly convinced that the trail had led only to a
dead end. Zucharov was not here. He would have no purpose in being here.
As he searched around, desperately looking for any clue, his eye fell upon
the remains of a house, its upper floor a jagged spur of stone and earth still
standing above the waters. A face appeared briefly at a window, then pulled back
hurriedly at the sight of Stefan and his comrades.
“You in there,” Stefan called out. “Show yourself. We mean you no harm.”
He stood waiting for a response. The face did not reappear. “We mean you no
harm,” Stefan repeated. “You must leave your home,” he said, determinedly. “You
will drown unless you leave now. Let us help you.”
A few moments later the face reappeared, peering over the ledge of the
window.
“We
cannot leave,” a voice, worn down with age and exhaustion,
replied.
“My men will help you to safety,” Stefan assured them. “We just want to talk
to you first.”
The old man extended his head from the window to take a better look at
Stefan. He stared at him for a few moments, then said, “Who are you?”
“I am Stefan Kumansky,” Stefan said. “And an enemy to your enemies.”
The old man peered at him through the gloom. “You’re one of the ones who came
to the citadel with the healer,” he said. “With the healer.”
“I am,” Stefan affirmed.
The old man disappeared back inside the room for a moment, then called down
to Stefan, an urgency in his voice now.
“Come up here,” he said. “Come quickly.”
Inside, the house was dark and crumbling, the stairs disintegrating under
Stefan’s feet as he climbed up. Whoever was still in the house only had a little
time left to get to safety. Stefan climbed the stair quickly, but with caution.
He had no idea what awaited him above. Reason told him that it could not be
Zucharov, but he held his sword drawn ready nonetheless.
As he reached the top of the steps he saw the old man who had been at the
window sitting by the dim light of a spluttering oil lamp. Next to him a woman,
her body wrapped in a heavy shawl to keep out the cold, was bending down over
something or someone lying stretched out upon the floor of the tiny room. The
light was too poor for Stefan to see clearly, but he felt his pulse suddenly
begin to race.
“What is it?” he demanded of the old couple. “Why are you still here?”
“The healer loved him,” the old man said, sadly. “He went to her aid.”
“But the dark one fell upon him,” the woman muttered. “The dark one was sent
from Morr to claim him.”
As Stefan stepped into the room, the bundle laid out upon the floor stirred
slowly, and a voice, so weak as to be all but unrecognisable, called his name.
“Bruno!” Stefan cried out. He fell down upon his knees at his friend’s side,
and took Bruno’s head in his hands. His comrade opened his eyes, and forced a
semblance of a smile.
“Zucharov,” Bruno whispered. “Sorry, Stefan. I couldn’t stop him.”
“Here,” Stefan beseeched the old couple. “Give me some light.”
The woman passed Stefan the lamp, and he bent towards Bruno’s chest, to see
that his tunic was sodden and sticky with blood. Carefully, he prised the fabric
apart, trying to get to the wound. His hand fastened upon the locket hanging from a chain around
Bruno’s neck, the likeness of the goddess Shallya.
“It’s all—right,” Bruno said, struggling to force out the words. “Our lady
intervened to—spare me. See?” he gasped. “The icon—deflected the blade.”
Stefan took the lamp in his left hand and looked closely at the wound. The
talisman around Bruno’s neck was battered, almost folded in two by the impact.
Clearly, it had taken some of the force of Zucharov’s sword. But the wound was
still deep, and a thick, darkish blood was oozing from the jagged incision in
Bruno’s chest. Stefan was no surgeon, but he had seen enough battle to recognise
those who the gods would spare, and those that were bound for Morn The locket
had not so much saved Bruno’s life, as prolonged his death. Stefan pressed his
hand against the bloody gash, hoping against hope for his comrade’s survival,
despairing in his own helplessness.
“He loved the healer, with his life,” the old man said, solemnly. “And she
was our redemption, our hope. We could not leave him to die alone.”
“He’s not going to die,” Stefan retorted, defiantly. But his heart and his
head were telling different stories. “I’m going to get you to safety,” he told
Bruno. “Somewhere where we can take proper care of that wound.”
Bruno’s eyes flickered open again. “No,” he said, a harder tone in his voice.
“You must save Bea,” he said. “Zucharov—took her, with Anaise. Back to—the
palace. To find—Tal Dur.” A violent cough shook through Bruno’s body, and
spittle flecked with blood appeared at the corners of his mouth. “Stefan,” he
urged. “Please. You must save her.”
Every instinct inside of Stefan told him he could not abandon his comrade. He
could not leave him—not now, not here in this dank forsaken place. It could
not end like this. Yet he knew also that Bruno was right. If he did not find
Bea, and with her Zucharov, then all would be lost. Everything that they had
endured—and Bruno’s sacrifice—would have been for nothing. As he looked down
upon his friend, he tried to hold his emotions back but the tears still fell
from his eyes. He looked at the woman who had been tending Bruno’s wounds.
“Can he be moved?”
She shook her head, emphatically. Stefan stood up, and shouted to the
soldiers standing round.
“Fetch some help,” he commanded them. “In the meantime, in the name of the
gods, do whatever is within your power to help him.” He turned to the old man
and his wife.
“Will you stay with him also?” he asked.
“We would not do otherwise,” the woman said. “We will give back such healing
as we can.”
“You’re going back to the palace?” a guard asked. “Alone?”
“There’s only one man I’m looking for now,” Stefan replied. “And he will be
waiting for me.”
Anarchy had been loosed upon the world. The whole of Sigmarsgeist had become
consumed within a carnival of death and destruction. Soldiers ran amidst the
remains of houses and streets, fighting running battles, their blood mixing with
the boiling, foaming waters. The people of Sigmarsgeist, once so organised, so
industrious, were running, too, but without purpose now. They were running
anywhere that afforded shelter, running from the tides of water and steel that
had engulfed the citadel.
Anaise von Augen looked around at the destruction of her life’s work with
astonishment, and with a crazed sense of delight. Had she not known it?
Sigmarsgeist would be torn down before it could be made anew. The old would be
swept aside. Only when it had been purged, utterly and completely, would
Sigmarsgeist be ready to greet the new age: the age of Tal Dur.
The girl had ceased to resist. At the moment when Zucharov had killed Bruno,
Bea had gone wild, suddenly consumed with pain and despair, and had fought like
a wildcat to free herself from Anaise’s grip. But Anaise was far too strong for
her. There was never any possibility of her letting the healer go, not even for
a moment, and gradually Bea’s protests and struggles had subsided until,
finally, she hung limply upon Anaise’s arm, an animal being led meekly to the slaughter.
Anaise strode through the carnage, untouched and invulnerable. Zucharov,
walking a few paces behind, was her shield, her merciless sword to fend off any
who dared to come too close. There were few enough of them, and none lived to
regret their folly. The time would soon come when her protector, too, would have
outlived his usefulness. But for now, he still served, as all had come to serve
her. As the mighty powers of Tal Dur in turn would come, so soon now, to serve
her.