The bridge shuddered again. He heard Bea cry out. Then came a single sound, a
sharp crack as a bridge strut broke in two. Zucharov spun about, suddenly
realising that Bea had managed to break free. For a moment, his attention was
drawn away from Stefan, and Stefan knew he had to grasp that fleeting
opportunity.
He poured what was left of his strength into one final kick. His booted foot
missed Zucharov but connected squarely with the side of the bridge. A tremor ran
the length of the skeletal structure, and the bridge lurched violently to one
side.
Zucharov spun around, surprise and confusion visible beneath the markings on
his face. The sudden shift in bulk and weight caused the bridge to roll even
further. Zucharov toppled forward, off-balance, towards the prostrate figure of
Stefan.
One chance, the rage told Stefan. Once chance. This is it. He lifted an arm
as Zucharov skidded towards him, and managed to hook his fingers around his
opponent’s belt.
The mutant staggered forward, trying to hold his balance on the collapsing
structure. Stefan shut his eyes and rolled sideways, moving with the sway of the
bridge, jamming his foot hard against the side wall. The brittle structure
shattered and cracked, and suddenly, briefly, Stefan sensed only a roaring in
his ears and empty space beneath his body as the bridge disintegrated.
The water was dark, and very, very cold. There was a burst of sound as Stefan
struck the surface and then everything was stillness. He was alone, falling ever
deeper towards the heart of Tal Dur. He knew he must be drowning, and yet the
rage inside him was gone, replaced by a calm serenity. In his mind, he saw again
the image of his brother seated at his table at the inn. Mikhal looked up at
Stefan, and beckoned to him. No, Stefan told himself. This is not how it is when
you die. This is how it is when life is given back.
His head broke the surface of the water and sweet air flooded into his lungs.
He saw the moons up above, pale light shimmering on the surface of the lake. And
he saw Bea, stepping from the shallows towards him, unfurling the severed links
of the chain from her wrists. Stefan’s sword was tucked into the belt at her
waist.
Stefan lifted an arm clear of the water. To his astonishment, he discovered
that he felt no weariness, no pain. His whole body felt renewed. He was giddy,
drunk with newfound strength.
“It’s all right!” he shouted to Bea. He stretched out, and began to swim
slowly towards her. A look of alarm passed across Bea’s face. She raised her
hands in warning.
“Wait!” she called out. “Stay where you are, Stefan. Don’t move!”
“It’s all right,” Stefan shouted back. “I can make it.”
“No!” Bea commanded. “Respect the power of Tal Dur.” She shed the last of the
chains, and swam to meet Stefan halfway across the pool. “Take hold of my hands,”
she instructed him. “Both of them. Tal Dur will only lend its power through one
blessed with the healing gift.”
She clasped Stefan’s wrists securely in her own. “Now,” she said. “We go.
Slowly.”
Together they swam back to the shore and emerged, dripping, at the edge of
the lake, amidst the rubble of the palace.
“Your wounds?” Bea asked. Stefan looked down in wonder. The gash beneath his
ribs had closed. The scar lining his flesh seemed already to be fading. Other,
smaller wounds had simply vanished.
“Truly,” Stefan said, “your powers are wondrous.”
“The power comes from Tal Dur,” Bea said, quietly. “I am nothing but the
vessel.”
Stefan gazed back across the lake. “What happened to Zucharov?”
Bea shook her head. “Wait,” she urged. “Watch.”
For what seemed like an age, nothing disturbed the glass-like sheen of the
water. Then bubbles of air broke the surface, one or two only at first, then
steadily more. Stefan felt his body tense. “Give me the sword,” he whispered.
Alexei Zucharov rose like a ghost from the waters. Tal Dur had wrought its
changes upon him, too. He seemed smaller, physically diminished. All trace of
the tattoo had been washed from his body, every mark upon his skin, was gone.
His eyes, when they met with Stefan’s were deep, untainted blue. The eyes of a
long-vanished comrade.
“Stefan—” he began, uncertainly. “Stefan?”
Zucharov edged forward and then stopped, as if something unseen had taken
hold of him. Stefan’s grip on the sword eased, and then tightened again. Another
change was sweeping over Zucharov. His eyes dulled and widened until only the
dark kernels were visible. He looked at Stefan again but no longer knew him. His
body began to shake, violently, as some invisible force began to break through
from within.
One chance, the voice told Stefan again. He stepped into the waters, his
sword poised high above his head. “Goodbye, Alexei,” he said, softly.
The water around Zucharov began to stir, swirling around him like a vortex.
Stefan drove forward, but never delivered the final blow. Zucharov’s mouth
opened in a silent scream as his body thrashed against the force pulling him
down. The snaking waters wrapped around him, dragging him back towards the depths. Stefan was close enough to touch him, he could have
reached out and pulled him clear. Their eyes met for one last, fleeting moment
before Tal Dur sucked Zucharov down.
The earth itself seemed to shudder and cry out. Stefan felt a mighty pulse as
it passed through the ground beneath his feet, spreading from the centre of Tal
Dur in a shock wave through the ruins of Sigmarsgeist. The waters rose up in a
great wave, then settled for the last time, like a shroud above Alexei Zucharov’s
head.
A phalanx of Red Guard bore Bruno’s body down to the water’s edge. He was
still breathing, but he was surely nearer to death than life. Bruno was not yet
within the realm of Morr, but his soul stood close by the final gates. His last
moments were steadily trickling away.
“Hurry,” Bea implored the guard. “Time is running out.” Running out for Bruno,
and for Tal Dur too. Since Zucharov had been sucked down by the whirlpool, the
fall of the waters had been dramatic. The lake that had been Tal Dur had halved
in size in less than an hour, and the levels were still falling. All across what
remained of Sigmarsgeist, the waters were draining away. Soon there would be no
sign of their existence save for the ravages they had left behind.
Bea waded into the water, bearing Bruno’s body into the depths. She motioned
for Stefan and the soldiers to stay back.
“Wait,” she told him. “Trust me. Trust in the healing powers of Tal Dur.”
She lay Bruno upon his back, then guided the injured man across the surface
of the pool until the waters had risen up above her waist. Then, with her arms
supporting Bruno’s weight in the water, she bowed her head until it was resting
upon his chest, and made a silent prayer.
This time the waters did not rise up. There was no turmoil, no churning
whirlpool to answer Bea. Instead the stillness of the waters seemed to reach out
and fill all of Sigmarsgeist. For all his desperate worry for his comrade,
Stefan found himself grow calm. He looked about, across what remained of the citadel to north and south. For a moment he thought about the
Norscans, whether they or any other of the Chaos creatures could have survived.
But Zucharov and Anaise had gone, and with them had gone the poison that had
swept through Sigmarsgeist. The heart of the citadel was gone, and with it too
the rage of battle.
Bea looked up from her prayers, and beckoned Stefan towards her.
Bruno lay very still in the water, an expression of calm on his face. For a
moment Stefan thought his comrade was lost, but then Bruno began to breathe
again, slow and regular, like a man in the depths of restful sleep. Finally he
opened his eyes and looked up at Bea. He smiled at the sight of her.
“I thought for a moment I had died,” he murmured, “and that you were the
goddess Shallya, come to receive me.”
Bea lowered her head, and kissed him gently. “You did not die,” she
whispered. “Nor am I the goddess, though I know now how I may serve her.”
Stefan looked at Bruno and Bea in turn, and shook his head in relief and
disbelief. “Tal Dur?” he asked her.
“Tal Dur,” Bea affirmed.
“But the same waters destroyed Zucharov,” Stefan said. “How can that be?”
“Tal Dur looked into his soul,” Bea said. “And gave back what it found within.
Evil begot evil. Tal Dur destroyed Zucharov as it destroyed Sigmarsgeist, and
all evil that ran within it.”
“It could have been different,” she continued, thoughtfully. “Theirs were once
noble dreams, Konstantin and Anaise both. I’m sure of that.”
“But those dreams are buried beneath the rubble now, and Konstantin and
Anaise with them,” Stefan replied. “Evil will always find ways to taint the
purest of hearts. We must be ever vigilant, lest ambition and greed poison our
noble intent.”
“The gods will bear witness to that,” Bea agreed.
They walked side by side through the ruins as day broke across Sigmarsgeist.
The rising sun was welcome but unforgiving, exposing the full horror of the
devastation that had swept through Sigmarsgeist. Very little of the citadel had been left
untouched. The final shock that Stefan had felt standing by Tal Dur had torn
through the ruins like a hammer blow, devastating those few buildings still
standing. The dream that had been Sigmarsgeist had been left hollow, and empty.
It seemed far from certain that it would ever live again.
The floods had continued to recede, ebbing away almost as fast as they had
first risen. Before long, nothing would remain of the waters.
“I’m not sure that we are ready for the gifts of Tal Dur,” Stefan mused. “With
such a power for evil as well as good, I’m not sure we ever will be ready.”
Bea said nothing, just continued to walk at his side. Stefan had already
noticed a distance that had come between them. They were comrades still, without
doubt, but comrades now bound upon very different paths. They walked in silence
for a while before Stefan spoke again.
“Tal Dur surely worked its wonders upon Bruno,” he said. “I’d wager he’ll
recover, stronger and healthier than ever he was before.”
“He has rested the better part of the night,” Bea replied. “Soon he’ll be
ready to travel.”
She smiled, a little ruefully. “Beyond that, we cannot say. Tal Dur has
gifted Bruno his life,” she said. “But it will not be the same life, the same
future that he had before.”
“All our futures are unwritten,” Stefan said. “That is the only certainty we
may know.”
He took Bea’s hand. “What about you?” he asked. “What hopes for the future
have you?”
Bea stopped short, gazing about her at the people as they passed by, men and
women struggling with bundles filled with clothes or food, beginning the long
battle to rebuild their lives.
“I shall stay here,” she said at last. “This is where I belong. I know that
now. I think perhaps I always knew it.”
“What will you do?”
Bea laughed. “Whatever I can. I don’t think I’ll lack for opportunity. There
is work to be done, amongst the sick, the wounded, the starving. I can’t help them all, but I will do what I can.”
“Does Bruno know?” Stefan asked. “That you mean to stay, I mean?”
“Not yet,” Bea said, her voice very small. “Maybe in his heart though, yes.”
“You know you could ride back with us,” Stefan said. “To the Empire. Back to
Altdorf. There’d be a life for you there.”
Bea smiled, and squeezed Stefan’s hand. “A life, maybe,” she said. “But not
your life, Stefan. Nor Bruno’s, either. Your life is with the sword,” she said.
“Mine is not. Mine is to heal.” She looked around. “I’m going back,” she said at
last. “Back to my calling, I mean.” She opened her hand to reveal the battered
icon of Shallya that Bruno had worn about his neck.
“Bruno wanted me to have this,” she said. “I don’t think even he knew quite
how right that was.”
Stefan looked at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Bea flushed, and took a breath. “A long time ago, before I knew I had a gift,
I was a Sister,” she said. “A Sister of Shallya, a priestess. Then I discovered
that I had other powers, powers to heal that came from magic, as well as from
the divine will of the goddess.”
“I still don’t understand,” Stefan said. “Surely your healing powers were a
blessing, wherever they came from?”
Bea laughed again. “Others didn’t see it that way,” she said. “What I took as
a gift, others saw as witchcraft. I had to renounce my calling, and leave the
Sisterhood. I thought perhaps in Mielstadt I would be left to work in peace,”
she said. “But—well, you know the rest.” She sighed, then brightened. “But
here, I won’t be judged. Here I can start afresh, and use my gifts as they were
always meant to be used. The goddess knows, there’s work enough to be done.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that,” Stefan conceded. He looked around, surveying
the scenes of desolation on all sides. Most of the townsfolk who had survived
would be left without homes or shelter of any sort. He feared it would not be
long before disease and starvation would stalk the ruins in search of easy prey.
“Are you sure you want to stay?” Stefan asked her. “These are dangerous times,
now more than ever. The Dark Powers will turn their gaze upon the ruins of
Sigmarsgeist. It may not be long before they send their armies here.”
“All the more reason for me to stay,” Bea said, resolutely. “These people may
be beaten down, but their hearts are strong. They came here to build a fortress
against the evil, the dark tide of Chaos. They shouldn’t be abandoned now.”
They rounded a corner, stepping across mounds of rubble and slurry. From the
opposite direction, a familiar figure came into view, a well-loaded sack
balanced upon his back.
“Lothar!” Stefan called out. “Lothar Koenig!”
The bounty hunter looked up, and shuffled towards them. The contents of the
sack gave a metallic ring as Koenig set it upon the ground.