02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  “Quickly,” Stefan said to him. “Before they split us up. Tell me about the man you brought here. The mutant.”

  Lothar weighed Stefan up carefully. For a moment he was no longer a prisoner, but Koenig the bounty hunter, Koenig the opportunist. “Everything has a price,” he said. “Even down here.”

  “What’s yours?” Stefan demanded.

  “Company,” Lothar told him, simply. “If you’re planning to escape—and don’t tell me you’re not—I want you to take me with you.”

  “Maybe,” Stefan replied. He exchanged glances with Bruno.

  “You wouldn’t regret it,” Lothar boasted. “I’m a useful man to have on your side. The best tracker this side of the Grey Mountains.”

  “Tell us about the mutant, Zucharov,” Stefan said. “How did he come to be your prisoner?”

  Lothar drew himself up, painfully, to his full height. A look of bravado flickered momentarily on his face, then vanished as he let out a long sigh. “I suppose if I told you I bettered him in combat, you wouldn’t believe me,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t. And I don’t,” Stefan confirmed. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Koenig sighed again. “I’m a survivor, friend,” he said, looking around him. “As Sigmar is my judge, I’ll survive this, somehow I will. But I swear, the tattooed mutant could have torn me apart at any time of his choosing.”

  “You’re telling us he let you capture him?” Bruno asked. “Let you bring him here?”

  Koenig nodded. “That’s how it seemed to me.”

  “Then it’s no accident that he’s here,” Stefan said. “There is a purpose to it.”

  “There’s a purpose to everything, friend,” Koenig agreed. “If only we can find it.” He smiled, enigmatically. “And I can find anything, given time. I’ll find a way out of here. Wait and see.”

  The line of prisoners ahead of them came to a halt. They had reached the bottom of a shallow slope, leading to a quarry face. Men were being set to work, pounding at the ore with their picks, gathering it into barrows and sacks with their bare hands.

  “Here we go again,” Bruno muttered.

  Stefan saw a figure wearing the white of the elite guard step from the shadows and speak to two of the Red Guard standing on watch at the head of the line. As the man turned towards the light, Stefan recognised Rilke. The White Guard ran his eye along the line of prisoners until he found Stefan standing with Bruno towards the back.

  “Those are the ones,” he said out loud. “Those two. Bring them out here.”

  The Red Guards moved forward and hauled Stefan and Bruno out of the line, marching them across to where Rilke stood, arms folded across his chest. Rilke dismissed the guards with a curt nod.

  “Plotting another insurrection?” Rilke accused them loudly. “How did you think you were going to get away with it?”

  “If you plan to have us killed just get on with it,” Bruno countered, angrily. “Don’t waste our time with imaginary plots.”

  Rilke seized hold of Bruno and pulled him closer. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I said I would get you out of here and I will,” he said. He looked to Stefan. “I hadn’t bargained for Anaise’s little diversion with you. This may be our only chance.”

  “Why should we trust you?” Stefan asked him. “How do I know this isn’t another attempt to put a knife in my back?”

  “You don’t know anything,” Rilke said. “But you don’t have much choice, do you?”

  Stefan looked around. One of the guards at the head of the line was keeping a wary eye on the conversation, one hand hovering over his sword.

  Stefan had no reason to trust Rilke but right now, there was no other choice but to trust the man. “Very well,” he said. He saw Koenig on the fringe of the group of prisoners, still looking in his direction. “That man over there,” he said to Rilke. “He comes too.”

  A look of disbelief passed over Rilke’s face. “Are you mad? I’m risking my life just trying to get the two of you out.”

  “One more won’t make any difference,” Stefan insisted. From the corner of his eye, he saw the watching guard unsheath his sword.

  “Very well,” Rilke snapped. He gestured, impatiently, for Koenig to be pulled from the line. Two guards stepped forward to seize the bounty hunter. Koenig made a convincing show of resistance as he was pulled, kicking and protesting his innocence, towards the waiting Rilke.

  “A third conspirator,” Rilke announced. He struck Koenig hard upon on the side of his face, stifling his protests. “Get the rest of them to work,” he told the guards. “I’m taking these ones back above.”

  “You’ll need an escort,” a guard said, half as a question and half as a statement of fact. Rilke held his sword out for the Red Guard’s inspection. He glowered at the other man.

  “Are you suggesting I can’t take care of these wretches on my own?”

  The guard shook his head, vigorously. “Just orders, that’s all.”

  “Forget orders,” Rilke barked back at him. “I can take care of them.”

  The guard wavered for a moment, but finally shook his head. “Best I come with you, all the same,” he said, emphatically. Rilke stared back and him, and shrugged.

  “As you will,” he said, and prodded Koenig with his sword. “Get moving,” he snapped. “Get moving, all of you.”

  Alexei Zucharov watched Anaise like a hawk. He recorded every gesture of her hand, every movement, every line that animated her face. And, as he watched her, so the Chaos Lord Kyros watched too. Watched, and bided his time. The net was tightening.

  The chamber they had gone to was within Anaise’s own private quarters. This was a place where Konstantin and his guards would not, dared not go. But Zucharov was unsure of his status now. Had the words that Kyros crafted for him done their work? Did Anaise now accept him as her consort, her advisor or was he still a prisoner? The armed men she had posted around the room and beyond the closed doors did not suggest she considered him free to come and go as he pleased.

  “Why did you allow the combat to be ended?” Zucharov demanded.

  “To appease Konstantin,” Anaise responded. “We must tread carefully around my brother. He does not understand, not yet.”

  Zucharov felt the anger chafing at him like a wound which would not heal. “I should have killed him,” he said, slowly. “Kumansky. It was my right. My destiny.”

  “It did not look that way to me,” she retorted. “Kumansky had outwitted you. You were at his mercy. Perhaps you should be grateful to Konstantin for intervening when he did.”

  Zucharov wanted to punish her insolence, but knew that Kyros would not allow him, not yet. He felt the hand of his master, reining in his desires. His face lifted up, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Kyros had nearly total mastery of him now, able to orchestrate his every word and movement.

  Zucharov looked around the room, his gaze taking in the guards standing with their swords held upright, each man waiting on his mistress’ command.

  “There are some amongst you that you can no longer trust,” he said at last.

  Anaise looked at him, quizzically, then realised that Zucharov was referring to her own men. She stepped closer, almost within touching distance.

  “The soldiers of Sigmar have served me faithfully,” she said. She laughed, but the laugh caught in her throat, giving lie to her confident manner. “What are you saying?” she demanded. “That someone here is going to betray us?”

  Zucharov closed his eyes. From deep within him, Kyros reached out, his sightless gaze spanning both past and future, tracking the futile endeavour of mortal souls as they struggled against inevitable fate. In that brief, flaring moment of clarity, everything was clear, and everything was known to him.

  Zucharov opened his eyes, and looked down on Anaise. A faint, sardonic smile appeared upon his face.

  “You have already been betrayed,” he said.

  They walked, and sometimes crawled, through the cramped, airless
passageways for the better part of an hour, until they reached a shaft leading up to the next level of the mine. Rilke lifted his lantern to indicate the ladder.

  “You first,” he said to the guard.

  The guard looked up at the ladder then back to Rilke, keeping one eye fixed upon Stefan and the others. “You go first, then the prisoners,” he said. “Once you reach the top, I’ll follow.”

  “Of course.” Rilke forced a smile, and laid a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. “What am I thinking of?” He steered the guard away from the ladder, and, in the same movement, turned in slightly. Stefan saw the brief flicker of steel in Rilke’s right hand, then the guard’s eyes widen in sudden alarm. He started to call out, but it was a gushing purple tide of blood, not words, that spilled from his mouth.

  Rilke cleaned the knife carefully on the dead man’s tunic, and went to tuck it beneath his belt. He hesitated, then offered the blade to Stefan, “You’re probably going to need this,” he said, “and this.” He held out the lantern.

  “By the time this wick has burnt down a finger’s width,” he said, “I’ll have raised the alarm. You overpowered both of us.” he looked down dispassionately at the crumpled body at his feet. “This poor wretch got the worse of it.” He bent down, and gently extracted the sword from the dead man’s grip. “You’d better take this as well,” he said. “There’s no telling what lies ahead for you now.”

  “Armed or not, how are we going to get out of the mine?” Bruno asked, still suspicious. “The place is thick with guards, all the way to the top.”

  “You don’t go up,” Rilke told him. “You go down.” He indicated with his lantern. “Take the passage off to your left. It works its way along for about a quarter of a mile, then comes to a dead end.”

  “A good place to die, trapped like a rat,” Bruno commented, sourly.

  “There you’ll find rubble that’s been hewn from the rock face,” Rilke continued, ignoring Bruno. “Hidden underneath there’s a plate, a trapdoor. It hasn’t been opened in a while, but you should still be able to prise it free.”

  “And underneath?” Stefan asked.

  “A shaft, just about big enough for a man to pass through-Climb down it, and you will be in the tunnels which once formed part of the old city.”

  “The old city? You mean the original foundations of Sigmarsgeist?”

  “No.” Rilke shook his head. “The rulers of Sigmarsgeist were not the first to build here. As the foundations were dug, they came upon the ruins of another city, long since abandoned or destroyed.”

  “Who built this other city?”

  “No one now knows for sure,” Rilke replied. “Perhaps they were people not unlike the Guides. Perhaps they too had dreams of a great citadel, a bastion to protect them against evil. But the underground tunnels are all that remain now, and they will not survive long. Soon the seam that lies directly above is going to be mined. The shaft will be buried and access to the old tunnels will be lost forever. This is your only chance.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a chance,” Bruno commented. “How can we find our way through?”

  “Head due north,” Rilke said. “That is, directly away from Sigmarsgeist. Find the routes that take you upwards, towards the surface. Some will be impassable, but a few, I know, are still open.”

  “If there’s a path, I can find it,” Koenig said, confidently.

  “You must leave now,” Rilke said. “Time is running out.” He held out the lamp. “Take this. There should be a good hour’s worth of light in it. Then you’re on your own.”

  Stefan took the lantern. “It seems we misjudged each other.”

  “One last thing,” Rilke said. He took a step towards Stefan, his hands down by his sides. “Hit me,” he instructed him, “and make it look convincing.”

  Stefan hesitated, momentarily disarmed by the request. “Not long ago I’d have gladly done so,” he reflected.

  “Then act on that memory.” Rilke offered his head to one side. “My very survival may depend upon it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Wakening Beast

  Konstantin von Augen stood, as he had on countless mornings before, on his balcony high on the east face of the palace, looking out across the ever-growing expanse of Sigmarsgeist. Through the last decade of his life, the sight of the citadel growing from a scattering of flimsy homes into a vast, impenetrable fortress had filled him with joy, and with hope for a future world to come. It had seemed to him as though he were standing upon the threshold of a new age. But today there was no joy, and his hope was strangely muted. Today his heart was heavy, and he could not envisage when, or even if, that burden would ever lift.

  This cold early morning he seemed to see Sigmarsgeist as he had never seen it before. The citadel was his: Sigmarsgeist was his creation, his child. But now, with the wind blowing off the hills setting a cruel chill into his limbs, he began to see that creation for what it truly was. Instead of order, he saw anarchy. He counted dozens of new houses and workshops which had not existed the day before, new buildings that had sprung up across the city almost literally overnight. But equally there were dozens more that appeared to have been destroyed for no reason, burst open like cracked, discarded shells and new, half-finished structures emerging from the ruins like jagged teeth.

  The streets of the city were full, as they always now seemed to be. But where before Konstantin had seen only labour and purposeful endeavour, he now saw discord and strife. Men and women clashed upon the roads and walkways of the citadel, elbowing one another out of the way, jostling for what limited space remained. So many people, too many. He could hear their voices raised, a tumult of sound rising to the high towers of Sigmarsgeist. And what for so long had sounded in his ears as exaltation now rang with bitter anger. He saw the White Guard amongst them, staffs and clubs raised as well as voices. Many he no longer recognised. Even the guard were passing beyond his control.

  Most of all, wrapped around nearly two thirds of the city like a choking weed, were the structures of fibre and bone that no mortal hand had built. Walls that blocked off streets; walkways and bridges that ended in empty space. Flights of steps that vanished into the ground without entrances or exits. A madness had seized hold of Sigmarsgeist, a touch of Chaos, and this was its physical form.

  Had it come so suddenly, or had the change been so gradual, so stealthy, that it had crept upon him without his noticing? Or was it simply that he had tried so hard, and for so long, not to see what was unravelling before his very eyes?

  The wind gusted, raw and hard against his face, and Konstantin felt a tear cold upon his cheek. There was more, something in its way, almost worse. Konstantin had lived his life battling adversity and disappointment, but betrayal had always wounded him most deeply of all. And this wound went to his very core. He had trusted this man above all others, a man who had been his lieutenant and his confidant. After Konstantin’s own death this man might have carried the torch of Sigmarsgeist in the darkness. But if what Anaise had told him was true, Konstantin had been truly deceived. His trust had been extinguished like a flame, and now hope itself was starting to die.

  He turned at the sound of knocking, then the door to the chamber opened. Rilke appeared in the doorway, with two of the Red Guard in close attendance. His normally austere countenance had given way to look of confusion and alarm, and he wore a crude bandage above one eye.

  “My lord,” Rilke began, “I bring news—”

  Konstantin held up his hand, stopping Rilke’s words. He looked at the scarlet-clad soldiers standing on either side. “Where are your own men, Rilke?” he asked, his voice cold and dispassionate. “Where are the White Guard?”

  “My lord, my men cannot be found,” Rilke told him. “But be assured, I shall account for them before long.” He paused, and took a breath. “But first you must know—”

  “I already know,” Konstantin interjected. “I already know that the prisoners, Kumansky and his comrade, have escaped from
the mine and that they overpowered you and your men. I have already heard your hollow apology. Spare me your disgusting fabrication.” He gripped the arms of his chair and, slowly, lowered himself into a seated position.

  “I do hope that earning your wound did not cost you too dearly.”

  Rilke made no reply. He heard footsteps from the corridor outside, marching towards the Guide’s chamber. This time there was no announcement before the doors were flung wide.

  Anaise entered, flanked by six or seven men wearing the white of the elite guard. Rilke stared at them, taking in the pale, Norscan faces; their skin the colour of winter. They stared back at him with a look of open disdain.

  “These are not my men,” Rilke protested.

  “You have no men,” Anaise told him. “You have no one to protect you any longer.”

  Another figure now entered the chamber, a huge, imposing man. Rilke and Konstantin looked in astonishment at Alexei Zucharov. The tattooed mutant had no shackles upon his arms or legs to temper his frightening power. Instead of chains he bore steel armour—a breast-plate fastened upon his chest, and a broadsword at the belt about his waist. He stood amidst the white-clad guards, his posture proclaiming his authority over them.

  All colour had drained from Rilke’s face.

  “What is he doing here?”

  “He?” Anaise responded. She smiled, first at her brother, and then at Rilke. “He is your executioner,” she said.

  Lothar Koenig stared at his two companions in mute disbelief. “You want to go where?” he asked.

  Up to that point—from his perspective at the very least—it had gone perfectly. He hadn’t trusted the man the others called Rilke one jot, but he had been as good as his word, Lothar had to give him that. The journey through the mine had been difficult—rock spills and fallen roof beams threatening their progress every inch of the way. But when they finally reached the far, dead end of the gallery, everything had been as Rilke had described it. Buried beneath a carefully placed slew of rocks they had found a hatchway which led, quite literally, to another world. Once down the angled set of steps—a stone stairway that had not seen use in several years—they had found themselves in a network of old, abandoned tunnels that had once served another, far older settlement.