02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  “Can he be moved?”

  She shook her head, emphatically. Stefan stood up, and shouted to the soldiers standing round.

  “Fetch some help,” he commanded them. “In the meantime, in the name of the gods, do whatever is within your power to help him.” He turned to the old man and his wife.

  “Will you stay with him also?” he asked.

  “We would not do otherwise,” the woman said. “We will give back such healing as we can.”

  “You’re going back to the palace?” a guard asked. “Alone?”

  “There’s only one man I’m looking for now,” Stefan replied. “And he will be waiting for me.”

  Anarchy had been loosed upon the world. The whole of Sigmarsgeist had become consumed within a carnival of death and destruction. Soldiers ran amidst the remains of houses and streets, fighting running battles, their blood mixing with the boiling, foaming waters. The people of Sigmarsgeist, once so organised, so industrious, were running, too, but without purpose now. They were running anywhere that afforded shelter, running from the tides of water and steel that had engulfed the citadel.

  Anaise von Augen looked around at the destruction of her life’s work with astonishment, and with a crazed sense of delight. Had she not known it? Sigmarsgeist would be torn down before it could be made anew. The old would be swept aside. Only when it had been purged, utterly and completely, would Sigmarsgeist be ready to greet the new age: the age of Tal Dur.

  The girl had ceased to resist. At the moment when Zucharov had killed Bruno, Bea had gone wild, suddenly consumed with pain and despair, and had fought like a wildcat to free herself from Anaise’s grip. But Anaise was far too strong for her. There was never any possibility of her letting the healer go, not even for a moment, and gradually Bea’s protests and struggles had subsided until, finally, she hung limply upon Anaise’s arm, an animal being led meekly to the slaughter.

  Anaise strode through the carnage, untouched and invulnerable. Zucharov, walking a few paces behind, was her shield, her merciless sword to fend off any who dared to come too close. There were few enough of them, and none lived to regret their folly. The time would soon come when her protector, too, would have outlived his usefulness. But for now, he still served, as all had come to serve her. As the mighty powers of Tal Dur in turn would come, so soon now, to serve her.

  Within sight of the gates of the palace, Anaise stopped, and turned her face to the sky. She looked about, listening intently to the sounds echoing around her. Keeping Bea secure within one arm, she lifted the other above her head.

  “Listen,” she said, to Bea, to Zucharov, to any who would hear her.

  “What is it?” Zucharov demanded. “Why have you stopped?”

  “Listen.” Anaise said again.

  “I hear nothing,”

  “That is it,” Anaise said, a new excitement rising in her voice. “That is exactly it.”

  Konstantin had heard it too. Hidden away within his chamber in the highest reaches of the palace he had heard, or, rather, sensed the sudden cessation of the roaring of the waters that battered against the fabric of his dreams.

  His lieutenants had entered his room without even the formality of knocking. The elder Guide could see at once from their faces that they believed themselves to be the bearers of good news.

  “Majesty,” one began. “The assault upon the citadel is ended!”

  “The waters are no longer rising,” his comrade went on, eagerly. “All is growing calm.”

  Konstantin smiled at them, indulging their humour. “I hear,” he said, quietly.

  “Do you think that Kumansky was successful?” the first man asked of him. “Perhaps the outer walls have indeed been breached?”

  “No,” Konstantin replied. “I do not think Kumansky was successful.” He watched his lieutenant’s face fall.

  “Then what?” the man asked, uncertainly. “What can it mean?”

  Konstantin did not answer the question, but instead turned his attention inwards, drawing deep upon the insight and wisdom that, in his madness and his folly, he had all but lost. After a long pause, he opened his eyes and looked up at the expectant faces of his men.

  “It means,” he said at last, “that it is time for you to stand down from your posts. Time for you to leave me. Time to leave the palace, if that is your will.”

  The two men were amongst the oldest and most trusted of his officers. They had followed him without question or complaint, all through the long rise and swift descent of Sigmarsgeist. Now he dismissed them for the last time, with no more than a word and a gesture of his hand. The officers stared back at the Guide in disbelief.

  “Sire,” one said. “We will not go. We will stay at your side, and serve you through whatever is to come.”

  “I release you from my service,” Konstantin said again, with steel in his voice. “Only solitude may serve me now. Go.” He turned away, and when he spoke again, his words were no longer for them.

  “What there is left to face, I must face alone,” he said.

  He did not turn back, nor speak another word, until at last the two men had retreated reluctantly from his sight. Then he sat, and waited, alone with the stillness that had now settled like a cloud over Sigmarsgeist. He did not have to wait for long.

  The rumbling started deep within the palace itself. Konstantin could not place it exactly, but he did not have to. He knew where it came from, and he knew—now—what it meant. It came from the very heart of the palace, and rose from the depths to touch the very top of its highest towers. It was a rumbling like the anger of the gods, deep and unforgiving. Konstantin watched as first the table, then the walls around him started to shake. He bowed his head.

  “Anaise, my sister,” the Guide murmured. “Do you hear it? It is the voice of judgement, calling us to account.”

  Konstantin von Augen closed his eyes, and prayed. For the last time, he prayed to the holy memory of Sigmar, a prayer of atonement, heavy with regret. And he prayed that, if the gods should ever choose to grant him another life, he should never again grow to be so blind.

  Yard by yard, and sometimes inch by bloody inch, Stefan had fought his way back to within sight of the gates of the palace. By now, all order had broken down, the hierarchy of control was defined by the outcome of single acts of combat, Red Guard pitted against Norscan, and Norscans turning their cruel rage upon anyone who came within sight. Not all the combatants were human. As Stefan edged closer he began to encounter those whose mutations had placed them far beyond the bounds of the mortal realm. These were the creatures of the dark, nameless abominations, once chained within their cells in the dungeons of the palace, now freed to exact their revenge upon humankind as they chose.

  The attack came without warning, a flash of movement and colour, something tumbling from out of the sky, plunging from the ledge of a building high above. The daemon spun onto its feet in front of Stefan and stood before him, a shimmering grotesque of muscle and bone, razor-sharp talons adorning the claws on each of its sinuous arms. It shifted and settled back on its haunches, lithe as a dancer, savouring the encounter to come. Stefan sensed it had been waiting for him, its sole purpose to stop or delay him reaching the palace.

  Stefan drew breath then rushed forward, hoping for a quick and decisive resolution. The Chaos creature moved with astonishing speed and agility, springing from its haunches to leap into the air above its opponent’s head. Stefan spun around, disorientated, holding his sword high to fend off the anticipated attack. He felt a blow upon his back, then wiry, powerful limbs wrapped themselves about his neck, and razor talons were clawing at the exposed flesh of his throat. Stefan twisted from left to right, and managed to dislodge the creature from his back. The thing fell heavily, but regained its feet in an instant and stood eyeing Stefan, a knowing smile upon its thin, androgynous face. It winked, mockingly, then spat at Stefan, a bolt of sulphurous bile that bubbled and smoked as it struck the ground by his feet.

  Stefan struck out with
his sword, but the creature simply stepped away from the blow, moving faster than any mortal man. By now Stefan knew what to expect, even if there was little he could do about it. The counter-attack came with lethal speed, a sudden blur of colour as the claws raked the air before Stefan’s face. Stefan felt a sudden stinging as though a thousand needles had pierced his skin. His face was damp as though sweating from every pore, but this was blood, not sweat. And if the servant of Tzeentch got any closer, he would be cut to ribbons.

  Stefan thrust out his sword again, aiming for the murderous, raking claws. Bone bit upon steel, the creature had one arm wrapped like a serpent around the outstretched blade. Stefan swung the sword, two-handed, smashing the creature against the wall. Before it could recover he lashed out again, finally managing to land a blow upon the multi-hued body. He moved in for the kill, but the creature wasn’t finished yet. Claws tore at his face and body. A cut appeared along Stefan’s left arm, then another upon his thigh. The creature opened its mouth and let loose a low, keening wail.

  Then the thunder came, a noise fit to wake the sleeping gods. It started as a low rumble, somewhere deep below the ground, but rose quickly to a crescendo. It was like the roaring of the waters as they first burst up into the citadel, but much, much louder. The creature of Chaos turned its hairless face to the sky and uttered a blood-curdling response. It seemed to have anticipated the sound, and turned towards Stefan as if to say, you are too late.

  But, for a brief moment, its guard was down. Stefan had one chance, and he made sure he took it. The ground trembled as the pounding rhythm took hold, the gates and walls of the palace, the buildings lining the surrounding streets, everything was moving. But Stefan had only one focus. He blocked out the thunderous roar, and all thought of what it might portend. The monster flung its head full back and wailed, and Stefan lashed out with his sword, the blade slicing clean through its neck. The creature’s head flew from its body, the leering grin still fixed upon its face.

  Stefan steadied himself upon his sword, fighting to stay upon his feet. All around him, buildings were cracking and crumbling, great towers of stone falling to the ground. The gates of the palace stood open, unguarded. Stefan ran towards them, not knowing if he was running towards his salvation or his doom, only knowing that this was the locus of the storm. Whatever outcome awaited, it would be decided here.

  A mighty crack split the air. Stefan looked up and saw one of the great domes above the palace crack open. Plates of iron peeled apart, spraying wreckage and dust into the shivering air. A second dome fractured, and then a third under the relentless pounding. The palace, the very heart of Sigmarsgeist, was dying before Stefan’s eyes. And all within it were surely going to die, too.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the infernal hammer beat was stilled. An eerie, tranquil silence settled upon the citadel. Stefan ran on through the gates, suddenly able to hear his own footfalls amongst the steady rain of debris falling upon the ground.

  He counted five seconds of silence… six… seven. Somewhere between the eighth and ninth, the explosion struck. The thunderous pounding that had reduced much of the palace to rubble had been only the beginning, a prelude to what was to come. As Stefan looked on, a massive column of water burst forth from the ground and punched, like a great fist, towards the sky. The water crashed against the walls of the palace with the force of a mighty explosion, like a thousand storms brought together into one single, catastrophic event.

  Sigmarsgeist had been meant to stand until eternity. But the buildings beneath the four domes had already been undermined by the sprawling mass of bone-like growths that had eaten their way through the fabric of the palace. Once-solid structures began to crumble. Great slabs of masonry were thrown into the air and smashed to fragments upon the ground below. Through the blurring haze, Stefan caught sight of the domes as they fell, dragging the walls of the palace down behind them. Ten years of mighty labour was torn apart in minutes.

  Blinded by the icy spray, and showered with shards of broken stone, all Stefan could do was protect himself as best he could. For what felt like an age he crouched down with his arms about his head, the only shelter he could find from the relentless storm.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the noise and water were gone. Dazed, Stefan clambered to his feet, gazing spellbound at the ruination all around him. The proud heart of the citadel had been swept away. The high walls, the domes and gilded towers were all gone, replaced by a drowned wasteland of rubble.

  Minutes before, the streets in and around the palace had been teeming with people. Only the gods knew how many souls had been swept to the Gates of Morr in the maelstrom that had followed. Stefan looked about and said a silent prayer for them all, and for all the hopes and futile dreams of Sigmarsgeist, gone in the passing of a moment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tal Dur

  If Anaise still held any lingering doubts that this was to be her destiny, then those doubts were utterly dispelled now. She had watched in wonder as the palace of Sigmarsgeist was destroyed. On all sides, walls, towers and statues fell, great edifices of stone thrown high in the air and smashed upon the earth below. The carnage was absolute, the destruction all but total. But it did not destroy her. With Bea and Zucharov she had walked into the maelstrom, to the very edge of the storm that was tearing the palace apart, and she was not harmed. Now, Anaise knew, this was the will of the gods—not the safe gods of the Empire, but deeper, darker forces. It had been ordained. At last, her time had come.

  She watched in wonder as the work of years was undone in a few violent minutes, the unnatural fury of the water leaving nothing intact. Soon there was no palace, nothing left of the monument to her brother’s dreams. The entire edifice, the tallest structure, the highest point in all Sigmarsgeist, had collapsed in upon itself. The palace and all its surrounding buildings had disappeared, pounded to rubble then collapsed within the great pit of its own dismembered foundations. Everything, above and below, had been washed away.

  Anaise began to laugh, softly at first, then with a growing intensity until her voice became a hysterical counterpoint to the dark laughter of the gods. Her brother’s dreams had been buried, and with them Konstantin himself. But she had endured. The new citadel that would follow would be in her image, an everlasting testament to her great and enduring will.

  As suddenly as the deluge had begun, it was over. For a moment the great tower of water hung suspended, spinning in mid air. Then, abruptly, the pounding ceased, and the tower fell in upon itself, wave upon wave crashing down upon the wreckage of the palace.

  The waters flooded across the open space and then withdrew, draining back into the crater left behind. Almost as quickly as the subterranean ruins beneath the palace had been exposed, they were drowned, subsumed as the waters poured into the gaping chasm. Where the palace had once stood there was now only a pool, the size of a small lake. The fury at its destruction was spent, not even the smallest ripple disturbed the surface of the water. Anaise was left with her captive and her consort, standing by a shore of tumbled stone beside the edge of the lake.

  Nothing was left standing above the water, except for a solitary tangled mass of bleached-white bone which had tumbled from on high to lie spanning the width of the water like a ghostly bridge.

  Anaise looked around. Gradually her delight gave way to a puzzled disbelief. She seized hold of Bea, and pulled the girl around to face her.

  “Is that it?” she demanded, tersely. “What happens now? Where is the Well of Sadness?”

  “Gone,” Bea said quietly. “It has served its purpose.”

  Anaise shook her violently. “Where is Tal Dur?” she screamed. “I will not be denied, not now!”

  “Tal Dur is here,” said Zucharov from behind her. “Still you do not understand, and you will never will.” He turned his gaze upon the dark unblemished face of the waters and stretched out a hand. The placid calm of the lake broke apart in response, rising up in a swirling wave.

 
; “The sins of Sigmarsgeist have been washed away,” Bea told Anaise. “The power of the waters is distilled to its very essence. This is the source,” she said, looking toward the lake. “This is Tal Dur.”

  “The girl,” Zucharov said. “Give her to me.”

  Anaise took a step back, her eyes fixed upon Zucharov. With one hand she still held firmly to Bea. The other trailed down by her side, lightly brushing against her gown.

  “Of course,” she replied at last. “I will share the gifts of Tal Dur with you. That was always our agreement.”

  “Give her to me. Now.”

  Anaise dipped her head in a shallow bow. “Of course,” she replied, forcing a smile. “One moment.” She appeared to fumble with the clasp of her gown.

  Zucharov made a grab for the girl, his patience at an end. He didn’t see the knife until it was flying towards him. In a single, elegant movement Anaise had lifted her hand clear of her gown and sent the blade twisting through the air. It struck Zucharov, hard and firm, in the very centre of his chest.

  The tattooed warrior stumbled backwards, a look of puzzled disbelief forming beneath the hideous mask. He coughed, gasping for breath. His huge frame shook, then steadied itself. Zucharov grasped the hilt of the knife, but did not pull it free. His expression changed. Slowly, a bitter smile crept across his dark features. When he spoke it was with the voice of Kyros.

  “You are wrong,” the Chaos Lord murmured. “We were never to share Tal Dur. That was never to be your destiny.” He ripped the blade from his chest, a plume of crimson blood spouting from the wound. Oblivious to any pain, Zucharov pulled open his tunic around the wound, revealing the canopy of horrors daubed upon his body.