02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  His mind raced through possibilities that grew more limited by the second. He thought about fighting Zucharov on the parapet, with solid ground beneath his feet. But there, with nowhere else to turn, he would surely be quickly defeated. So, with Zucharov still pressing down upon him, Stefan took the only option left, he mounted the side of the bridge, and leapt.

  He fell ten feet or more, crystalline filaments shattering beneath his weight before something solid broke his fall. Stefan rolled, and pulled himself quickly upright. Zucharov stood on the bridge above, looking down at him, his face impassive. Then, slowly, methodically, he began climbing down through the labyrinth, scything a path through fibre and bone. Stefan found a place where his footing seemed secure, on a looping segment of path that rose and fell like a serpent’s back. This was where he would make a stand. This time the initiative would be with him.

  Zucharov dropped down onto the path and charged at Stefan, equally determined that the battle should be ended on his terms. He attacked with the ferocity of a madman, heaving a massive, two-handed stroke that would surely have cut Stefan in two had it connected. But it did not connect, the blade missed its mark by a hair’s breadth, and suddenly Stefan had the opportunity to strike back. He dropped his shoulder and aimed a blow through his opponent’s open guard.

  The sword struck Zucharov at an angle, just below his ribs, but just bounced off. Zucharov barely reacted other than to redouble his own efforts, drawing upon an apparently bottomless well of strength. Stefan found the space for another strike, and again his sword grazed his opponent’s tough, leathery flesh and flicked away without appearing to inflict any lasting harm.

  Now Stefan was forced back onto the defensive. Under pressure, he managed to hold his ground, trading blow for blow with his adversary as Zucharov tried to power his way through. Stefan was holding him, but knew he could not continue to do so indefinitely. The fifth hammer-blow from Zucharov sent a Shockwave of pain flooding through his body. The sixth prised the sword from out of his hand, and sent it sliding away out of reach.

  Zucharov took the briefest of pauses then advanced on Stefan to finish things. Stefan glanced over his shoulder only to see that the path behind him had disappeared. There was no escape route. He was trapped between the void and the murderous blade of his opponent.

  For the first time, Zucharov smiled. It was a smile devoid of all warmth or human feeling. He lifted his sword to despatch the final blow.

  Stefan understood little of the following moment, other than that the world had turned upside down. He was aware of falling through space, and reaching out blindly to clutch hold of something—a strut, or a length of rope—that arrested his fall. By the time he realised that the walkway had spun right over, he was hanging, suspended in mid-air from what was now the underside of the path. He was clawing with his hands, trying to get a grip on anything that could support his weight. But everything that he touched felt white hot, burning with a fierce, unbearable heat. Stefan managed to hold on for a few seconds more, then, with a single scream of agony, he fell.

  He fell through clear space for what seemed like an eternity before his fall was broken. The pain of the impact made Stefan want to curl his body into a ball, but he knew he must get on his feet as quickly as he could. He scrambled to his feet, desperately trying to orientate himself, and locate Zucharov. He had no idea how far he had fallen—twenty feet, or a hundred—but he had landed on a wide, circular platform, slightly concave in shape, which had nothing linking it to any other part of the structure. Nothing above or beneath looked familiar, except for the dark outline of the courtyard some distance below. He swung around at the sound of a footstep, and found himself staring directly at Alexei Zucharov. It was impossible. The big man could not have fallen that distance and landed so close by, without Stefan being aware of him. But there was no mistake. There Zucharov was, sword still firmly clamped in his hand, moving forward slowly, purposefully, to complete his task. The turmoil of the last few moments had changed nothing, Stefan was back where he started.

  As Zucharov closed in on him, Stefan grasped hold of the only object within sight, a length of railing hanging down just in front of him. As Zucharov struck Stefan hauled himself up into the air and kicked out with both feet. The blow connected cleanly, striking Zucharov high and square in the chest. Zucharov was caught off-guard, the blow knocked him back, off-balance. The floor of the platform bowed and flexed beneath his crashing weight, before springing back into shape with a supple elasticity. Almost instantaneously, Zucharov was propelled back onto his feet, and Stefan’s gain was short-lived. But, whilst he held the advantage, he made it pay. He flung himself at Zucharov in a desperate attempt to wrest the sword from out of his grip.

  He threw all his weight behind a punch into Zucharov’s face. The big man gave a short grunt of pain, and Stefan knew that he had finally managed to hurt him. He punched again, and a third time, getting his blows in faster than Zucharov could respond. Blood began to flow, a dark red stream trickling from the corner of Zucharov’s mouth. But it still wasn’t enough.

  The wounds that Stefan had inflicted served only to fuel the cold, relentless rage driving Zucharov. He pulled free of Stefan’s grip and lashed out, swiping Stefan aside like an insect. Stefan fell heavily, reacting only just in time to roll to safety as the sword scythed down yet again, cracking the bone floor of the platform.

  Stefan looked around in desperation for some means of turning the unequal struggle. All the while he was being forced back towards the edge of the platform.

  Just when it seemed that Zucharov had him finally trapped, Stefan saw his salvation. A set of steps, like a ladder, zig-zagged out haphazardly from the rim of the platform. He was sure they hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t sure he could believe what he saw now, but, suddenly, there was perhaps a chance to gain some respite. The ladder looked filament-thin, yet when Stefan stepped back onto it the structure bore his weight without so much as bending. He retreated as fast as he dared, as Zucharov rushed towards him. As the big man set a foot upon the ladder, the brittle surface seemed to shimmer and melt away, and Zucharov was plunged into darkness. Stefan saw him clutch at the edge of the platform like a drowning man. He was holding on, but couldn’t pull his body back up.

  Stefan was still able to stand firm on the solid section of the ladder. He looked down where the structure had broken apart. Long, ivory shards like spears splayed out at every angle. Stefan leant forward, and broke one off. It was as sharp as any blade. Now he had the weapon, and it was he who had the advantage.

  Zucharov stared up at him, his eyes a blaze of anger and confusion. He clawed frantically at the edge of the platform, but could not get enough grip to haul his bulk back up.

  I can end this now, Stefan realised. J have been gifted the power. Somewhere in the darkness above, he was aware of Anaise, her expectant gaze fixed upon the confrontation. He raised the jagged blade, and aimed the point at the base of Zucharov’s throat. He stared into his eyes, deep into those dark pools, searching for any last vestige of the man he had once known.

  Then a man’s voice filled the night air with an angry shout of command. “Stop this heresy!”

  In the same instant, the ledge that Zucharov still clung to gave way beneath him. On instinct, Stefan thrust out his hand, the makeshift sword falling from his grip. He clutched hold of Zucharov as he fell, and held on.

  For a few moments the two men were locked together, neither moving. Stefan was only dimly aware of the guards climbing down towards them, and of the man’s face that had appeared over the parapet above, next to Anaise.

  Konstantin directed the full force of his anger at his sister.

  “This abominable charade is now ended,” he proclaimed, furiously. “Seize these murderous wretches,” he told the guards. “Secure them, and take them from my sight.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Forgotten City

  Konstantin waited until the last of the guards had withdrawn from his chamber then
he turned to face the only person left in the room, his sister. As he began to speak, Konstantin realised that an anger that had been building within him for days, or even weeks, was now finally finding its voice. He had meant to stay calm; he took pride in his reason. But when he finally spoke, it was the rage that won out.

  “There must be an end to this madness,” the Guide thundered. “It must be ended, all of it, now.”

  He battled with the fury that burned in his heart, determined to have mastery over his own emotions. Konstantin was a man who prided himself upon order and structure. Everything he believed in, all that he strove for in the building of Sigmarsgeist, was founded on that sense of order, and the need to preserve it in the face of overwhelming odds. Now he saw that order beginning to unravel, being torn apart by a force he could neither control nor comprehend. And his greatest fear was that the locus of this great unravelling was none other than his own sister.

  “Madness,” he muttered again, to himself as much as to Anaise. “And I will see that it goes no further.”

  “Brother,” Anaise responded, gently. “There is no madness other than the anger I see burning in your eyes.” She raised her hand to his face, and placed her cool palm upon her brother’s cheek. “I fear you are being driven to a fever, though none that I can feel,” she said. She tilted her head to one side, her expression quizzical, probing. “There must not be strife between us,” she continued. “If the Dark Ones can divide us, then they can destroy us, too.”

  “That much is true,” Konstantin conceded. “But I will not countenance folly such as I have just witnessed. What in the name of Sigmar was in your mind?”

  Anaise raised her eyebrow in surprise. “Nothing but the search for the truth,” she protested. “Either of these warriors might serve our cause, and serve it mightily. But they are opposed, one against the other. Each has defamed the other. We must decide who is just, and who has deceived us. All I did was place that decision in the provenance of the gods, that they might let justice prevail in combat.”

  Konstantin grunted with derision, unconvinced by his sister’s oratory. “Kumansky is a prisoner, guilty of murder. He has had his justice. As for the other—it is there for all to see what he is. The mark of mutation could not be plainer upon him.”

  “Nonetheless,” Anaise continued, “there may be ways in which he can serve. For the glory of Sigmarsgeist.”

  “The glory of Sigmarsgeist is already tarnished!” Konstantin shouted at her. He pointed across the city, towards the tangled mass of structures choking the life from the citadel. “I have kept my counsel for long enough. Too long,” he reflected, with bitterness as well as anger. “Too long I have played the loving brother, indulging his sister’s magical designs. Designs, you tell me, that will hasten the rise of Sigmarsgeist as a great power.”

  In a sudden fit of anger he seized hold of his sister, and forced her to the window.

  “Is this our great design?” he demanded of her. “Is this what our glory has come to?”

  “It is none of my doing,” Anaise responded coldly, shrugging him off.

  “Are you saying it is mine?”

  “You are the architect of Sigmarsgeist,” she told him. “Are you now disowning the fruits of your designs?” When Konstantin did not respond, she continued, her tone more conciliatory. “Listen,” she urged. “There is a magical energy at work here, a power beyond our understanding. It is the same elemental power which drew us to Sigmarsgeist, and led us to set our first stones here. Without it, Sigmarsgeist would be nothing, just another pitiful village huddled upon the windswept plain.” She drew her brother to one side and led him back to his seat, her hands resting gently on Konstantin’s shoulders. “It is true this energy works in ways we cannot always control. But I shall master it in time, dear brother, you may be assured of that. The elemental forces shall serve Sigmarsgeist, just as we have harnessed mortal will. You must be patient, brother,” she insisted, “and you must place your trust in me.”

  Konstantin took Anaise’s hand from his shoulder, and stroked it absent-mindedly. His sister could use words with the guile of a conjuror, and he knew he was being cleverly placated. But it was not a disagreeable experience, and he felt himself growing calmer. When he looked up at her again, he was unable to suppress a momentary smile.

  “Your champions would have torn each other apart like dogs had I not intervened.”

  “Maybe so,” Anaise agreed, non-committally. “As it is, they both survived.”

  Konstantin pondered for a while. “No reason why Kumansky cannot be put back to work,” he said at length. “There is use in him yet awhile, I imagine.”

  Anaise said nothing, but nodded her head in agreement.

  “But the one marked by Chaos is too dangerous,” Konstantin went on. “He must stay in captivity. Unless you would have our physicks make examination of him?”

  “Neither,” Anaise replied curtly. Konstantin’s eyes widened in surprise. Anaise’s expression hardened. “There are things best left to my domain,” she told him. “Things that you do not understand. You must hold your trust in me,” she said again. “Only then will all that is promised come to pass.”

  The descent back into the mine was little more than a blur to Stefan. His body was suffused with pain, and it took all of what little strength remained for him to safely negotiate the ropes and the steep iron ladders as he worked his slow progress down below ground. The guards gave him no quarter, nor did he expect any. But once, when he faltered upon the step and seemed about to fall, one of the men in red thrust out an arm to steady him. They don’t want me dead just yet, Stefan realised. There was a purpose to this that had not yet been revealed.

  Rather than being put straight to work, he was taken first to a chamber, not much more than a large, hollowed-out cave, deep in the interior of the mine. This was where the prisoners waited to be assigned to their duties and, whilst they could, take some rest. From the stink of unwashed bodies carried by what little air wafted through the gloomy galley, Stefan could tell the place was already well-stocked. He stumbled over a line of prostrate prisoners then collapsed upon the first clear space he came upon. His body had nothing left to give. The fight with Zucharov had taken him to his limit. He could think of nothing except that he had had a chance to end it, and he had not taken it. Only time would tell how costly his indecision would prove.

  He stretched out as best he could, and groaned despite himself. At that moment he felt a cloth pressed lightly to his brow, and some of the pain was eased. “Merciful Shallya,” he muttered. “Is that you, Bea?”

  “Hardly,” a voice replied. “But the comparison flatters me.”

  “Blood of the just,” Stefan exclaimed. “Bruno.” He opened his eyes, and saw his companion standing over him. Bruno was bruised and filthy, but he had a great grin upon his face.

  “Thank the gods, Stefan! Thank the gods, you’re safe.” Bruno embraced his comrade joyfully “When you didn’t return from the mine, I was filled with all manners of hopes and fears. Hope, perhaps that you had met with Rilke, and found a way out.”

  “No sign of Rilke,” Stefan said. “But there’s something more—”

  “Wait a moment!” Bruno interjected, abruptly. “In Taal’s name,” he said, “What am I thinking of?”

  “What is it?”

  “News,” Bruno told him. “Important news. I’ve been talking to our friend over there—” He broke off abruptly. Stefan looked up as a guard passed by, probing and prodding at the exhausted prisoners with his staff. The guard met Stefan’s eye for an instant and then moved on.

  Bruno lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve been talking to our friend over there…” He pointed towards a figure sitting hunched by the thin light of a tallow lamp. Stefan recognised Lothar Koenig.

  “The fellow we were talking to before. The one who thinks his captivity is just a big misunderstanding,” he said.

  Bruno nodded. “He wants out all right,” he said. “And he’s not stupi
d. He’s guessed we’re planning to get out. I think he wants us to take him with us.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” Bruno replied, breathlessly. “It’s not. This man’s a bounty hunter. He brought a prisoner here to Sigmarsgeist, hoping to sell him. And not just any prisoner, Stefan. It sounds like it might be—”

  “Zucharov? You’re right, my friend. Alexei is here, in Sigmarsgeist.”

  Bruno pulled back, astonished. “You’ve seen him?”

  “More than seen him,” Stefan replied. “I’ve come within an inch of losing my life to him.”

  “Taal’s breath, where did this happen?”

  Stefan paused, waiting for the guard to pass out of earshot. “In the palace,” he whispered.

  “The palace?” Bruno replied. “Do the Guides know of this?”

  “More than know of it,” Stefan told him. “My meeting with Alexei was contrived. A little sport for Anaise von Augen.”

  Bruno shook his head. “Then there is a darkness falling over Sigmarsgeist.” He looked up, a flicker of hope passing across his face. “In the palace—did you get any news of—”

  “Of Bea? I’m sorry, no,” Stefan said. “Though there is no reason to suppose her harmed. Not so long as she’s useful to them.”

  “I must go back for her, Stefan,” Bruno said. “I must find a way. I vowed to do as much.”

  Stefan’s reply was cut short by a command shouted out by one of the soldiers standing close by. All around, the prisoners that had been sitting gnawing bread, or trying to get some sleep now began to stand up, and form into a weary line near the entrance to the chamber.

  “Come on, you filthy rabble,” the guard shouted out. “Work’s barely begun.”

  Stefan and Bruno were shoved forward, into the waiting line. Stefan sought out the shuffling figure of Lothar Koenig, a few paces ahead of them. He pushed his way through the slow-moving line until he was shoulder to shoulder with the bounty hunter. Koenig looked as if he’d aged several years since Stefan had last seen him. His back was bowed, and he walked with a heavy limp. The steely determination in his eyes had dimmed, but it was still alive.