Anaise shook her violently. “Where is Tal Dur?” she screamed. “I will not be
denied, not now!”
“Tal Dur is here,” said Zucharov from behind her. “Still you do not
understand, and you will never will.” He turned his gaze upon the dark
unblemished face of the waters and stretched out a hand. The placid calm of the lake broke apart in response,
rising up in a swirling wave.
“The sins of Sigmarsgeist have been washed away,” Bea told Anaise. “The power of
the waters is distilled to its very essence. This is the source,” she said,
looking toward the lake. “This is Tal Dur.”
“The girl,” Zucharov said. “Give her to me.”
Anaise took a step back, her eyes fixed upon Zucharov. With one hand she
still held firmly to Bea. The other trailed down by her side, lightly brushing
against her gown.
“Of course,” she replied at last. “I will share the gifts of Tal Dur with you.
That was always our agreement.”
“Give her to me. Now.”
Anaise dipped her head in a shallow bow. “Of course,” she replied, forcing a
smile. “One moment.” She appeared to fumble with the clasp of her gown.
Zucharov made a grab for the girl, his patience at an end. He didn’t see the
knife until it was flying towards him. In a single, elegant movement Anaise had
lifted her hand clear of her gown and sent the blade twisting through the air.
It struck Zucharov, hard and firm, in the very centre of his chest.
The tattooed warrior stumbled backwards, a look of puzzled disbelief forming
beneath the hideous mask. He coughed, gasping for breath. His huge frame shook,
then steadied itself. Zucharov grasped the hilt of the knife, but did not pull
it free. His expression changed. Slowly, a bitter smile crept across his dark
features. When he spoke it was with the voice of Kyros.
“You are wrong,” the Chaos Lord murmured. “We were never to share Tal Dur.
That was never to be your destiny.” He ripped the blade from his chest, a plume
of crimson blood spouting from the wound. Oblivious to any pain, Zucharov pulled
open his tunic around the wound, revealing the canopy of horrors daubed upon his
body.
“See,” he continued. “
This
is your destiny.”
A scream welled up in Anaise’s throat as the image shaped itself before her
eyes. Right where the knife had penetrated the mutant’s body she saw her own
likeness, drenched in blood. The wound that she had inflicted was a jagged scar that ran the length
of her body. She let go of Bea and tried to run, but Zucharov caught her, and
restrained her with ease.
Alexei Zucharov brought his hands about Anaise’s neck and held them there. He
traced the contours of her face, running his fingers down the length of her
cheek. Anaise battled to free herself with every last ounce of her being, beating
at Zucharov with her fists. When all else had failed her, she screamed.
“Enough,” the voice of Kyros murmured. “Enough. Now you see where your destiny
has brought you. Now you see where you belong.” Zucharov raised one hand,
brushing away the single tear running down her face.
“You are fallen,” he whispered to her. “You are weak.”
Anaise’s eyes grew wide with fear, or with anger. She began to speak, defiant
to the last in the face of the monster who would deny her her rightful prize.
Zucharov pressed one finger to her lips, stopping her words. Then, slowly,
almost gently, he cupped his hands once more around Anaise’s neck, and stilled
her voice for ever.
At first, it had seemed impossible to Stefan that anything, or anyone, could
have survived, either inside the palace, or in the dark maze of dungeons that
had once lain below. Every living thing must surely have perished. Yet he had
been spared, and he now realised that he was not the only one to have survived.
He now stood on the lip of a vast crater where the walls had fallen, and the
palace had collapsed in upon itself. The waters had drawn back, retreating into
the cavernous space, filling it until all that remained of either the palace or
the great flood which had destroyed it was a lake. The only structure that still
stood was a single span of the bone-like growth that curved like the spine of
some great beast across the surface of the water.
Fragile and brittle, the bridge swayed precariously in the faint breeze that
drifted off the water. At any moment this last remnant of the struggle would
surely crack and break apart. But for the moment, the bone-bridge held, a solitary arch above the
still, silent waters. Upon the bridge, Stefan made out two figures>One was
monstrously tall and powerfully built. The second, diminutive by contrast,
walking two steps behind, hands fastened behind their back, linked to the first
by a length of rope or chain. He recognised them instantly—Zucharov and Bea,
captor and captive. Locked together in a slow dance across the waters of Tal
Dur.
Stefan had asked himself what he would feel when this moment came. Would he
be consumed by vengeance, raw hatred for the creature who had stolen the life of
his comrade? Would he feel excitement, or fear at the prospect that his own
life, too, might soon be at an end? Now the time had come, Stefan felt neither
of these things. He had become quite calm, as though he had reached a sudden and
unexpected point of stillness. As he slowly drew his sword he was aware only of
a sense of fulfilment, and the knowledge that he had been waiting for this
moment for much of his life. This would be the fulcrum, the defining struggle.
Whatever the outcome now, nothing would ever be the same again.
Zucharov had not seen him yet. He was only interested in Bea, dragging the
healer behind him as he moved on to the bridge. Bea looked rigid, immobile. For
a moment Stefan feared that Zucharov might want her dead, but no, that was not
Zucharov’s purpose. Her presence made Stefan’s task all the more difficult, now
he must destroy Zucharov without endangering Bea. There would be a way. There
had to be a way.
Finally, almost casually, Alexei Zucharov looked up and saw his former
comrade. A look passed across the mutant’s face that signalled that he, too, had
been waiting for this moment. A flash of common understanding passed between
them, the last bond they would ever share.
Stefan barely knew Zucharov now. He looked as if he were wearing a mask, a
mask that clung taut against his skin, covering every inch of his face. Then
Stefan saw it for what it truly was, the living tattoo that had begun a lifetime
ago in Erengrad, as a tiny bruise upon his comrade’s arm. There could be no question now that Chaos had now claimed Zucharov. There was no
way back from the abyss for Alexei.
Stefan wasn’t expecting Zucharov to smile, but smile he did, even though the
tattoo rendered the smile inhuman. Stefan realised that this, after all, was
what Zucharov truly wanted. To face Stefan here, at the place they would know as
Tal Dur, and to kill him. Zucharov’s whole body had been transformed. Sinews
strained and pumped-up muscles pushed hard against tough, leathery flesh. The
realisation sat like ice in Stefan’s stomach. The dark power flooding into
Zucharov was making him ever stronger, ever more unassailable. Every moment that
passed tilted the odds of battle further in Zucharov’s favour.
Beyond the fight that lay ahead, there was Bea to think of. So far she seemed
to be unharmed, but Stefan knew he could not risk attacking Zucharov whilst he
still held the girl.
“Let the girl go free!” Stefan called. “This quarrel is for you and I alone.”
Zucharov’s mocking laughter echoed across the water in response.
“Quarrel? With you? I’ve no more quarrel with you than I might have with a
fly.” Zucharov raised the blade of his knife to Bea’s throat. The healer’s face
was pale with terror.
“Is this what agitates your weak, insect mind, Stefan?” He touched the edge
of the steel to Bea’s skin. “Perhaps if I dispense with the girl then the fly
will stop bothering me?”
Stefan moved forward, cautiously. “I don’t think you’ll do that,” he said. He
paused, struggling with the gamble he was about to take. “But if you want,” he
said, “then go ahead. Kill her. You’ll have no excuse to hide behind then.
You’ll have to fight me.”
Veins pulsed upon the mutant’s forehead. The patchwork that was Zucharov’s
face buckled and stretched, and blood began to leak from his dark lidless eyes.
He pulled himself up to his full height, towering over both his captive and his
opponent.
“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he told Stefan. “As it
is, you will live just long enough to regret your words.” He turned to the girl.
“Where does the source lie?” he demanded. He took hold of her arm, twisting
it slowly, relentlessly, until Bea screamed out in pain.
“Tal Dur,” Zucharov demanded again. “Where is the source of its power?”
“In Shallya’s name,” Bea responded, fearfully. “At the centre of the lake.
Where the water is at its deepest. The power of Tal Dur flows from there.”
Zucharov looked toward Stefan who was still advancing. “I have not done with
you yet,” he told Bea. “But for the moment, our business must be set aside.” The
mutant unfurled the iron chain coiled around Bea’s wrists, and secured one end
against a thick spar of bone, pulling the iron links so tight that they cut into
the flesh of Bea’s hands. Zucharov ignored her cries, concerned only that she
should have no chance of escape.
“Now,” he called out to Stefan. His face split into a hungry grin. “Come and
taste the power of Tzeentch.”
Stefan needed no bidding. He vaulted up upon the tottering bridge, and
attacked. The many victories he had known as a swordsman counted for nothing
now. This was the only fight that mattered.
The speed of his opening thrust seemed to take his opponent by surprise.
Stefan’s sword cut through Zucharov’s tunic, exposing the patterned flesh
beneath. But it made as much impact as a fingernail grazing leather. Zucharov
spat a dark oath and brushed the blade aside, counter-attacking with a flurry of
sword-strokes that swiftly forced Stefan back.
Zucharov drove in again, the heavy steel went just wide of Stefan’s shoulder
and sliced deep into the side of the bridge. The bridge shuddered violently,
shards of fibrous bone breaking away to scatter into the water below. In the
instant it took him to free his sword Stefan had struck back, this time finding
his range and aiming a blow cleanly between Zucharov’s shoulder and chest. The
mutant’s answering howl gave Stefan fresh hope. No longer human, perhaps, but
not immortal either. Not yet.
The wound sparked Zucharov into a frenzied rage of retaliation, and Stefan
had to defend himself beneath a murderous storm of steel. He was drawing on his deepest reserves of strength
and skill, but still some of his opponent’s blows were finding their mark.
Stefan bit back upon the pain as first one arm and then his leg was sliced open,
and still the onslaught continued. Each new wound, however small, was taking its
toll. With every passing moment his strength was being depleted. He was getting
weaker whilst Zucharov only grew stronger. He had to finish this soon. Time was
running out.
Stefan swerved aside to avoid another attack, and found space momentarily to
strike at Zucharov’s unprotected head. He connected only with the flat of his
blade, but the blow was still enough to kill most mortal men. Zucharov was
merely stunned. Before Stefan could draw breath and consolidate, his opponent
had recovered. Now it was Stefan who was caught off-guard. He watched in horror
as Zucharov’s blade slid beneath his ribs, and a white-hot pain erupted in his
gut. He fell back, clutching one hand to the wound, and collapsed against one
side of the narrow bridge.
Through a red haze, Stefan watched the scene unfold. His former comrade
walking towards him, slowly, almost nonchalantly, preparing to end his life. The
gold band, carved with ancient runes, glittered upon his wrist. And behind
Zucharov, somehow far away, Bea still trying desperately to free herself from
the chains shackling her to the bridge. The surface of the bridge was slick and
warm, wet with his own blood. Already the pain was starting to ebb away into a
drowsy numbness that suffused his whole body. This is it, Stefan told himself.
I’m dying.
He felt tired, so very, very tired. He wondered if it was always like this at
the end. It wasn’t right. There should be desperation, anger, a last, defiant
flaring of the light. He looked up at the servant of Tzeentch as his life
drained away. Zucharov was gazing down at him, a quizzical, half-smile on his
tattooed face. Then he raised his sword for what would be the last time.
A sea of thoughts was running through Stefan’s mind. All the friends and
comrades he had known, all the battles fought and won. All had led only to this,
this death, this end. From out of the torrent, the image of his brother appeared. For a moment
Stefan saw him clearly, seated by their favourite corner of the Helmsman, at
home in Altdorf, two pots of good ale set in front of him. Before he had set out
on his journey, Stefan had made a pledge to Mikhal that he would return safe
from Erengrad, that they would meet to drink and tell their stories. A week from
this very day, they should have been sitting at that very table.
This isn’t how it’s meant to be, he told himself. It isn’t supposed to end
like this. And in that moment, the weariness was gone, and rage had taken its
place, a rage against the dark force about to claim his life.
This was not
meant to be.
His sword was gone, lost in the struggle. He had no weapon to defend himself
with but his own, battered body. Zucharov towered over him, savouring the final
moment before the kill. He knew it was hopeless, but his rage would not let
Stefan abandon the fight. He gripped hold of the bridge as best he could and
kicked out blindly, again and again. The target did not matter now. All that
mattered was to fight, and keep fighting until the gift of life was gone.