02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  Zucharov paid it scant attention at first. Huge though the siege engine was, it was surely incapable of breaching the thick stone wall. Then he saw that the wall was already weakened. Several great slabs of stone were missing or removed where the wall was being rebuilt. One well-directed thrust might be enough to break through. This could not be allowed to happen.

  Zucharov broke away from the main combat, swatting aside another three opponents, and sprinted for the walls. The Red Guard was on the point of releasing the machine, and sending the column of oak smashing against the stone wall. Zucharov let out a roar and hurled a short-bladed knife, aimed square in the middle of the guard’s back. In that instant the guard turned to one side, and the blade flew wide.

  Zucharov recognised the man. It was one of the confidants who sat in attendance upon the Guides, the highest ranking of those who wore the red of Sigmarsgeist. Baecker. Yes, that was his name. Zucharov leapt towards him, a final desperate lunge before his enemy could loosen the catches that held the mighty beam in place. Even in that moment, he was able to look through the eyes of Kyros, into the other man’s soul. Yes, it was clear. Baecker had the seed of darkness within him, the potential, at least, to cross the great divide and join with the march of the armies of the night. But for now, he was just another adversary. Zucharov already had enough men that he could call upon as his ally. The only fate that could await Hans Baecker was death.

  Baecker’s hand was inches away from the mechanism, another second or two would be all he needed to set the beam in motion and smash a great fissure in the wall. In the last instant he saw Zucharov coming for him, and swerved aside. The manoeuvre saved Baecker’s life, but it cost him the chance to launch the battering ram. Before he could recover, Zucharov was on him, wielding his blade with awesome speed. Baecker was dwarfed by his opponent, but stood his ground, fending off Zucharov’s first strikes and even finding space to strike back at the tattooed mutant towering over him. Just for an instant, Zucharov experienced a feeling akin to shock, or surprise. For just that fleeting moment, as Baecker lashed out at him with a vigour born of desperation, Zucharov remembered what it was like to be mortal, and his sense of invulnerability fell under threat. He reacted to that threat with another bellicose howl of rage, redoubling the speed and ferocity of his sword.

  Baecker parried three, then four, shattering blows in succession, but his strength was waning. Zucharov’s fifth stroke spun Baecker off-balance, and the sixth prised the sword from out of his hand.

  Zucharov pulled back, on the threshold of the seventh, decisive strike. He looked down at his own chest, where a rivulet of ruby blood was running into the contours of the dark images etched upon his flesh. He sheathed his sword, and raised a hand to his chest, wiping the blood away contemptuously.

  Hans Baecker launched a last desperate attack, charging full on at Zucharov, his fists held high. Zucharov grabbed the man’s arm and twisted, the sharp crack of splintering bone met by Baecker’s scream of agony. Zucharov drew his other arm around his opponent’s neck and held him firm. Baecker was twisting and writhing like a wild animal, but Zucharov was able to hold him with ease. He let Baecker struggle for a few moments more, then, with his free hand, clamped hold of Baecker by the hair, and snapped his head back, breaking his neck.

  He kicked the body to one side, and stood back. The wall had not been breached. The final chance to save Sigmarsgeist had gone. The rushing waters hastened to cover the siege engine and the bodies of its crew. Soon they would all be submerged. It was time for Zucharov to move on. There was still more to be done.

  He opened his hands and gazed down at his palms. The jet-black lines of the tattoo melted and reformed, swirling like the waters assailing the citadel. As Zucharov looked on, the image resting in each hand took on a similar, but different, shape and form. Finally the likeness of two faces came into view. The faces of two women, opposite and opposed, but united now in one purpose: to deliver Tal Dur to Kyros and his servant.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Endgames

  Bruno forced out his words between painful gasps of breath as he lay on the upper floor of the ruined house.

  “That’s as close as I ever want to come to drowning,” he gasped. “If I never cast eyes on another drop of water, then I won’t be sorry.”

  “Not something you’ll be worrying about for a while,” Lothar panted in reply. “I have a feeling there’ll be plenty of water about for a while yet.”

  “I have a feeling you’re right,” Stefan added. He got to his feet and peered out through the narrow, slitted window, looking down onto the fast-flowing river that, only minutes before, had been a street.

  They had escaped with their lives from the warren of sewer tunnels by the narrowest of margins, clambering clear into the daylight with the sound of the pursuing waters like the roaring of a wild beasts in their ears. They were on dry land for no more than a few seconds before the waters had burst from the tunnels with an unstoppable force, and Stefan and his companions were thrust into a battle for simple survival.

  The abandoned house would provide at best temporary refuge. Stefan had calculated that, at the pace the waters were rising, the upper floor and finally the whole building would be below water in less than an hour. But, for the moment at least, it was a place that offered concealment and a chance for them to take stock. The families of workers who had occupied the building were gone, escaped to dry ground, or else drowned in the attempt. The threadbare, makeshift furnishings decorating the rooms and the remnants of a meagre meal still left on a table were all that was left of them, all that was left of the better world that should have been Sigmarsgeist.

  “I wonder if they still thought it was worth it,” Bruno mused, looking over the scraps of the abandoned lives. “The dream of Sigmarsgeist. Whether they still believed, right to the end.”

  Lothar Koenig reached across Stefan and picked the rotting remains of an apple core from off the table. He put it into his mouth in one piece, and chewed on it noisily. “It’s all about winning and losing,” he said. “If you win, your dreams are real. If you lose, then all is dust. That’s the way it’s always been.”

  “I’m glad it’s so simple for you,” Bruno observed.

  “Wait a minute.” Stefan was back at the window. He beckoned the two of them to be quiet.

  “What is it?” Bruno whispered.

  Stefan crouched down by the window, careful not to make himself conspicuous. The light outside was fading fast, and most of the lamps in this area of the citadel had already been extinguished by the flood. But he could see something moving along the skyline marked out by the rooftops on the far side of the street.

  “What is it?” Bruno hissed again. “What can you see?”

  “Company,” Stefan told him. “At least a dozen men clambering about at roof level, just across from here.”

  “The Red Guard,” Bruno surmised. “I was wondering when they were going to show up.”

  “No,” Stefan said quietly. “These wear the white.”

  “The elite guard? Rilke’s men?”

  Stefan peered again at the clambering figures. The pale skin and blond complexions of the men seemed to confirm his fears.

  “They’re dressed as White Guard, but it’s not Rilke, nor any of his men,” Stefan concluded. He turned back into the room. “Bruno,” he said. “I think they’re Norscans.”

  “Taal’s blood,” Bruno swore. “That’s the last thing we need. How did they get loose?”

  “Things are much changed around here,” Stefan muttered. “And changed for the worse, however unlikely that might seem.”

  “Do you think they’ve any idea we might be here?” Lothar asked.

  Stefan was saved the trouble of answering by the sound of splintering wood, and the shattering of glass somewhere nearby.

  “They soon will,” Stefan said, evenly.

  Bruno turned to Lothar. “Looks like you can let your sword do your talking for once,” he declared. “Think you’
re up to it?”

  “I’m as ready as you are,” Lothar retorted, defiantly. “I intend to make sure I come out of this alive.”

  “Gods willing, so shall we all,” Stefan concurred. The crippled building shook to the sound of heavy-booted feet upon the narrow stairs. “Stand ready,” he said. “Here they come.”

  Who the Norscans were looking for wasn’t clear. The original inhabitants of the house, perhaps, or any other innocent citizen of Sigmarsgeist who hadn’t yet perished. What they obviously hadn’t been expecting to encounter was three armed men, ready to return their favours in kind. The first marauder broke down the fastened door and burst into the room, casting his gaze about for plunder or bloody sport. His eagerness earned him the length of Stefan’s blade, rammed to the hilt into his belly.

  The Norscan was dead before he could even cry out, but the sound of his body crashing to the floor was enough to bring his comrades stamping up the narrow stairway in pursuit.

  The first of them, a red-eyed youth rash enough to take the vanguard, was cut down by a stroke from Bruno’s blade. But hard on his heels were four more muscular warriors, and by now the advantage of surprise was lost. The Norscans cried out, giving their blood-lust full voice, and flung themselves into the combat. The air rang with the sound of clashing steel as the adversaries locked swords. Stefan focused upon his target, an ugly, thick-set Norscan with a pock-marked face that he took to be the leader. The man towered over Stefan, bettering him both in height and bulk. The Norscan spat contemptuously, anticipating an easy victory over this lesser opponent, and then struck out. His first blows were delivered with a savage force, and some accuracy, but Stefan kept one step ahead, slipping just out of range of each murderous strike, all the time drawing the Norscan towards him. The big man struck a third, and then a fourth blow, each time missing his mark by bare inches. Stefan grinned, and dropped his hands by his side.

  “This make it easier for you?” he taunted.

  The Norscan screamed out at Stefan in rage and frustration, and swung his sword in a blind fury, aiming at Stefan’s unprotected flank. Stefan dodged the blow, and the sword bit deep into the stout wooden beam that stood behind him. As the Norscan tugged desperately at the blade to pull it free, Stefan struck back, finding the exposed flesh of the Norscan’s throat with one, telling thrust of his sword. Now the odds were at least even.

  Or better than even. Stefan had feared that Lothar Koenig would prove little match for the brutal Norsemen, or, worse, would flee in the confusion of the battle. Wrong on both counts. The bounty hunter was very much with them, and more than holding his own against his opponent, making up in cunning and skill what he lacked in bulk and speed. But that still left Bruno facing the remaining two Norscans on his own. Bruno was a match for most swordsmen, but he was being forced back by the sheer force of the onslaught from his two attackers. The Norscans had him cornered, and, amidst a hail of sword strokes, some of their blows were beginning to find their mark.

  Stefan shouted out—something, anything to draw the Norscans’ attention—and flung himself across the room towards them. One of the Norscans paid no heed, and continued to tear at Bruno with a manic energy. But the other pulled up, and turned, caught between attack and self-defence. Stefan made him pay dearly for his indecision, knocking the man’s sword from his grasp with a mighty kick then following through with his sword, a two-handed blow that cleaved the Norscan’s arm from his shoulder. The Norscan staggered but did not fall, so Stefan struck him again, and then a third time, pouring all he had into the blows until his enemy was beaten to the ground.

  Bruno was wounded, but now took new heart, digging deep to find last reserves of strength. His opponent struck at him again, but before long he was using his sword to fend off the blows, not to deliver them. Stefan saw the man glance round and take stock of the situation. The cruel grin on his face was replaced by desperation as he began to look about for a means of escape. There would be none.

  Bruno landed the decisive blow, his sword biting deep into the flesh below the Norscan’s ribs. Stefan met him as he fell back, two scything strokes of his blade ending the argument for good.

  Stefan’s first concern was for Bruno. His comrade was covered in blood, and the cuts on his face and arms were many, but they were not deep. Stefan looked for Lothar, already marshalling what energy he had left for one last, desperate, assault. But Lothar had no need of their help. In the space of a few minutes he had turned the tables on his opponent. Stefan saw him standing on the far side of the room, one foot pressing down upon the prostrate form of the Norscan, sword poised to deliver the final blow.

  “Wait!” Stefan shouted to him. “Hold off.” He crossed the room and reached out to stay the bounty hunter’s hand. “Just a minute. We might be able to learn something useful from this creature.” He knelt down and grabbed the man by his straw-blond hair, pulling his face up towards his own.

  “Tell us who your leaders are, and where we can find them,” he demanded. “Tell us, and we may spare your miserable life.”

  The other man looked up at Stefan. He was young—probably little more than twenty summers, younger than Stefan himself. But a cruel savagery had run deep through that short life.

  Stefan could find no kinship in the other’s eyes, nor even the faintest glimmer of compassion. The Norscan sneered up at Stefan.

  “If I’d cared about preserving my life, I’d have made other choices long ago,” he muttered.

  “Answer me,” Stefan insisted. “Who leads you? Who freed you from the cells?”

  The dying Norscan parted his lips, and spat in Stefan’s face. “I will tell you nothing,” he said.

  Stefan stood up, disgusted, and glanced at Lothar, still poised with the sword.

  “Go ahead.”

  As soon as the way was clear, they got out of the building. They could have delayed little longer. The waters were still rising fast, and the bottom half of the stairway was already submerged.

  Stefan led the way out through one of the upper windows, and onto the flat roof. For a while the three men just sat, watching the scene unfolding around them. The citadel had a quite different look now. To the south, it had become a drowned world with only crests of stonework left poking through the churning waters like islands in the sea. They had to keep ahead of the flood, keep moving toward the higher ground, around the palace, at the northern edge of Sigmarsgeist.

  “What’s our plan?” Bruno asked.

  Stefan thought for a moment. “First we have to get to a place of safety,” he said. “And try and keep out of the way of the Norscans.”

  “How many more do you think there might be?”

  “A lot, I fear,” Stefan replied. “Too many for us to account for on our own.”

  “Where are Rilke’s men?” Bruno wondered. “And the Red Guard?”

  “Where indeed,” Stefan agreed. “We need to find the answer to that question if we’re going to stand any real chance of defeating the Norscans.”

  “Excuse me,” Lothar cut in. “But when you’re talking about ‘we’, I hope you’re not including me in your plans?”

  “It’s your choice,” Stefan replied. “But it stands to reason you’d be safer if you stayed with us.”

  Lothar Koenig smiled, and shook his head. “No offence, friend,” he said, “but you seem to attract trouble like a lamp gathers moths. Besides,” he said, getting up and looking around, “you and I have quite different quests to fulfil. You want to save the world, and all good people in it. Me—” he sheathed his sword, and fastened the buckle of his belt tight around his waist. “I just want to get out of this a rich man.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no certainty any of us will get out of this at all,” Stefan said, quietly.

  “Be that as it may, I’ll take my chances. You go your way, I’ll go mine.” He held out his hand. “No offence.”

  Stefan took the bounty hunter’s hand, and shook it. “You owe us nothing,” he said. “And we owe you a good deal. Ta
ke whatever path you must, and take our good wishes with you.”

  Bruno nodded, but said nothing. Lothar Koenig looked them up and down once more, then raised his hand in a brief salute, and was gone.

  “That man,” Bruno said at last. “Is nothing better than a looter, out to line his filthy pockets.”

  “Maybe,” Stefan concurred. “But if so, then he’s a brave one.” He watched the bounty hunter for a while longer as he picked his way along the skyline with an agility that belied his years. “Actually,” Stefan said, “I think he’s just a survivor. Not good, nor bad. Just a man doing whatever he has to do to see him through this life.”

  Bruno looked round at Stefan, faintly surprised. “A while ago you wouldn’t have talked like that,” he observed. “You’d have had no truck with the likes of him.”

  “That might be so,” Stefan agreed. “Perhaps I’ve started to see things differently. Perhaps the line between black and white, good and bad, isn’t as clear as I once thought it was.”

  He got to his feet, and helped Bruno up in turn. He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “This isn’t the place or time for such discussions,” he said. “We need to get moving too.”

  “Agreed,” Bruno said. “But to where?”

  “I want to know what’s happened to the Red Guard,” Stefan said. “I can’t believe they’ve all been swept aside in such a short space of time. I need to find Konstantin.”

  “Konstantin?”

  “He should have command over every man in this city. And we can’t hope to turn this situation about without them.”