02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  “Yes,” Bruno agreed, excitedly. “That’s exactly it. Like—like a carcass, broken open, and something bursting out.” He broke off, reflecting on his words. “That doesn’t sound very healthy to me.”

  Now it was Bea’s turn to be silent. She looked at Bruno, then away again. She realised that she wanted to share everything with Bruno: her thoughts, her hopes, her secrets. Most of all, she wanted to share what she had learnt since they had arrived in Sigmarsgeist. For a moment the urge to tell Bruno battled with her loyalty to Anaise. Hadn’t the Guide confided in her precisely because no one else would understand? But, finally, Bea decided that she could stay silent no longer. Anaise would understand. After all, she hadn’t directly asked Bea not to mention their conversation to the others.

  “You remember a while ago, soon after we left Mielstadt. I mentioned something. A place.”

  Bruno thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “Sorry, I don’t.”

  Bea clasped his hand again, more tightly this time. “Yes,” she insisted. “You do remember. Tal Dur. The healing waters of Tal Dur. A magical place.”

  Bruno shrugged, tentatively. “Yes, all right. But I don’t understand—”

  “Tal Dur is here,” Bea blurted out. “I mean—somewhere here. Once, long ago maybe, the waters of Tal Dur flowed right beneath the citadel, perhaps before it was even Sigmarsgeist. But they ran here. Maybe right through the city. Maybe they filled the moat that we can see all around the walls.”

  Bruno shook his head. “Are you saying that has something to do with the pillars, or whatever they may be, springing up everywhere?”

  “I don’t know,” Bea conceded. “I can’t be sure. But of one thing I’m certain. This is a place of great confluence. A place where flows of magic met, fusing together into a mighty power. I know it. I can feel it. And if Tal Dur is no longer here, then it isn’t far away. I’m sure of it, Bruno.”

  She stopped and pulled away from him, trying to read what was in Bruno’s face. “Now I’m the one who’s mad,” she said, disappointed. “You think so, don’t you?”

  Bruno looked at her, meeting her full gaze. After a while he took her hand again, and turned her to face him. Bea started to protest, but he put a finger to her lips, to silence her.

  “I think you have something very special, a real gift,” he said, slowly. “More than that,” he took his finger away, and moved closer. “I think you’re beautiful.”

  Bea frowned, then smiled. She was about to contradict him, almost a reflex response. But then she stopped, and allowed herself to do what her body was urging her. Bruno cupped his hand behind the nape of her neck, and drew her gently towards him.

  The battle had ended as quickly as it had begun, breaking up into a series of single combats as the mutants and their Norscan allies fled, each trying to find their own avenue of escape. For most it was a road that led only to death. The men of Sigmarsgeist hunted them down with a bitter, dogged determination, giving no quarter to the remnants of the Chaos horde. But, inevitably, a few still managed to break away, shedding most of the plunder that had been weighing down their horses to make good their escape into the fading day.

  Around Stefan, the victorious soldiers of Sigmar began debating what they should do. Some favoured splitting up, others urged they hunt as a pack. There were even those who thought the day’s deeds now done. They had accounted for at least thirty enemies, at a cost of eight men fallen, and could return home with a great victory. But Stefan sensed there would be no going back, not yet. There was at least one amongst them for whom it was far from over, who would not rest easily whilst any of the marauders remained unaccounted for.

  Anaise von Augen gathered her men round, urging them to find the strength for one final foray. “They will not escape us,” she declared. “Not while I still have strength.”

  Stefan drew his horse up by her side. The plain was empty now, save for the broken carcasses of the fallen. “The rest of the mutants are scattered to the winds,” he said. “I fear they’re lost to us now.”

  Anaise looked around. Aside from the bloodied bodies, the ground was littered with broken sacks and saddlebags that the Chaos riders had shed in making their escape. Scattered amongst the more obvious plunder of gold and silver icons were provisions, bread and fruit, broken skins of wine staining the earth a deeper red.

  “They must have got all this from somewhere,” she said, opaquely. She paused, then looked up, having reached a decision. “Ride west!” she commanded. “We’re not done with this yet.”

  The dozen rode into the dusk for an hour or more, until a sprinkling of lights in the distance gave notice that they were approaching the edge of a settlement. The decrepit buildings of a small, nondescript town came into view soon after, and Stefan realised that he had been here before. This was Mielstadt, where he and Bruno had rescued Bea from the clutches of the lynch mob, and where, in a way, their present story had begun.

  It was not a place he had particularly wanted to ever return to. Mielstadt was no more appealing in the fading dusk than it had been by day. Riding through the empty streets, past the shuttered houses with their dim-glowing lights, it seemed unlikely that any of the marauders would have taken refuge here. Stefan was convinced their search would prove to be in vain.

  Anaise had other ideas. She beckoned the two White Guards over and conferred in private for a few moments. Stefan tried to nudge his horse closer but found his way blocked—accidentally or otherwise—by a phalanx of riders in red. By then the conference was ended, and Anaise had turned back towards the rest of her men.

  “Make a thorough search of the town,” she instructed them. “If any of our enemies are lurking here, then I want to know about it.”

  The group split up, riders peeling off in all directions. Stefan, too, turned his horse about, and tracked back through the quiet streets, looking for any stragglers from the Chaos horde. But if they were here, they were keeping unusually quiet; the only sights or sounds that greeted him were of windows being slammed and fastened tight. There was no welcome here waiting for the soldiers of Sigmar. Stefan continued to ride, but with a growing sense of unease. There was something wrong here, something that had nothing to do with the creatures that they were supposedly pursuing.

  After a few minutes more, he decided he had had enough. He would go back to the square and await the others. Mielstadt was dead, as quiet as the grave. He was certain there was nothing of interest here.

  That certainty was shaken by a sudden commotion coming from somewhere near the centre of the town. Stefan swung his horse around, and galloped back, a sudden tension gripping his body. He could hear voices—several voices raised in conflict with one another—and the grey gloom was lit by the glow of torches. Stefan’s first thought was of the other village, the hamlet put to the flame by the night phantoms. But this was something different. Up ahead, four or five men in red were holding back a small but gathering crowd of townsfolk. The Red Guards had formed themselves into a circle, and, in the middle of that circle there were two more figures.

  Stefan sprang from his horse and ran forward. A couple of the red tunics motioned for him to stay back, but Stefan ignored them, and pushed his way past the cordon. Now he was standing just a few feet away from the two protagonists. The first was a White Guard, a man by the name of Drobny that Stefan had barely spoken to. The other man, too, he barely knew, but they had met before, all the same. It was Augustus Sierck, the pompous town leader who had taken such haughty pleasure in expelling Stefan and his comrades from the town.

  Sierck didn’t look haughty now. He was on his knees in front of Drobny, who was berating him with a hefty staff. From the ugly welt across Sierck’s face, Stefan could see that the staff had already been put to work. Sierck was babbling, pleading for help or mercy, but his words were lost in the torrent of abuse that the White Guard was heaping upon him. Drobny raised the stick to strike again.

  Stefan remembered Augustus Sierck well. He remembered his table-thumping gr
andiosity, and his pig-headed refusal to listen to reason. At the time Stefan would have happily have struck him down himself. But this was different. This, Stefan knew instinctively, was wrong.

  Before he knew it, his sword was in his hand. Stefan strode towards Drobny. As the White Guard angled to strike a second blow, Stefan shouted out a warning, clear and unambiguous. Drobny stopped short, his staff held in mid-flight, and looked momentarily at Stefan, a mixture of surprise and disdain written on his face. Then he shrugged, and turned back to his business. Drobny swung the staff but the blow never connected. Before it could reach the cowering Sierck Stefan had sprung forward. The first flick of his sword prised the staff from the other man’s grip. The second, with the flat of the blade, sent Drobny sprawling in the dirt.

  The White Guard let fly a string of curses, aimed at Stefan. Stefan was already sheathing his sword, a hand extended towards the fallen man. As he stepped forward, something struck him hard, a pounding blow into the back of his head. Stefan crashed forward, senseless, and did not move again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alliance and Enmity

  First light was breaking through the windows of Anaise’s chamber as Konstantin entered the room. He bowed low before his sister, then bent down upon one knee at her bedside.

  “My heart is gladdened to have you back safe in our midst. I give thanks to Sigmar for your safe return.” He took his sister’s hand and stooped to kiss it.

  Anaise lay sprawled upon the bed, still clad in her battle-robes. A faint, sardonic smile crept across her face.

  “Do you truly?” she asked. “Your concern touches me, brother.” She pulled back her hand. “Careful,” she chided. “It would not do to soil your lips with the filthy spoils of battle.”

  She rolled to one side, turning her back to her brother. “Gods know,” she said. “I could sleep for an eternity.”

  Konstantin moved away from the back, back towards the threshold of his sister’s chamber. “If you wish to bathe, then I will have water drawn ready.”

  Anaise sighed, and turned over again. The clean white linen of the sheets was already soiled a rusty red from the blood caked upon her garments.

  “Does my appearance so disgust you?” she asked. “For it is only an honest reflection of my endeavour. Or would you rather not know about that?” she demanded, peevishly. “No, spare your precious water.”

  “I’m sorry that your return finds you in such poor spirits,” Konstantin replied, his tone now similarly curt. “I wanted only to learn what fruits your labours have borne.”

  “You see the fruits before you,” Anaise said, indicating her torn and bloodied tunic. “The servants of Chaos were intercepted and destroyed. Their story ended.”

  Konstantin cleared his throat, awkwardly. “And what,” he went on, “what of the other matter that we spoke of?”

  Anaise raised herself up on the pillows. “Mielstadt? The problem has been dealt with, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said.

  “Then,” Konstantin went on, tentatively, “they have come around to the True Path?”

  “I told you,” Anaise snapped. “The problem has been dealt with. Do you want me to give you the details?”

  “No,” he concluded. “I don’t need to know.”

  “No,” Anaise repeated. “Of course you don’t.” She yawned. “And now, dear brother, I must rest. My righteous deeds have exhausted me.” She frowned, vexed that her brother seemed unable to take the hint. “You don’t mind?”

  Konstantin nodded, but made no move to leave. “Sister,” he said at last. “There is something you must know. It cannot wait until you are rested.”

  Anaise read the expression in her brother’s eyes. She sat bolt upright. “You’d better tell me, then,” she said, measuring her words with care.

  Konstantin closed the door behind him. “Whilst you were gone, a prisoner was brought to Sigmarsgeist,” he began. “He has the look of a man, but I sense a darkness within him.”

  “How so?” his sister asked. “In what manner?”

  “This is a creature the like of which I have never seen in all my lifetime.” Konstantin lifted the sleeve of his robe, exposing his arm. “Upon his flesh, just here, his skin crawls with living images—tiny likenesses: pictures of wars, histories unfolding. It seems as though each person who looks upon the images sees something different.”

  Anaise was giving him her full attention now, all trace of weariness vanished. “And what did you see, brother, when you gazed in this dark mirror?”

  “I saw Sigmarsgeist, our glorious citadel,” Konstantin replied. “I saw myself. And I saw you, sister, at my side.”

  Anaise stood up, and started to pace the room. “This is a sign,” she proclaimed, excitedly. “A sign that all we have planned for will come to pass! A sign that, truly, the time of our destiny is upon us.”

  Konstantin clutched at his sister, forcing her to stop and turn towards him. “Anaise,” he said, firmly. “This is surely the creature that Stefan told us of. The mutant that they have been hunting since Erengrad.”

  Anaise pulled herself free. “What of it?” she asked. “The great powers that even we cannot comprehend have brought them all here, to Sigmarsgeist. This is our story, brother. Stefan and his friends are only players within it.”

  “That may be so,” Konstantin agreed. “But we should still tell—”

  “Wait a moment!” Anaise interrupted him. “Who else knows of this?” she demanded.

  Konstantin shook his head. “No one, as yet. Aside from Rilke and a handful of his chosen men, this is a secret known only to ourselves. But,” he persisted, his voice taking on a firmer tone, “now that you have returned, we should tell Stefan that his quest is ended. Here, in Sigmarsgeist.”

  “There is no hurry for that,” his sister replied. “Stefan Kumansky is wounded. He should be left in peace a while yet, to rest.”

  Konstantin appeared shocked. “You did not mention this before,” he said.

  Anaise smiled. “You did not ask,” she replied, sweetly. “And you do not need to. There is no need for concern. Kumansky will survive,” she added, matter-of-factly. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.” She began to peel off the blood-stained tunic. “I must see this man, this creature, for myself,” she began, then paused. “Who did you say brought him to Sigmarsgeist?”

  “A bounty hunter,” Konstantin said. “A man full of stories, all lies, I fancy. Of course, he wanted money for his goods.”

  “And you paid him,” Anaise asked, “and sent him merrily on his way?”

  Konstantin’s composure was briefly broken. For an instant he glowered at his sister. “Don’t treat me as a fool, Anaise. The man had spent days, or possibly even weeks in the company of this hideous creature. I could not vouch he had not himself been tainted with the poisons of Chaos.”

  “So he has been detained,” Anaise said, approvingly. “For his own good.”

  “For his own good,” Konstantin confirmed. “And ours.”

  Anaise stepped towards her brother and lifted her face to kiss him lightly upon the cheek. “Forgive your sister and her acid tongue,” she murmured. “As ever, you are the wise one, Konstantin. You guide and lead us all.” She smiled, and pulled away from her brother’s embrace. “And now,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind leaving me. I think I shall bathe after all.”

  Stefan surfaced from his unconsciousness like a swimmer rising slowly from the depths of a dark lake. He had no clear memory of how he had fallen into the deep pit of sleep, nor how long he had remained there. But, as the light of day reached into his waking eyes, he knew that he had been somewhere, far away, and for a very long time, so long that the intensity of the light was at first unbearable. He screwed his eyes shut again to protect himself from the glare. When finally he was able to open his eyes and focus upon his surroundings, he found Bruno standing over him, his arm around Bea. Both of them looked worried. Stefan assumed he was the cause of their
concern. “Where am I?” he managed to say at last. “Mielstadt?”

  “Mielstadt?” Bruno exchanged puzzled glances with Bea. “Taal’s breath, Stefan, you must remember. You’re back inside the palace. In Sigmarsgeist. They brought you back here, after you were injured in the battle.”

  “How long?” Stefan asked, his tongue thick, his voiced slurred and heavy. “How long have I been lying here?”

  “Probably a day or more,” Bruno told him. “And this time, I’m not joking.”

  “I didn’t think you were,” Stefan replied. He tried lifting his head, and quickly realised he was not quite yet ready for that. He lay back down, giving himself a few more moments. He felt as though he had been drugged, or had had his head slammed against something solid and hard, or both.

  Bea placed a cool hand upon Stefan’s forehead, and held it there a few seconds. “You were running a fever,” she said. “Your body was burning up when they brought you back. I had to find something to give you.”

  Stefan let his eyes drift closed again. The light was still barely tolerable. “Is that what’s making me feel like this?”

  “How do you feel?” Bea asked.

  “Terrible. Like I’ve drunk the Helmsman dry then been sleeping it off for a week.”

  “Nothing so convivial, I fear,” Bruno said. “You’ve taken quite a pounding, by all accounts.”

  Stefan groaned, and forced himself to sit up. He peered at his companions through half closed eyes. “You said something about ‘brought me back’,” he said to Bea. “What do you mean—back from where?”

  “Gods preserve us,” Bea exclaimed. “He’s lost all memory of the last days.”

  “You rode out with the hunting party,” Bruno said, insistently. “To find the Chaos marauders. You must remember that.”

  Stefan cursed the confusion swilling inside his mind. He sifted through the jumbled memories, trying to make some order from them.