01 - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  Tomas’ estimate had been three hours. They had passed that point a full hour previously, with still no sign of the well in sight. Then, just as the forest seemed to be drawing in even more tightly around them, the horses broke through into what looked like a small clearing in the trees. Tomas dismounted smartly and walked to the centre of the clearing where branches had been cut and laid down across the floor of the forest. He bent down upon his knees then turned back towards the others.

  “This is it,” he told them. “Help me, please.”

  Bruno jumped down from his horse and began helping Tomas lift the branches clear. Stefan dismounted more slowly, taking a long and careful look at the surroundings as he climbed from the saddle. “Stay mounted,” he told Alexei. “It looks all right, but looks are often deceptive out here.” Alexei nodded, drew out his sword, and laid it resting beneath his hand on the saddle in front of him.

  It took a few minutes for the two men to clear away the covering of branches. If they had been deliberately placed, then they proved an effective camouflage. At last they had cleared away the last of it, and Stefan saw Tomas reach down into what looked like a small pit in the forest floor, and grip hold of something buried there. He struggled for a few moments, cursing as he worked. Then, suddenly, he fell back, pulling a silt-encrusted iron plate with him. He clambered back on to his feet and held the rusted object up like a trophy for the others to see.

  Bruno peered down into the pit and signaled back to Stefan and Alexei.

  “He was right,” he shouted back. “There’s water here, about ten feet down. Smells clean, and fresh too.”

  “What luck,” Alexei commented, quietly. “Let’s not tarry here too long,” he counseled.

  “All right,” Stefan said, motioning to the two women. “We’ll drink what we need while we’re here then gather enough to refill all the remaining water skins. I agree with Alexei. We don’t want to be hanging around here any longer than we need to.”

  He approached the edge of the well, ready to test the first cupful that Tomas drew out. As he knelt down, he was aware of something moving directly above him, something dropping down on top of him from one of the trees overhead. Pure reflex made Stefan roll to one side, out of the path of the falling object.

  At first he took it to be part of the tree itself falling, so alike in shape and colour did it seem to be. But in the split second that the object dropped through the air it changed, so that by the time it hit the floor of the forest, still upright, it had taken on the shape of a man.

  In that same fractured moment, as Stefan reached for his sword, he saw more figures dropping out of the trees on every side. The forest was suddenly filled with the screams of creatures that sounded barely human, and the air was a blur of rainbow colours as dull browns and greens burst into new lurid colours all around them.

  The creature made a lunge at Stefan, determined not to miss its target a second time. Stefan still hadn’t decided whether the garish creature bearing down on him was man or beast, but he knew it meant to kill him. It raked at Stefan’s face with claw-like hands, but in its haste to attack got too close. Stefan swerved away from the blow and jabbed at the creature’s body with his sword. Barely had the first attacker fallen when a second was upon him. This one was more clearly a man, yet its limbs were almost twice their natural length. This attacker brandished a knife in one gnarled hand, and he was no less reckless in pursuing Stefan than his predecessor had been. Yet again, Stefan exploited his attacker’s animal aggression to his own advantage, dodging the thrusts from the knife until he could land a single, telling blow with his sword. The blade caught the painted man just below the neck and sliced open his chest. A gout of crimson blood spouted from the wound as the man fell forwards, screaming, into the undergrowth.

  At last Stefan had a moment to look around. Their attackers had outnumbered them by at least two to one at the outset, but those odds were being rapidly narrowed. Three more of the vivid-hued monsters lay dead upon the ground, slain, Stefan supposed, by Bruno and Tomas. Alexei was setting about a further two of the creatures in a fury, and Elena, too, seemed intent on making her mark. As Stefan watched, she ran one of the attackers through with her sword, killing the creature with a single stroke.

  Two of the remaining creatures moved in on Elena, feathered chameleons that shimmered in rainbow colours as they attacked. Stefan pushed his way between the mutants, scything through the torso of one with his sword before turning to face the other. Before he had time to aim a second blow the creature toppled face-first in front of him, felled by a thunderous blow to the neck from Alexei Zucharov.

  The attack ended as unexpectedly as it had begun. Suddenly, as if on a signal, the creatures pulled away and retreated back into the cover of the forest. The bright reds and yellows daubed upon their bodies faded back to dull grey and ochre, quickly making them invisible. Even those that lay slain upon the ground began to disappear, their bodies seeming to rot away where they lay, melting into the loamy soil until they literally became one with the forest.

  The travelers took stock of their wounds. Most had collected scratches or grazes where the creatures had managed to connect with talons or knives, but none was seriously wounded.

  Alexei Zucharov had acquired a cut that ran the length of his left forearm, but he shrugged the wound off as nothing more than an irritation. He seemed more concerned that the creatures had managed to retreat before he could kill more of them. Stefan, too, was unhappy that at least half of the attackers had got away, but he was relieved they themselves had survived intact.

  “Who in Sigmar’s name were they?” Bruno asked. “Who, or maybe what?”

  “What indeed?” Stefan echoed. This, for sure, had been no simple bandit raid. Whatever the creatures were, their motive had been to kill, not to rob.

  “Changelings, chameleons, whatever you want to call them,” Bruno went on. “Those were mutants.”

  Stefan nodded. There was little doubt of that. “Mutants,” he agreed. “Creatures of Tzeentch.”

  Elena stepped forward. Her dress was torn and bloodied, but she seemed to have survived the encounter without a cut. Lisette was similarly unscathed, but she looked utterly petrified by her experience, and she clung to Elena as a child might clutch at its doll.

  “Do you think they were guarding the well?” Elena asked, voicing the question in Stefan’s mind. “Do you think they were just lying in wait in those trees, ready to attack whoever came to drink from it?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Bruno said. “Possible that it’s just—”

  “Another coincidence?” Alexei interrupted. He looked fired with rage: still pumped full of energy after the battle. And there seemed little doubt where he was going to direct his energy next. “No,” he said. “We’ve had far too many ‘coincidences’ already. We were led into a trap.”

  Tomas took one look at Zucharov, and quickly read his intention. He turned to flee, but there was never any chance that he was going to outrun the younger, bigger man. Zucharov brought him to the ground, pinned him there, and held a balled fist above Tom Murer’s terrified face.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t finish you off now, you bastard,” he spat. He raised the fist ready to strike.

  “I’ll give you a reason,” Stefan said. He stepped in and caught hold of Alexei’s arm. It was like trying to hold back a mighty hammer, but he managed to keep Alexei from smashing the blow down into Tomas Murer’s face. Alexei turned towards Stefan, his eyes burning with anger. “Come on!” he shouted at Stefan. “We’d be better off rid of him. What murderous trap is he going to lead us into next?”

  “It doesn’t look good, Tom,” Stefan said. “You led us here, and they were waiting for us. What’s your explanation for that?”

  Tomas looked from Stefan to Alexei, in clear fear of his life. “I don’t have an explanation, Stefan. I just did my best to find the well for us, that’s all, I swear it.”

  “Well, someone told them where we were g
oing to be,” Alexei said, his voice quieter now, but no less venomous. “And right now, you’re the obvious choice.” He turned to Stefan again. “We can’t take the risk of letting him go,” he said. “We have to kill him.”

  Stefan knew there was truth in what he said. Until now, he had been prepared to give Tomas the benefit of the doubt. But Alexei was right: this was one misfortune too many, and Tomas Murer was the most likely culprit. It was rarely in his heart to kill a man on no more than a suspicion, but he wondered now if they had any choice.

  He looked up at Elena, who seemed at once to read what was going through his mind. “You’re not going to kill him?” she asked, incredulous. “On what evidence? Just a suspicion? By the gods, you’re no better than the so-called evil we’ve set ourselves against.”

  “Well,” Stefan said, “have you a better idea?”

  Elena thought for a moment. Tomas fixed her with a pleading stare, realising that this might be his only hope. “Yes,” Elena said at last. “I do have a better idea. Let him still ride with us. We can keep him under guard if you like—we should be capable of that much between us. Let him ride—we still need a guide for the forest. Let us take him with us to Middenheim, and there the priest can judge his soul. Then if he’s found wanting…” She let the words tail off, but there was no mistaking the meaning.

  Stefan turned to Bruno. “What do you think?”

  Bruno shrugged: “There’s justice in that, one way or another.” He lifted a cup to his lips, and took a small sip of the water drawn from the well. “There’s no trickery with this,” he said. “The water’s pure.”

  Stefan nodded. His heart felt lighter. “What about you, Alexei?”

  “I say kill him and be done,” Alexei said. “It’s a risk to do otherwise.”

  “All life is risk,” Stefan countered. “And Elena is right; if we kill without justice we start to become that which we would destroy. Over time, we destroy ourselves.”

  Alexei grunted, with little satisfaction, but released his grip on the other man. “Consider your judgment postponed,” he said to Tomas. “But not indefinitely.”

  Stefan looked for Elena again, but she had already begun walking back towards the horses. Something there at the edge of the clearing had drawn her attention. Stefan watched her move amongst the tethered animals, then give a sharp cry that sounded like anguish or despair.

  As one, Stefan and Bruno ran towards her. It quickly became obvious what was wrong. The saddlebags had been stripped from the horses’ backs. Most of their provisions were gone; what little remained lay strewn over the ground, trodden into the sodden earth. They had been carrying enough food for another week’s journey. Now they would be lucky if they had enough left to see them through until dawn.

  For a moment the travelers could only stand, staring at what might prove to be the utter destruction of their hopes. Finally Elena bent down, and, with Lisette’s help, began gathering together what remained of the bread, fruits and pouches of salted meat.

  “Maybe it’ll be all right,” she said, quietly. “Maybe we can survive living off the land.”

  “Forget that,” Alexei said, sourly. “If you were lucky enough to find anything to eat out here it’d as like as not poison you.”

  “Is that right?” Stefan demanded of Tomas Murer. “Is there no chance of surviving off what we can find in the forest?”

  “It’s true,” Tomas said. “There’s hardly a thing that lives or grows in the Drakwald that a man could eat.” His voice sounded hoarse, weak. “Stefan, I swear, I had no idea this was going to happen.”

  First the water, now the food. Stefan was finding it harder by the moment to resist the thought that they were being conspired against.

  “Well, somebody did,” he muttered. He gathered up the reins of his horse, and pulled himself up in the saddle. “One thing’s for sure, now,” he told the others, tersely. “We can forget about reaching Eisenhof. We need to find food and water, and we need to find it soon.” He pulled his horse around, hoping the gods would grant him direction. “We’re going to have to take our chances now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Enemy Within

  Petr Illyich Kuragin gazed down upon the map of the Old World spread before him, and sighed. The map was recent; two or three years old at most. As was customary, the map had the land of Kislev set at its centre, its borders drawn in strong black lines, solid and secure. The names of the great cities—Kislev, mighty Praag and Erengrad itself, stood out in rich, tooled script, proud and impregnable. He found himself wondering how much longer that the Kislev of the map would exist.

  It would survive at least as a memory, as a place in his mind, so long as he survived, he supposed. How long would that be for? The Kuragin mansion, set high upon the hill overlooking the heart of Erengrad, was fortified and well guarded. For now, it seemed he was secure enough. Erengrad itself was another matter.

  He stood up, and gazed for a moment at his reflection in the mirror. What he saw did not greatly comfort him. The face staring back at him had grown fat with good living over the years. Now deprivation was leeching it thin. His skin had begun to droop down in folds around his face, leaving it like a crumpled, empty sack. He grimaced, scraping his thinning hair back from his face. In a few weeks he’d have taken on the look of a cadaver.

  “You’re getting old,” he said to himself, quietly. “Old and tired. Tired of this miserable struggle.”

  Wearily, he returned to the map and located the foreign city that lay far to the west of Kislev. He stared at the name: Altdorf. He tried to visualise the place, struggled to fill the city of his imagining with colour and life. No images came. It hardly mattered. He doubted he would ever go there. Perhaps he would never set foot beyond Erengrad again, not in this life.

  He placed a battered locket on the map next to the point where Altdorf was marked. He opened the locket, as he had done often in the last few weeks. The face of a young girl stared confidently out at him. What would she look like now? Try as he might, he could make no connection between the portrait and the living, breathing woman he had pledged union with.

  Apparently they had been introduced once—he a young knight, Elena Yevschenko barely more than a child. Had he been able to see into the future, might he have said to her at that first meeting, “One day we shall be wed” She probably wouldn’t have believed it then. He wasn’t sure he believed it now. Altdorf was a lifetime away. Who knew if the first daughter of the House of Yevschenko was really on her way back to Erengrad? And, even if she was, what difference would it make? He feared that Erengrad was dying, that their efforts to save it would prove too little, too late. The alliance between their two once-great families—and the restoration of the city—had rarely seemed less probable.

  “One day we shall be wed, and Erengrad will be saved.” He laughed, but with bitterness, as he spoke the words out loud. Now that time was running short, it seemed like clutching at a last desperate straw. A straw that had nonetheless come to stand for Erengrad’s last hope.

  He walked out upon the walled ramparts of the Kuragin mansion and looked down upon the city. Like a nobleman brought low by ill luck, Erengrad retained its grandeur, but the scars of strife were unmistakable.

  From high upon the battlements, Petr Illyich Kuragin could look out beyond the tall granite walls that encircled the city. Those walls still held firm. The forces of darkness had learned how difficult it was to break a city from without. Not even the might and sorcery of Chaos had been enough to breach the fortress at Praag. The dark ones knew that force alone would not suffice. They had suffered the wounds of Praag, and learned from them.

  This time, it had been different. Instead of battering against its walls, Chaos had curled itself around the very heart of Erengrad, tightening around it like an invisible serpent. A blight had taken hold of the city, within and without. Crops had failed; food had rotted and decayed where it lay in store. Strife and discord had displaced unity and peace. While the rulers of Erengr
ad set against each other in their petty squabble, the people had begun to sicken, and to die.

  Petr Kuragin looked down into the sprawling mass of city streets below. Dotted here and there, he saw several grey bundles of rags that had not been there the night before. The sight was becoming so commonplace that it was an effort to remember that these were once people, men and women with homes and families, lives cut short by famine, sickness or bitter feud. This was where the real battle of Erengrad was being fought. The people were starving for food and starved of leadership, pitted against each other like dogs as, day by day, the life of the city leaked away. All the time the serpent lay in wait, tightening its coiled grip, whispering lies into the ears of the weak and the needy, words that would turn brother against brother, family against family. This was a hidden war of attrition, and it was a war that his city was losing.

  He tugged the chain around his neck free of his tunic and gazed at the dull silver icon. At times like this it seemed laughable to believe that this—this and some giggling schoolgirl he could barely remember—could possibly turn the tide of darkness threatening to engulf his city, his land. But he had to hope, and he had to believe, for without that belief, there would be nothing left. He bent his head and placed a kiss upon the Star in a moment of silent prayer.

  He felt a touch, light upon his shoulder. He turned to find his manservant standing before him. He shook himself out of his reverie.

  “I’m sorry, Dimitri, have you been there long?”

  The old man bowed his head in deference. “I didn’t want to disturb your thoughts, highness, but there’s someone here to see you.”

  “Someone?” Petr felt his heart take an absurd leap of hope for a few moments before he realised, from the look upon Dimitri’s face, that this visitor was not the bearer of good tidings.

  “A visitor,” he said, more soberly. Dimitri inclined his head. “It is Count Vladimir Rosporov,” he went on, without emotion. “He begs that you might spare him a few minutes for an audience.”