02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  Anaise had had Zucharov brought to the chamber of the high council. The guards had stood him in the centre of the circle of the council, the dozen places now all empty. Anaise circled slowly around the man who, she had decided, would become her personal slave. In truth, he excited and appalled her in equal measure. Although his body was clearly still that of a mortal man, the sinewy flesh and terrifying musculature reminded Anaise more of an ogre than any human creature.

  Then there was the tattoo. The dark, fluid bruise covering Zucharov’s left arm, crawling its way slowly up towards his face as if possessed of some malign existence of its own. It was hideous, disfiguring, yet at the same time a work of wonder. Zucharov knew that Anaise was both repelled and yet excited by it. He sensed her longing, her desire to touch the tattoo, to feel the blood flowing in the images beneath her fingertips.

  Anaise reached out her hand, then drew back. “The pictures on your skin,” she said, curtly. “The pictures of Sigmarsgeist, of my brother Konstantin and me. It’s all a trick. How is it achieved?”

  Zucharov moved his lips, and the words flowed from him. Slow, awkward at first, but sonorous and clear. They were his words, but they were orchestrated by Kyros.

  “It is no trick,” he intoned. “My flesh is become a mirror to the truth. It reflects all that has come to pass, and all that will.”

  “If that is true,” Anaise replied, fighting to hold her excitement in check “then you can show me what the future holds for me, and how I am to achieve it.”

  “That future is not yet foretold,” Zucharov told her. “Your destiny is there to be shaped, and for you to choose how to shape it.”

  “What choices do I have to make?” Anaise demanded.

  Zucharov’s face folded into a semblance of a smile that faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. “You may choose to ally yourself with me,” he said, slowly. “But I serve no mortal being. I shall not be your slave.”

  “And you shall not be my equal, either,” Anaise retorted, indignantly. “What makes you think you can bargain with me for your salvation?”

  “Tal Dur,” Zucharov reminded her, Kyros turning the words carefully upon his servant’s tongue. “Tal Dur, and the knowledge that will allow you to claim the prize that is your right. To allow you to rise above the failings of those around you.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your brother,” Zucharov replied. “Konstantin. There is weakness within him.”

  “My brother is a righteous man,” Anaise replied, her anger in that moment genuine and impassioned. “Sigmarsgeist owes him everything. He is its creator, its inspiration.”

  “And the architect of its ruin,” Zucharov continued. “You owe him nothing.”

  Anaise rose up, her face a mask of practiced fury. Around the room, guards drew their weapons, anticipating the command. A tense silence hung upon the council chamber. “You are deluded, and a liar,” Anaise announced. “The corruptions of Chaos have rotted your mind.” She looked around at the guards, then, dismissed them with a curt sweep of her arm.

  “Go,” she told them. “Leave us. This creature is no threat. His body is weighed down with iron, and his mind is enfeebled. Go about your business, you are dismissed.”

  The guards exchanged glances, wondering perhaps if they had misunderstood the Guide’s orders. When Anaise said nothing more, but simply folded her arms across her breast, they began, one by one to file out of the chamber. Only when they were gone did Anaise seat herself again.

  “How dare you defile my brother’s name in their hearing,” she began. “You claim yourself worthy of my trust, yet at the first opportunity you seek to undermine me. I should have set my men upon you like dogs.”

  She glared at Zucharov, her expression a studied mask of angry grandeur. Yet the mask was fragile. Beneath its surface was a curiosity, and an aching need that she already found hard to deny. “You spoke the name of Tal Dur in their presence,” she added, with less certainty now. “You are not worthy of my trust.”

  Kyros was in no hurry to have Zucharov answer.

  “It is those others around you that you cannot trust,” he said at last. This is the time of change. The time for old ways to be swept aside, for a new order to be forged. I shall guide you to Tal Dur, and I shall show you how to use its power/

  “I have no need to be taught the ways of power,” Anaise retorted. “I know how to use it well enough.”

  The smile rose again on Zucharov’s face, slow and faintly mocking. “You do not,” he said. He held his hands up in front of his face, the heavy irons glinting in the light. “You think this is power,” he said. “You think this is captivity.” Zucharov flexed his wrists, tensing his muscles against the shackles. The iron fastening groaned then suddenly snapped apart. The shattered links sprayed across the floor of the chamber. Zucharov lifted his unfettered arms into the air in a moment of silent triumph.

  “It is not.”

  Anaise flinched, involuntarily, at the sight of the chain ripped open so effortlessly, but she held her ground, and her voice betrayed none of her anxiety. “Are you trying to intimidate me?” she asked. “Perhaps you think you can escape from this place at will?”

  Zucharov laughed, the laughter of his dark god, a dry, rattling sound like bones stirring in a grave. “I will leave this place only when I am ready,” he said. “And I am not ready yet. As for you, I wish only to show you the true meaning of power. How you may attain it, and what riches it may buy.”

  Anaise drank down Zucharov’s words. She wasn’t sure yet whether the creature of Chaos could possibly be believed. But she knew that she wanted to believe, wanted with a passion that burned inside her. She had been born to power. If Zucharov was right, and Sigmarsgeist and all that Konstantin stood for came to nothing but dust, then her whole life would have been in vain. All of this—Zucharov, Bea, Kumansky and his comrade—had come to pass for a reason. And the reason was surely her. The time of reckoning was close at hand.

  But Anaise was not driven by impulse alone. Not for the first time, reason and suspicion intervened. “You haven’t come here to offer me something for nothing,” she said, carefully. “If you are offering me such riches, then you must want something in return.”

  Zucharov nodded once, signalling that he had understood. “What would you give, my lady Anaise?” His eyes flashed dark thunder. “What would you give in return for the keys to eternity?”

  Anaise hesitated over her answer for just an instant. So far, she might just have been toying with this painted monster. But if she went further, this would be real. A bargain would have to be struck. Did that matter? In her mind she was already envisaging the time when Zucharov would have outlived his purpose. That would be the moment when he would be destroyed. If she turned back now, called back the guards and had him thrown into the cells, it would be over. Zucharov would rot in the dungeons of Sigmarsgeist, and Anaise von Augen would once again be captive to her brother’s dreams of—what? Mere survival?

  That was not the better world for which she had sacrificed more than ten precious years of her life. That was not the promise that they had made, when the first foundation stone had been laid. Zucharov was right, though she had not conceded it. Her brother had grown weak; his courage and his vision had waned. He could no longer be trusted to carry the hopes of all his people. She must take her destiny into her own hands.

  Anaise could still hear the other voices, those warning her to turn back from this course whilst there was still time. But she was no longer listening to their counsel. She had made her decision. In that instant of lightening thought, she had convinced herself. There was nothing to lose, and all eternity to be gained.

  “There is a girl,” she said, calmly. “A healer. She has gifts far greater than she knows. Tal Dur has drawn her here. It is calling to her, and she will heed the call. Her gift can lead me to the well-spring, the source of its magical power.”

  She took a deep breath, and parted with the next words as though relinquishing
a treasured gift. “I will share that gift with you,” she said.

  Zucharov’s expression did not alter. Anaise was disappointed, and angered. It was as if her revelation held no surprise for the tattooed man. Zucharov stood, his head slightly to one side. He was not listening to Anaise now. Her voice faded away as the words of Kyros entered his mind.

  There is more…

  “There is more,” Anaise continued, insistently. “I have something else to offer you. A chance to purge your past.”

  An image flashed into Zucharov’s mind, a face drawn from the pool of fading memory that was all that remained of his former life.

  “Show me,” he said.

  In an instant, the other man was on top of Stefan, bearing down upon him in the darkness. Through the gloom Stefan saw the steel blade of the knife and recognised the zigzag scar running down the side of the Norscan’s face. It seemed the time had come for the bloody resolution of their differences. Stefan blocked the first blow then stepped out of range of the blade. He was about to strike back at the Norscan when someone took hold of both his arms from behind, holding him as though in a vice. Rancid breath wafted in his nostrils, and a voice, heavily accented, spat out: “Kislevite scum!”

  Stefan struggled to pull himself free, but with his arms pinioned by his side there was little he could do. The guards—either by accident or design—had melted away, as had the other prisoners. He was trapped in the darkness deep below the ground, alone save for two natural enemies who were determined to kill him.

  He found some movement in one arm, enough to jab an elbow back into the body of the man holding him. The blow had some force, but it was not enough. The Norscan grunted then redoubled his efforts, gripping hold of Stefan even more tightly. The first man took a step closer. Stefan could see him clearly now, even through the murk of the mine. He was a thick-set man Stefan’s own age, or slightly older. His straw blond hair was matted with grease, and his once pale-white complexion was tinged with a faint luminescence, the first glimmering of the evil blooming inside of him. He fixed Stefan with a lopsided grin, and licked his lips. He passed the knife through the air in front of Stefan’s face, like a butcher ready to cut away at a carcass.

  Satisfied that Stefan was no longer a threat, the Norscan dropped his guard. As he positioned himself to cut Stefan with the knife, Stefan lashed out with his booted foot, putting as much of his weight as he could into a kick placed squarely between the Norscan’s legs. The Norscan howled in agony and the knife clattered upon the stones at their feet. With the first Norscan doubled up on the ground in agony, the second was now torn between keeping hold of Stefan, and retrieving the knife. His hesitation was just enough to grant Stefan the space he needed. He clamped his hands around the beefy arms holding him captive, and shifting his weight, heaved the man’s body over his shoulders. The Norscan hit the ground hard, causing a storm of grit and stone to hail down from the roof of the cavern. Stefan wiped the filth from out of his eyes and plunged forward towards where he hoped the knife would be.

  For a moment there was nothing but confusion, Stefan and the two Norscans all scrambling upon the ground, trying to locate the blade. Stefan found it first, fastening a grip upon the short shank of the weapon and stabbing it up into the face of the Norscan who had been holding him. The man screamed, the sound echoing through the mine, and Stefan’s own face was suddenly wet with hot blood. The Norscan fell forward like a toppled oak, on top of Stefan. As Stefan pushed the body aside, he felt something tug at his hand, and in a moment the knife was gone.

  The remaining Norscan was on him in a second, stabbing out wildly with the short knife. A thrust missed Stefan’s body by less than an inch, deflecting away off the hard rock. As he struck out again, Stefan caught hold of his attacker’s wrist with both hands. Now it was a trial of pure strength: the Norscan trying to turn the blade towards Stefan’s face, Stefan pushing it back toward the cavern wall. He twisted his body and found room to bring his knee up hard into the other man’s gut. The Norscan gasped and flinched back.

  Stefan compressed all that remained of his energy into a final push, and slammed the other man’s arm against the wall of rock. The Norscan released his grip, and Stefan punched him hard in the face. The blow would have felled an ordinary man but the Norscan hardly flinched. It did buy Stefan enough time to seize the knife. As the Norscan lunged back at him, Stefan thrust the blade squarely into the throat of the other man. There was a moment of almost total silence as the Norscan stood staring at Stefan, blood dribbling from each corner of his mouth. He aimed a last desperate blow at Stefan, a blow that was never struck. The Norscan sank slowly to his knees, and his head dropped.

  Stefan watched him for a few moments, then tucked the knife away beneath his tunic. He could hear footsteps now, and voices in the tunnel behind him. He didn’t know who it was, and, right now, he didn’t care. He had no strength left.

  The Red Guards quickly surrounded him, four of them materialising out of the darkness as fast as they had disappeared. One made a cursory check of the Norscans, just to be sure that both were dead. A second kicked out at Stefan, a half-hearted blow aimed at his ribs.

  “You were trying to escape,” one of them said, matter-of-factly. “The punishment is death.”

  “I was trying to stay alive,” Stefan shot back. “I only hope you managed to collect whatever bribe my Norscan friends were offering you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said another, ignoring Stefan’s comment. “All dissent is punishable by death, for the greater glory of Sigmarsgeist. Get him up.”

  Two of the guards took hold of Stefan and hauled him to his feet. The knife was plucked away from him in a single, deft movement.

  “This time you’re lucky,” the same guard told him again. He seized Stefan by the hair, and turned his face towards his own. “Seems someone wants you back up above,” he said, a vexed curiosity mixed with the anger in his voice. He had the bloodied knife in his hand, but Stefan knew he wasn’t going to use it. Not this time.

  “Looks like you have friends in high places,” the guard told him. “Very high places indeed.”

  “Better pull yourself together,” the second man advised. “You’re on your way back to the palace.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Battleground

  Stefan made the long journey back from the mines alone save for the half dozen silent soldiers charged with guarding him. There had received no word, nor seen any sign of Bruno. They reached the heart of the citadel as dusk fell, and Stefan was led to a cavernous room in the upper reaches of the palace, a place with bare, featureless walls that rose to a high, curved ceiling. Thick ropes hung down from ceiling to floor on pulleys, giving the chamber the appearance of a huge bell tower.

  A familiar figure walked towards him. Anaise looked Stefan up and down, taking in his tattered, filthy garments and his bruised and bloodied arms. Her face settled into an expression of compassion and concern.

  “Stefan,” she said, softly, as though mildly surprised to see him standing there. “I’m so heartened to see you still alive and well. I’ve been worrying about you, and Bea has been too.”

  Stefan returned her gaze but not her greeting. He was unmoved by the Guide’s show of pity, and in no mood to trade pleasantries. “Is this how you show your concern? Having Bruno and myself locked up, and trying to have me killed?” he replied, curtly. “Unless you have something particular to say, I’d rather we waste no more time on this charade.”

  Anaise gazed at him, earnestly. “You know your imprisonment was Konstantin’s doing,” she said. “I had no part in it. As for having you killed—you must believe I know nothing of that. But the mines are a treacherous place. I’m glad I got to you in time.”

  “What’s all this about?” Stefan asked. “And where’s Bea? What have you done with her?”

  “Bea is fine, she is safe and resting,” Anaise assured him, trying to soothe Stefan’s anger. “She has been hard at work, tending to the sick and wounded a
mongst our workers. Bea is my jewel. She, at least, has embraced the true spirit of Sigmarsgeist,” she added.

  Stefan cared only to see this audience over. “I want to see her,” he said, flatly. “Bea. I want to see her now.”

  “You are in no position to make demands,” Anaise asserted. “You will see her,” she went on, “but not just yet.”

  “So, what is all this about?”

  Anaise expelled a long breath, and took a step closer. She motioned to the guards either side of Stefan, signalling for them to loosen his bonds, and step to one side.

  “I want to try and mend our differences, Stefan Kumansky. Settle our misunderstanding.” She sighed again. “Stefan, Stefan, I had such high hopes of you.” She reached a hand out towards his cheek, but Stefan pulled his face away.

  “Our ‘misunderstanding’ began when you and your men started murdering innocent people in Mielstadt,” he snapped back at her. “Or was it in Grunwald, or some other village that wouldn’t pay its dues to Sigmarsgeist?”

  Anaise shook her head, sorrowfully. “I thought you understood,” she replied. “Clearly, you have not. Those people—the villagers and townsfolk you are so ready to defend—they are like children, Stefan. They need to be shown the true path, they must be guided, and directed.” She bowed her head. “And, sometimes, when they stray from the true path, they must be punished. Punished for their own good.”

  “You do a lot of things for other people’s own good,” Stefan commented. “But I don’t hear many extolling the virtue of your good works outside the city. Take me back to the mines, or to your cells. If yours is the true path, then I will take the opposite way.”