“Over in those bushes,” she said to him, indicating with her head. “You should find a plant growing in amongst them. Thick fleshy leaves. Small yellow flowers.”
Bruno looked around. “How much do you need?”
“As much as you can find. And quickly,” Bea urged him. “You others,” she said to the soldiers standing by. “Set me a fire and boil as much water as you can find or spare.”
Bruno set off in search of the herb, accompanied by one of the soldiers. Stefan stayed with the others as they gathered wood together and set a pan to boil over the fire. He turned to pick a conversation with the man on his left. From his bearing, Stefan guessed that he was their captain.
“One of your good men?” he asked, indicating the wounded man.
“They’re all good men,” the soldier replied. “Each life is precious to us.”
“What were you doing out here?”
The soldier looked him up and down, as if weighing up his new companion to satisfy himself that Stefan could be trusted with the information. “Out here? Hunting. Hunting the mutants.”
Bruno and his companion arrived back, bearing handfuls of a dark herb speckled with tiny bright gold flowers. Bea directed them to put the gathered herbs upon the ground, then divided them into two piles, one about a quarter of the size of the other. She scooped the larger pile carefully into the bubbling water, collected the smaller pile into her fist and pressed it into the wound. The soldier moaned. His breathing deepened, then became easier and more regular.
One of the soldiers passed Bea a battered metal cup filled from the boiling pan. The steam rising from its brim gave off a pungent, bitter scent. Bea took the cup and handed it to Stefan.
“See if you can get him to drink,” she instructed him. “The more the better.”
The man coughed and spluttered as Stefan forced the hot liquid between his lips. His eyes flickered open, but he still seemed to be barely aware of where he was or who he was with.
Stefan paused and looked around. The watching soldiers were keeping a respectful distance, as if fearful of upsetting the delicate balance of the healing worked by Bea.
“These men,” Stefan said to her. “They appeared as from nowhere. They may be our allies, but we know nothing about them.”
Bea pressed the last of the herbs into a poultice for the wound, then took the cup from Stefan. “I’m not sure who they are either,” she said, “but I’ve seen them, or others like them before. In Mielstadt. I think they came to barter, to trade.”
“Trade?” Stefan asked. “Trade what?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Ah—good.” The wounded soldier had opened his eyes again, and was gazing up at Bea and Stefan. He took a little more of the liquid from the offered cup, moistening his cracked and bloodied lips.
“I was brought unto the Gates of Morr,” he whispered. “You have carried me back. May almighty Sigmar grant you fortune.” He started to lift his head but Bea pushed him back, gently but firmly.
“You need rest,” she told him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
The soldier’s clear blue eyes flicked from side to side. “The mutants?”
“Destroyed,” Bruno told him. “They’ve met their retribution.”
The soldier expelled a deep breath. “Then Sigmar has favoured us. Our work is done.” He sank back upon the ground, and his eyes fell closed. Bea motioned to the soldiers standing round.
“Make sure he gets all the water he needs. And keep the wound clean. The dressing will need changing every hour or so. Above all he needs rest,” she told them. “Don’t even think of moving him before daylight.”
The men conferred briefly. The one whom Stefan now identified as their leader nodded agreement. “Then we’ll make camp here for the night,” he announced. “You’d earn our gratitude if you would stay with us.”
Bea looked to Stefan. “Well?”
Stefan considered. Most of the hours of darkness still lay ahead of them. They could ride on for another hour or so before pitching camp, though the risks of travelling by night were considerably higher than by day. And, if they were to continue on, where would they be travelling to? Stefan thought back to the battle with the mutants. For a while he had had a purpose, powerful and all-consuming. For a moment all other thoughts, even of Zucharov, had been obliterated.
Now, perhaps for the first time since they had left Mielstadt, Stefan acknowledged the uncomfortable truth. They were on a journey without maps, trying to recover the trail of a man who had long since vanished. A man who, for all that they knew, might even be dead. Right then, any decision, any direction, seemed as good as any other.
For now, the best decision was probably to stay put for the night. And, in the morning—well, the morning could look after itself.
He looked to Bruno. His comrade shrugged his shoulders. “It’s as good a place as any. At least we’ll have safety in numbers.”
“Agreed,” Stefan said. “We’ll set down here, then see where the day takes us.”
The two friends worked quickly and methodically, fixing a shelter from wood and canvas with the practiced ease of men long upon the road. By the time they’d finished, Stefan realised he was desperately tired. Riding on would have been the wrong decision.
He stretched out upon the hard ground, waves of aching weariness suddenly flooding his body. Bruno sat beside him, and both sat watching the brisk efficiency of the soldiers as they constructed their own camp. Bea still knelt by the side of the wounded man, her hands resting upon the freshly bandaged wound.
“Amazing,” Bruno commented. “You wouldn’t think she was tired at all.”
“No more than you would tire if you had a sword in your hand,” Stefan said. “It’s her calling, just as the sword is ours. We serve the same purpose, I think. But in very different ways.”
Bruno nodded agreement. “I know we didn’t plan it this way. But we couldn’t have chosen a fairer companion.”
Stefan looked at his friend, reading the expression in his face. It was a look he’d grown familiar with over the years. “Careful,” he cautioned. “The last woman you took a fancy to betrayed us. Turned out to be a pawn of Chaos that nearly got us all killed.”
Bruno sat silent for a moment, the darkness sparing his blushes. “That was different,” he said at last. “Bea’s no pawn of Chaos. I don’t think she’s going to betray us, either.”
“No,” Stefan agreed. “Nor do I. I don’t think so at all.”
The two men sat side by side as the evening waned, the twin moons melting into the night sky. Gradually the fires dotted across the camp faded as well, until finally all around was darkness. At length Bea joined them, settling herself at Bruno’s side.
“Quite a day,” she observed.
“We’ll have easier ones,” Stefan replied. “And harder ones as well, no doubt.”
“Looks like your patient will pull through,” Bruno said. “I’d have marked that man for dead. You excel at your craft.”
“And you at yours,” Bea replied.
“Stefan’s the finest swordsman you’ll see,” Bruno affirmed. “The best.”
“So is every man,” Stefan countered. “We all think that. Until we meet the one swordsman who’s better still. Somewhere, death waits along the road for us all.”
Bea sat contemplating Stefan’s words. “This man you’re pursuing,” she said at last. “Alexei Zucharov. Could he be that one?”
The words struck home with Stefan, with surprising force. “What makes you ask that?” he said, sharply.
Bea shrugged. “I’m not sure. But sometimes I wonder if in some way we all pursue our end, our undoing.”
“A troubling thought.”
“Don’t get the wrong idea. Zucharov isn’t invincible,” Bruno said, firmly. “And anyway, we’re jumping to too many conclusions. We don’t even know for sure that he is our enemy.”
“We don’t,” Stefan agreed. “But that’s one question I can’t leave unanswered. That
’s why we must keep searching,” he told Bea. “Until we find him.”
“And then?”
Stefan had no ready answer. Since Erengrad, he had been consumed by the hunt for the man who had once been his comrade. But every journey must have an end. He could not yet see what that end might be, but in his heart he knew that it was impossible for both him and Zucharov to survive. Bea’s words echoed in his mind, an unwelcome harbinger of death.
“Let’s talk about you,” he said steering the conversation towards other things. “You heal people, I kill them. You have the better part of virtue, I think.”
The briefest of smiles crossed Bea’s features. “You didn’t kill me,” she said. “In fact, if it wasn’t for the two of you I doubt I’d still be alive. I haven’t the power to disappear completely.”
She reached out towards Stefan, her fingers tracing the cuts on his face. Stefan flinched back as her touch drew a stinging pain from the wound.
“That could leave you scarred,” she said at last. “Put your head back.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” she said, briskly.
Too tired to argue, Stefan did as he was bidden. He smelt a strong medicinal scent in his nostrils, and a sudden, stinging pain as Bea rubbed what remained of the herb into the cut running down the side of his face. The effect was immediate, and surprising. The pain was still there, but softened by a gentle, suffusing warmth that flowed down the whole of his body, soaking into his aching limbs.
“Ulric’s toil!” he murmured. “What is that stuff?”
“Just an ordinary flower, the sort you can find growing almost anywhere.”
“Well the effects aren’t ordinary, I can tell you that.”
Bea pressed her palm firmly against the side of Stefan’s face. “It’s how you use it that matters. And who uses it,” she added. “That’s what makes a healer. Now sit still and let the herb do its work.”
Stefan closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the pain melting away from his body. “I could get too used to this,” he observed.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “You’ll feel nothing of it by morning.”
“What about our friend over there. Will he live?”
“He’s a strong man. He’ll pull through.”
“What about his companions?” he asked. “Did you learn any more from them?”
“Not a lot. I got the feeling they were waiting to see whether I was going to heal their comrade.” She lifted her hand clear, and inspected her work. “Or kill him,” she said. “There. You’ll do. Now you need sleep, like Bruno here.”
Stefan looked round. Bruno had curled himself under a blanket and was indeed solidly asleep. Stefan had the sudden sense of time passing unnoticed. He made a half-hearted attempt to calculate how long he must have been sitting with Bea, but he was fast succumbing to a seductive drowsiness.
Sleep. Suddenly sleep was very appealing. He began to slip into a soft, blurred world where nothing but sleep was of any consequence. When he tried to speak, his tongue felt thick and slow.
“Bruno,” he murmured. Wasn’t there something he was going to mention about Bruno? But Stefan lost his grip on whatever it might have been as he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He woke with the sun low in his eyes, and a biting wind blowing across the open plain of the Ostermark. Stefan felt refreshed, wonderfully rested. As he stripped away the covering blanket he put his hand, instinctively, to his cheek. He probed the line of the wound where the mutant’s sword had cut through the flesh. The incision was still there, but very faint, and all pain was gone. He looked around, and saw Bea sitting close by, watching him carefully.
“Keeping an eye on your patient?”
Bruno appeared, walking in tandem with one of the soldiers. The wounded man has made a good recovery. “Their captain would like to speak with us.”
Stefan got up and brushed himself down. “Gladly,” he said. “I’m sure there’s much we’d like to know about each other.”
“I’ll wait here,” Bea offered. The soldier made a short, deferential bow. “If you please,” he said, “the captain asked to speak with you in particular.”
“In that case, lead on,” Bea replied, graciously. The three followed the soldier through the remnants of the previous night’s battle: broken carcasses, grotesque collages of twisted bones, cracked and blackened by the flames. Red-dad soldiers moved amongst the debris, carefully moving the remains of any mutants into pits to be burned. Wisps of smoke still trickled skywards where fires had been kindled.
The wounded man was sitting upright, supported by another soldier and a second man that Stefan recognised as the captain. He saluted Stefan and his comrades, and beckoned them across. He offered his hand to each of them in turn, and smiled a broad welcome.
“I must offer my gratitude to you first of all,” he said to Bea. “But for you another of my men would not have seen this dawn.”
“His constitution is strong,” Bea told him. “And his spirit wasn’t ready to relinquish this life just yet. You have a powerful will to live,” she told the wounded man.
“Nonetheless.” The captain looked her up and down with clear grey eyes. “We are in your debt.” He turned to Stefan and Bruno. “And to you, too, gentlemen. Your intervention in our struggle was decisive.”
“Our paths crossed, and we met with the same purpose,” Stefan replied. “Between us we’ve wiped more foul creatures of Chaos from the face of this world. For that we can all take credit.”
The other man smiled, pleased by Stefan’s words. He held out his hand. “Hans Baecker at your service.”
“Stefan Kumansky. This is Bruno Hausmann, Beatrice de Lucht.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Ultimately, to Altdorf,” Stefan replied.
“And immediately?” The steely eyes fixed Stefan with a quizzical stare.
Stefan paused, thinking about his answer. “The honest answer,” he said eventually, “we’re not sure. South, and west, I suppose.”
Baecker nodded, thoughtfully.
“And you?” Stefan asked him. “May we know where you come from?”
“We serve the rulers of Sigmarsgeist,” Baecker replied. “We are honoured to wear that livery.”
“It’s an honourable name, and a memorable one,” Stefan agreed. “But not one I’ve heard. This town—or city—lies somewhere far distant?”
Baecker shook his head. “No more than a day and a night’s ride at most,” he replied. “I’m not surprised that our citadel is unfamiliar to you. As yet, the name of Sigmarsgeist is known to few beyond the walls. But that will change,” he assured Stefan. “Believe me, friend, the time will come when all the Old World will know and bless that name.”
“That may well be,” Stefan replied, slightly startled by the scale of Baecker’s boast. “Certainly, your valour speaks favourably for your allegiance. We share your abomination of evil. I wish you and your people well.”
“Why not ride with us?” Baecker suggested. You would find much to commend in Sigmarsgeist. The citadel is only a few days distant. You would be made welcome-' he looked at each of them in turn. “Each of you has virtues to be valued.”
“Well…” Stefan exchanged glances with Bruno. Baecker was a brave man who had shown them nothing but courtesy, and he had no wish to offend him. But a diversion to a city he had never heard of was not part of his plans. “Your offer honours us, but—”
“I should like to see this citadel of yours,” Bea interrupted. “I should like that very much.”
Hans Baecker bowed. “And Sigmarsgeist would be honoured to receive you. Will you not come?” he asked Stefan. “I promise you, the citadel is a jewel worth beholding.”
Stefan thought about it. He was still unsure exactly where Sigmarsgeist lay, but it was at least a full day’s ride, and possibly in the wrong direction. But, then again, what was the right direction?
Bea read the hesitation in Stefan’s eyes. “You’re wo
ndering about him, aren’t you?” she said. “The man you’ve been pursuing. You’re wondering where you should go next?”
Stefan nodded. If he were honest, they had lost all trace of Alexei. A part of Stefan felt relieved that Zucharov had not been with the mutants. Perhaps he was not yet ready to face that final moment of confrontation.
But it could not be delayed indefinitely. Stefan knew that, before long, he must track down Zucharov. And, in truth, he could have gone in any direction. For now, perhaps, Sigmarsgeist would offer a chance to reprovision, perhaps to rest for a while before taking stock and moving on. If the battle-hardened men they had just encountered were any measure of the place, then Sigmarsgeist might be as good a direction as any, for now.
“We’ll ride with you as far as your citadel,” he told Baecker. “We’ll gladly take of your hospitality, and buy food for our further travels if we may.”
Hans Baecker gripped Stefan’s hand, and shook it enthusiastically. “Sigmar was truly smiling upon us last night, Stefan Kumansky. Sigmarsgeist awaits us. It will not disappoint.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Dying of the Light
The man who had once been Alexei Zucharov was on a journey.
It was a journey which had no defined end, and no beginning that he could remember any longer. It was a journey that had no direction of his own choosing, yet the path that he travelled was unswerving and unalterable. It was a journey that could be measured by the passing of days, and by the miles unravelled upon the road. But, more than all of this, it was a journey through his inner world, a journey taking him from the mortal man he had once been, towards a being he could not yet comprehend. Change was coming upon Alexei Zucharov, and it was relentless and unyielding.
On his journey, Alexei swam through dreams that invaded his waking thoughts and filled his hours of sleep. Dreams of what was, and what might have been. Dreams of what might yet be, and dreams of what now would never come to pass. He saw there were hundreds of futures, futures seeded from the random fates of hundreds of pasts. Any of them might have been true, or none of them. All certainty was lost and nothing was yet decided.
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