02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  Somewhere in a time now past, he remembered a battle, the clash of steel that had marked the point in his history where the change had begun. That had been the beginning. The place where the great river of chance had divided, and swept him along a different path.

  At night gazing sleepless at the stars, he would recall another sky, the blood red sky above the battlefield, smoke rising from the crumbling spires of the beleaguered city. Whether he had been fighting to save the city, or to destroy it, Zucharov no longer knew. But upon that field, as the fog of battle cleared to reveal the cruel fields of the dead, he had come upon his defining hour.

  Time after time upon the journey across the empty plains of the Ostermark Alexei Zucharov relived the moment in the battle that the horseman had appeared. The lone rider, emerging from the enemy lines, riding directly towards him. His callow indifference to Zucharov’s presence. No attempt to flee, nor to defend himself from the blow that would surely cut him down. Alexei Zucharov remembered his disappointment; his sudden, raging fury that this, his final, crowning glory upon that day should be diminished by an opponent who would not even fight back.

  He recalled his rage, that glory should be so unjustly denied him. This should have been the ultimate test, the final battle of champions. Instead, the combat was ended in moments. Alexei watched, as he had watched a hundred times before, the dark knight fall beneath his sword. The distaste, the bitter distaste for this unworthy opponent, so easily despatched. He would strip what he could from the corpse. His sword, his dagger, his other tokens of allegiance to the Dark Powers. He would take his horse, a monstrous beast that stood twice the height of a mortal man. But none of this would be enough to sweeten the bitter taste of victory so easily won.

  And then, Zucharov had seen the amulet. The circle of pure, lustrous gold upon the Chaos warrior’s wrist. In all his battles, amongst all the trophies claimed from his vanquished dead, Alexei had never seen anything like it. Sunlight poured from the clouds and fell upon the golden band, illuminating the nines etched upon its surface. Runes and words that spoke in an unknown tongue, the ancient tongue of the Dark Gods. Of all the treasures Zucharov had found, this, he knew, was the lodestone of his dreams. It had to be his at any cost.

  Zucharov had been ready to cut the gold from the champion’s flesh, but there had been no need. The shimmering band had slipped, smooth and easy, from the dead knight’s hand. But, once he had put it on, Zucharov found that the amulet could not be removed. It sat fast upon his wrist, as if stitched into his flesh. Now it was part of him forever.

  He began to grow stronger. He could feel the raw energy channelling from the gold band into his body. All pain, all weariness, was banished. Soon there would be nothing he could not do. At the same time, the mark of transformation had appeared on his flesh. It had started as a tiny blemish, a mark no more than a bruise, upon the skin beneath the amulet. After a while the bruise had begun to change and grow, altering in shape and line, dissolving and resolving until it became recognisable as an image, like a tattoo. It was the image of a warrior on horseback, rising triumphant above a fallen foe. As Alexei stared down upon it, the image began to move.

  As the days passed, a new world began to unfold in miniature on his living flesh. These were the pictures from his dreams, the images of his past and of all his futures. Through those images Zucharov watched destiny unfold, pointing him upon the road to a future he could yet barely imagine.

  And, as the living tattoo grew, so, in strange tandem, the memory of his former life faded away. Faces, names and events were disappearing, vanishing like the light fading from the dying day. Some things he still remembered, like the name of a place, Altdorf, that had been his home. A name scrawled upon a scrap of paper he had found in a pocket, a letter started and then abandoned, a message never sent from a life that had ceased to exist. Natalia. Natalia, his sister, from a time and place once long ago.

  Other names, other faces. Those he had ridden with into battle. Comrades from home, from Altdorf. All of them would fade soon, fade and be forgotten. A part of Zucharov knew those names were important, a part of his identity, and he struggled to hold on to them as a drowning man clutches at flotsam. But he was locked in a new battle now, a battle for the dominion of his very soul. Alexei Zucharov fought to hold fast to those memories with the tenacity of a man who had never known defeat.

  And then, at other times, he saw that it did not matter. It did not matter because his was a journey of transformation, and all the names and places of fading memory were nothing more than broken fragments, the debris of a life that had been transcended. He was on a journey to a new life, and he had a new companion, a mentor to guide him upon that journey. A voice that spoke to him inside his head. A voice that told him of his history, and of his destiny yet to unfold.

  The voice whispered to Alexei through the long waking hours and across the troubled lands of his dreams. Alexei tried to banish it from his head, shut out the incessant barrage of whispered words. But he could not. It was inside him. It had become part of him. Soon, before long, it would become him, and he it: inseparable, indivisible.

  The voice told him things he had never heard before. It explained to him the true nature of man, and the struggle between light and darkness. It showed him how, beneath that simplistic facade, there lay another battle, far older, far more significant. A battle not between good and evil, but between the strong and the weak. On one side, those vigorous and brave enough to transcend the shackles that tethered man to his mortal misery. Pitted against them, those who would drag mankind down: the weak, the sick and the lame. The indolent, duplicitous parasites who fed upon the bounty gathered by the strong.

  Alexei Zucharov had always known he was one of the strong. Now the voice inside his head would be his guide, and his counsel, upon the long road to the final battle-ground.

  Over time, Alexei grew accustomed to the sound of his mentor, cajoling him, driving his tired flesh onward through day after endless day. He learned his name: Kyros, all-powerful disciple of the great Lord of Transformation, Tzeentch, almighty God of Change. Kyros had plucked Alexei Zucharov from the fields of war and blessed him with the gift of Chaos. Zucharov was to be his champion, his servant upon the mortal world. Through him, the strong would conquer all.

  First, Zucharov had had to get out of the city. He had ridden hard from the gates of Erengrad, across the borders of frozen Kislev and beyond, out into the barren wilderness of the Ostermark. He rode with no knowledge of his destination, only knowing that he was pursued. The men who once called themselves his comrades had become his enemies, and they would pursue Zucharov to his grave if they could. They were the champions of lesser gods: the jealous, covetous gods who laid the shackles of callow mediocrity upon the spirits of men. They were the gods of humility and feeble ambition, the humble, chastening gods of the weak. Kyros would defeat them, and Zucharov would destroy all who took arms against him.

  But his champion was not yet ready. The seeds of Chaos had yet to blossom in the soul of Alexei Zucharov. Until then, Kyros would nurture his champion, nurture and protect him whilst he grew in mind and in body. Until he was ready to fight, and to destroy. For only when all else was laid to waste, when the decaying cities of man had been brought down, only then would the purging fires of Tzeentch work their miracle of transformation, and make the world anew. A world where only the strong would survive.

  So he rode, always keeping ahead of the shadows that snapped at his heels. Sometimes he would still rage against the voice that whispered so sweetly inside his mind. But with each day that passed, he was succumbing to the seduction of its sweet music, its quiet, unyielding logic.

  Change is inevitable, it is the very wheel of life. From change comes strength, comes opportunity.

  I am strong, Zucharov told himself. And I am master of my own destiny. Neither god nor man can subjugate my will. I am free.

  His answer would come as laughter, the laughter of Kyros, and of his master, the Dark Lord of
Change. Freedom is nothing but illusion. The consolation of the weak.

  Once beyond the borders of Kislev, the land opened out, and the world became a vast and empty place. Soon Zucharov was travelling both day and night, resting only when the massive horse that carried him could give no more. He rode until he came, at the dying of the day, to a path that snaked along the spine of a narrow valley. The sun set below the hills and a great shadow fell across the land.

  Zucharov rode on in solitude. The gods had sucked all sound, all life, from the dark hills and left them quiet. He slowed his pace, waited for the word. But the silence of the hills had penetrated his mind. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the voice inside his head was stilled. Now the silence was absolute, his mind an empty, becalmed sea. Alexei Zucharov was alone.

  But not for long. As he held the same slow, unchanging pace, two riders overhauled him, one on either flank, cold moonlight glinting on the steel of their drawn swords. The sound of horses pounding hard upon the trail told him of others, too, bringing up the rear. Alexei Zucharov remembered his time as a warrior. The besieged quarter of his mind that was still the soldier took stock, making order out of the mayhem around him. He was under attack. He pulled his horse to a halt, scanning the valley, the dark cradling hills.

  Four riders had surrounded him. One of them was shouting, trying to draw his attention. Zucharov heard them as he might hear the distant buzzing of insects, a drowsy burr of sound. He listened only for the voice of Kyros, and, when still nothing came he decided at last to ride on, on through the far side of the valley and up the steep incline that led back onto the plain. As he moved forward, two of the riders converged towards him, attempting to block his path. Now, at last, the whisper came. The murmured words of the one who would be his master; part direction, part permission.

  Alexei heard the voice, and smiled. He turned to face the oncoming riders, and was at once upon familiar ground.

  He was going to die. Lothar Koenig was sure of it. The bounty hunter had made a mistake, he had let greed, or need, get the better of him. There must have been a point where escape still remained a possibility. A point where he could have leapt back upon his horse and fled back up the hillside out of the valley. However powerful, however demented the tattooed warrior, there must have been a chance that he could have outpaced him. Forget the butchered body of Carl Durer. Forget his bounty, just get out.

  But he did not turn, and he did not flee. Instead Lothar Koenig stood, transfixed by the beauty of the gold band, by the images that danced upon the other man’s flesh, and by the terrible power of the warrior himself. Now there would be no escaping. He watched the sword lift into the air above his head as he might watch an execution from afar, noticing how the steel of the blade was tainted red from the blood of the slaughtered men. He heard the sound like a tiny sigh as the blade fell, gaining speed as it sliced through the air. It’s over, Lothar, he told himself. Your life, all of this, is over.

  Zucharov had destroyed the bandits, destroyed the worthless vermin who had thought it so simple to rob and murder him. He destroyed them not out of anger, nor in simple defence of his own life, but because they belonged with the weak. If not weak in body, then weak in mind and spirit. Kyros had showed Zucharov the deeper weakness that festered within mankind. The weakness of crude ambition, worthless aspirations. Durer and his men were pitiful wretches, and Zucharov detested them. He cleansed the bandits from the face of the living world, despatched them with his blade and his own bare hands.

  Only when he was done did he see that there was still one other to be accounted for. A fifth player had entered the arena, a solitary figure who now stared at Zucharov like a rabbit snared by a serpent. This one did not belong with the bandit gang. The smell of fear coming off him was different to the grovelling terror of Carl Durer. This man was a clever, thoughtful marauder who would steal unnoticed into the heart of a battle to carry away his prize. This was a man who had calculated his risk, and knew that he had lost.

  But he, too, was weak. He might rank higher than the bandits with their myopic greed, but only within the simple hierarchy of the damned. Zucharov would kill him as he had killed the others. He lifted his sword, measuring a blow that would cleave the other man clean in two. As the blade began to fall, he felt a jolt like a fork of lightening run from his spine to the base of his neck, paralysing him. The voice of Kyros exploded inside of him, a single, bellowed word of command: No!

  Zucharov struggled to take control of his sword, battling to close the movement that would power the furious blade into the body of Lothar Koenig. He would have no master other than his own will. He would not submit, he would not.

  But he had no choice. His body would obey only one master, and the dark lord had decreed the sword would not fall. The spasm passed, but he knew he could not strike at Koenig. He now knew that Kyros had other plans for them both.

  Lothar Koenig had watched in disbelief as the falling sword hung suspended in mid-air. The spell was broken, and Lothar fell back, out of range of the blow. It lasted barely an instant, but the fire had gone from the other man’s eyes. So invincible in battle only moments before, he now looked diminished, almost mortal.

  Emboldened, Lothar had drawn his own sword, unsure whether he was attacking or defending himself, but knowing that the odds had shifted suddenly, and inexplicably, in his favour. His mind had raced with the possibilities opening up. Surely he should flee. He would get no second chance of redemption. The urge to run, to leap upon his horse and ride for his life, had been strong indeed. But Lothar had been a bounty hunter for perhaps too long.

  There were other, even more powerful instincts that seized him at moments like these.

  The ring of metal fire glowed like the sun through the gloom of the night. Lothar had stared, greedily, at the gold amulet, devouring it with his eyes. That alone would surely keep him in comfort until winter’s worst was spent. Standing between him and that comfort was the man who bore the band. The warrior with the strange, writhing tattoo disfiguring his arm. The awesome power had been dimmed, but the man still cut a formidable figure. Whatever he was—soldier, mercenary, or some freakish creation of the gods—Lothar Koenig knew there were plenty who would pay handsomely to be the master of a man such as this. If anything this was the greater prize.

  Caution had vied with greed in the racing mind of Lothar Koenig and greed had won.

  Zucharov’s memory had broken into a series of jumbled, fragmented scenes. But there was one seam that ran true through all his recollection: he was a fighter, a warrior who had never yet met his equal. In battle he had earned scars and borne pain but he had always prevailed. He had known many conquests, and the taste of victory had become commonplace, only too familiar. But one thing that Alexei Zucharov had never known was captivity. To submit now—to this man, this creature whose life he could extinguish with a single blow—would be an unthinkable humiliation. And yet he found himself stepping back from the confrontation.

  His grip upon the hilt of his sword slackened. The weapon slipped from his hand. Zucharov heard it strike the hard ground, metal upon stone. And he heard himself gasp as he slumped to his knees, the strength draining from him like water through a sieve. Nothing that Zucharov had ever experienced had prepared him for this. He saw the look on the other’s face: disbelieving elated.

  Alexei’s head fell to his chest. He tried in vain to raise his eyes. Every muscle in his face felt leaden, and a great weight had been spread upon his shoulders, pressing him down. Only now, with Alexei bent low in unwilling supplication, did Kyros address him once more. Zucharov listened to the voice, and when the time came for reply, he heard the sound of his own words inside his head, words that could be heard only by the dark lord of Tzeentch.

  You have chained me through your magic. Shackled my body with a spell.

  This is not the time to fight, Kyros answered him. Now you must be truly strong.

  You mock me with witchcraft. Free me from this web and I�
�ll show you what strength can do.

  No. You choose the wrong path. The path of the strong lies along another road.

  Still Alexei railed at his master’s bidding. I will not submit, like some beast to be tamed, he raged. I have free will.

  Free will is a delusion, responded Kyros. A crutch for the weak.

  Alexei finally managed to raise his head far enough to look up at the figure standing over him. The other man had his sword drawn at the ready. He was shaking with fear, little knowing that his adversary was powerless. Zucharov waited, trying to fathom how this pitiful stranger could play any part in his destiny. He was Alexei’s inferior in every apparent way, smaller, lighter and older. No match at all for Zucharov in open combat. Even if he had been a master of the sword, it would surely only have served to prolong his end.

  He saw Koenig hesitate, saw the fear that still lived in his eyes. Even now, Zucharov realised, he thinks I may destroy him. Zucharov raged silently against his impotence. So this was to be his fate. This was the man that Alexei Zucharov was about to yield to. He had no fear of death, but to yield like this, passively and without so much as even a word, was worse than any death that he could have imagined.

  Lothar Koenig, quite simply, had not been able to believe his luck. His first thought had been that the other man’s collapse must have been the result of injuries he’d suffered in the fight with Durer’s men. Indeed, he had a gaping wound that ran across the palm of his hand up the length of his wrist on his left tattooed arm. Koenig remembered with a shudder how that wound had been earned, and saw again the stranger grasping hold of the razor-edged blade in his bare hand.