02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  “See,” he continued. “This is your destiny.”

  A scream welled up in Anaise’s throat as the image shaped itself before her eyes. Right where the knife had penetrated the mutant’s body she saw her own likeness, drenched in blood. The wound that she had inflicted was a jagged scar that ran the length of her body. She let go of Bea and tried to run, but Zucharov caught her, and restrained her with ease.

  Alexei Zucharov brought his hands about Anaise’s neck and held them there. He traced the contours of her face, running his fingers down the length of her cheek. Anaise battled to free herself with every last ounce of her being, beating at Zucharov with her fists. When all else had failed her, she screamed.

  “Enough,” the voice of Kyros murmured. “Enough. Now you see where your destiny has brought you. Now you see where you belong.” Zucharov raised one hand, brushing away the single tear running down her face.

  “You are fallen,” he whispered to her. “You are weak.”

  Anaise’s eyes grew wide with fear, or with anger. She began to speak, defiant to the last in the face of the monster who would deny her her rightful prize. Zucharov pressed one finger to her lips, stopping her words. Then, slowly, almost gently, he cupped his hands once more around Anaise’s neck, and stilled her voice for ever.

  At first, it had seemed impossible to Stefan that anything, or anyone, could have survived, either inside the palace, or in the dark maze of dungeons that had once lain below. Every living thing must surely have perished. Yet he had been spared, and he now realised that he was not the only one to have survived.

  He now stood on the lip of a vast crater where the walls had fallen, and the palace had collapsed in upon itself. The waters had drawn back, retreating into the cavernous space, filling it until all that remained of either the palace or the great flood which had destroyed it was a lake. The only structure that still stood was a single span of the bone-like growth that curved like the spine of some great beast across the surface of the water.

  Fragile and brittle, the bridge swayed precariously in the faint breeze that drifted off the water. At any moment this last remnant of the struggle would surely crack and break apart. But for the moment, the bone-bridge held, a solitary arch above the still, silent waters. Upon the bridge, Stefan made out two figures>One was monstrously tall and powerfully built. The second, diminutive by contrast, walking two steps behind, hands fastened behind their back, linked to the first by a length of rope or chain. He recognised them instantly—Zucharov and Bea, captor and captive. Locked together in a slow dance across the waters of Tal Dur.

  Stefan had asked himself what he would feel when this moment came. Would he be consumed by vengeance, raw hatred for the creature who had stolen the life of his comrade? Would he feel excitement, or fear at the prospect that his own life, too, might soon be at an end? Now the time had come, Stefan felt neither of these things. He had become quite calm, as though he had reached a sudden and unexpected point of stillness. As he slowly drew his sword he was aware only of a sense of fulfilment, and the knowledge that he had been waiting for this moment for much of his life. This would be the fulcrum, the defining struggle. Whatever the outcome now, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Zucharov had not seen him yet. He was only interested in Bea, dragging the healer behind him as he moved on to the bridge. Bea looked rigid, immobile. For a moment Stefan feared that Zucharov might want her dead, but no, that was not Zucharov’s purpose. Her presence made Stefan’s task all the more difficult, now he must destroy Zucharov without endangering Bea. There would be a way. There had to be a way.

  Finally, almost casually, Alexei Zucharov looked up and saw his former comrade. A look passed across the mutant’s face that signalled that he, too, had been waiting for this moment. A flash of common understanding passed between them, the last bond they would ever share.

  Stefan barely knew Zucharov now. He looked as if he were wearing a mask, a mask that clung taut against his skin, covering every inch of his face. Then Stefan saw it for what it truly was, the living tattoo that had begun a lifetime ago in Erengrad, as a tiny bruise upon his comrade’s arm. There could be no question now that Chaos had now claimed Zucharov. There was no way back from the abyss for Alexei.

  Stefan wasn’t expecting Zucharov to smile, but smile he did, even though the tattoo rendered the smile inhuman. Stefan realised that this, after all, was what Zucharov truly wanted. To face Stefan here, at the place they would know as Tal Dur, and to kill him. Zucharov’s whole body had been transformed. Sinews strained and pumped-up muscles pushed hard against tough, leathery flesh. The realisation sat like ice in Stefan’s stomach. The dark power flooding into Zucharov was making him ever stronger, ever more unassailable. Every moment that passed tilted the odds of battle further in Zucharov’s favour.

  Beyond the fight that lay ahead, there was Bea to think of. So far she seemed to be unharmed, but Stefan knew he could not risk attacking Zucharov whilst he still held the girl.

  “Let the girl go free!” Stefan called. “This quarrel is for you and I alone.”

  Zucharov’s mocking laughter echoed across the water in response.

  “Quarrel? With you? I’ve no more quarrel with you than I might have with a fly.” Zucharov raised the blade of his knife to Bea’s throat. The healer’s face was pale with terror.

  “Is this what agitates your weak, insect mind, Stefan?” He touched the edge of the steel to Bea’s skin. “Perhaps if I dispense with the girl then the fly will stop bothering me?”

  Stefan moved forward, cautiously. “I don’t think you’ll do that,” he said. He paused, struggling with the gamble he was about to take. “But if you want,” he said, “then go ahead. Kill her. You’ll have no excuse to hide behind then. You’ll have to fight me.”

  Veins pulsed upon the mutant’s forehead. The patchwork that was Zucharov’s face buckled and stretched, and blood began to leak from his dark lidless eyes. He pulled himself up to his full height, towering over both his captive and his opponent.

  “You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he told Stefan. “As it is, you will live just long enough to regret your words.” He turned to the girl.

  “Where does the source lie?” he demanded. He took hold of her arm, twisting it slowly, relentlessly, until Bea screamed out in pain.

  “Tal Dur,” Zucharov demanded again. “Where is the source of its power?”

  “In Shallya’s name,” Bea responded, fearfully. “At the centre of the lake. Where the water is at its deepest. The power of Tal Dur flows from there.”

  Zucharov looked toward Stefan who was still advancing. “I have not done with you yet,” he told Bea. “But for the moment, our business must be set aside.” The mutant unfurled the iron chain coiled around Bea’s wrists, and secured one end against a thick spar of bone, pulling the iron links so tight that they cut into the flesh of Bea’s hands. Zucharov ignored her cries, concerned only that she should have no chance of escape.

  “Now,” he called out to Stefan. His face split into a hungry grin. “Come and taste the power of Tzeentch.”

  Stefan needed no bidding. He vaulted up upon the tottering bridge, and attacked. The many victories he had known as a swordsman counted for nothing now. This was the only fight that mattered.

  The speed of his opening thrust seemed to take his opponent by surprise. Stefan’s sword cut through Zucharov’s tunic, exposing the patterned flesh beneath. But it made as much impact as a fingernail grazing leather. Zucharov spat a dark oath and brushed the blade aside, counter-attacking with a flurry of sword-strokes that swiftly forced Stefan back.

  Zucharov drove in again, the heavy steel went just wide of Stefan’s shoulder and sliced deep into the side of the bridge. The bridge shuddered violently, shards of fibrous bone breaking away to scatter into the water below. In the instant it took him to free his sword Stefan had struck back, this time finding his range and aiming a blow cleanly between Zucharov’s shoulder and chest. The mutant’s a
nswering howl gave Stefan fresh hope. No longer human, perhaps, but not immortal either. Not yet.

  The wound sparked Zucharov into a frenzied rage of retaliation, and Stefan had to defend himself beneath a murderous storm of steel. He was drawing on his deepest reserves of strength and skill, but still some of his opponent’s blows were finding their mark. Stefan bit back upon the pain as first one arm and then his leg was sliced open, and still the onslaught continued. Each new wound, however small, was taking its toll. With every passing moment his strength was being depleted. He was getting weaker whilst Zucharov only grew stronger. He had to finish this soon. Time was running out.

  Stefan swerved aside to avoid another attack, and found space momentarily to strike at Zucharov’s unprotected head. He connected only with the flat of his blade, but the blow was still enough to kill most mortal men. Zucharov was merely stunned. Before Stefan could draw breath and consolidate, his opponent had recovered. Now it was Stefan who was caught off-guard. He watched in horror as Zucharov’s blade slid beneath his ribs, and a white-hot pain erupted in his gut. He fell back, clutching one hand to the wound, and collapsed against one side of the narrow bridge.

  Through a red haze, Stefan watched the scene unfold. His former comrade walking towards him, slowly, almost nonchalantly, preparing to end his life. The gold band, carved with ancient runes, glittered upon his wrist. And behind Zucharov, somehow far away, Bea still trying desperately to free herself from the chains shackling her to the bridge. The surface of the bridge was slick and warm, wet with his own blood. Already the pain was starting to ebb away into a drowsy numbness that suffused his whole body. This is it, Stefan told himself. I’m dying.

  He felt tired, so very, very tired. He wondered if it was always like this at the end. It wasn’t right. There should be desperation, anger, a last, defiant flaring of the light. He looked up at the servant of Tzeentch as his life drained away. Zucharov was gazing down at him, a quizzical, half-smile on his tattooed face. Then he raised his sword for what would be the last time.

  A sea of thoughts was running through Stefan’s mind. All the friends and comrades he had known, all the battles fought and won. All had led only to this, this death, this end. From out of the torrent, the image of his brother appeared. For a moment Stefan saw him clearly, seated by their favourite corner of the Helmsman, at home in Altdorf, two pots of good ale set in front of him. Before he had set out on his journey, Stefan had made a pledge to Mikhal that he would return safe from Erengrad, that they would meet to drink and tell their stories. A week from this very day, they should have been sitting at that very table.

  This isn’t how it’s meant to be, he told himself. It isn’t supposed to end like this. And in that moment, the weariness was gone, and rage had taken its place, a rage against the dark force about to claim his life. This was not meant to be.

  His sword was gone, lost in the struggle. He had no weapon to defend himself with but his own, battered body. Zucharov towered over him, savouring the final moment before the kill. He knew it was hopeless, but his rage would not let Stefan abandon the fight. He gripped hold of the bridge as best he could and kicked out blindly, again and again. The target did not matter now. All that mattered was to fight, and keep fighting until the gift of life was gone.

  The bridge shuddered again. He heard Bea cry out. Then came a single sound, a sharp crack as a bridge strut broke in two. Zucharov spun about, suddenly realising that Bea had managed to break free. For a moment, his attention was drawn away from Stefan, and Stefan knew he had to grasp that fleeting opportunity.

  He poured what was left of his strength into one final kick. His booted foot missed Zucharov but connected squarely with the side of the bridge. A tremor ran the length of the skeletal structure, and the bridge lurched violently to one side.

  Zucharov spun around, surprise and confusion visible beneath the markings on his face. The sudden shift in bulk and weight caused the bridge to roll even further. Zucharov toppled forward, off-balance, towards the prostrate figure of Stefan.

  One chance, the rage told Stefan. Once chance. This is it. He lifted an arm as Zucharov skidded towards him, and managed to hook his fingers around his opponent’s belt.

  The mutant staggered forward, trying to hold his balance on the collapsing structure. Stefan shut his eyes and rolled sideways, moving with the sway of the bridge, jamming his foot hard against the side wall. The brittle structure shattered and cracked, and suddenly, briefly, Stefan sensed only a roaring in his ears and empty space beneath his body as the bridge disintegrated.

  The water was dark, and very, very cold. There was a burst of sound as Stefan struck the surface and then everything was stillness. He was alone, falling ever deeper towards the heart of Tal Dur. He knew he must be drowning, and yet the rage inside him was gone, replaced by a calm serenity. In his mind, he saw again the image of his brother seated at his table at the inn. Mikhal looked up at Stefan, and beckoned to him. No, Stefan told himself. This is not how it is when you die. This is how it is when life is given back.

  His head broke the surface of the water and sweet air flooded into his lungs. He saw the moons up above, pale light shimmering on the surface of the lake. And he saw Bea, stepping from the shallows towards him, unfurling the severed links of the chain from her wrists. Stefan’s sword was tucked into the belt at her waist.

  Stefan lifted an arm clear of the water. To his astonishment, he discovered that he felt no weariness, no pain. His whole body felt renewed. He was giddy, drunk with newfound strength.

  “It’s all right!” he shouted to Bea. He stretched out, and began to swim slowly towards her. A look of alarm passed across Bea’s face. She raised her hands in warning.

  “Wait!” she called out. “Stay where you are, Stefan. Don’t move!”

  “It’s all right,” Stefan shouted back. “I can make it.”

  “No!” Bea commanded. “Respect the power of Tal Dur.” She shed the last of the chains, and swam to meet Stefan halfway across the pool. “Take hold of my hands,” she instructed him. “Both of them. Tal Dur will only lend its power through one blessed with the healing gift.”

  She clasped Stefan’s wrists securely in her own. “Now,” she said. “We go. Slowly.”

  Together they swam back to the shore and emerged, dripping, at the edge of the lake, amidst the rubble of the palace.

  “Your wounds?” Bea asked. Stefan looked down in wonder. The gash beneath his ribs had closed. The scar lining his flesh seemed already to be fading. Other, smaller wounds had simply vanished.

  “Truly,” Stefan said, “your powers are wondrous.”

  “The power comes from Tal Dur,” Bea said, quietly. “I am nothing but the vessel.”

  Stefan gazed back across the lake. “What happened to Zucharov?”

  Bea shook her head. “Wait,” she urged. “Watch.”

  For what seemed like an age, nothing disturbed the glass-like sheen of the water. Then bubbles of air broke the surface, one or two only at first, then steadily more. Stefan felt his body tense. “Give me the sword,” he whispered.

  Alexei Zucharov rose like a ghost from the waters. Tal Dur had wrought its changes upon him, too. He seemed smaller, physically diminished. All trace of the tattoo had been washed from his body, every mark upon his skin, was gone. His eyes, when they met with Stefan’s were deep, untainted blue. The eyes of a long-vanished comrade.

  “Stefan—” he began, uncertainly. “Stefan?”

  Zucharov edged forward and then stopped, as if something unseen had taken hold of him. Stefan’s grip on the sword eased, and then tightened again. Another change was sweeping over Zucharov. His eyes dulled and widened until only the dark kernels were visible. He looked at Stefan again but no longer knew him. His body began to shake, violently, as some invisible force began to break through from within.

  One chance, the voice told Stefan again. He stepped into the waters, his sword poised high above his head. “Goodbye, Alexei,” he said, softly.

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nbsp; The water around Zucharov began to stir, swirling around him like a vortex. Stefan drove forward, but never delivered the final blow. Zucharov’s mouth opened in a silent scream as his body thrashed against the force pulling him down. The snaking waters wrapped around him, dragging him back towards the depths. Stefan was close enough to touch him, he could have reached out and pulled him clear. Their eyes met for one last, fleeting moment before Tal Dur sucked Zucharov down.

  The earth itself seemed to shudder and cry out. Stefan felt a mighty pulse as it passed through the ground beneath his feet, spreading from the centre of Tal Dur in a shock wave through the ruins of Sigmarsgeist. The waters rose up in a great wave, then settled for the last time, like a shroud above Alexei Zucharov’s head.

  A phalanx of Red Guard bore Bruno’s body down to the water’s edge. He was still breathing, but he was surely nearer to death than life. Bruno was not yet within the realm of Morr, but his soul stood close by the final gates. His last moments were steadily trickling away.

  “Hurry,” Bea implored the guard. “Time is running out.” Running out for Bruno, and for Tal Dur too. Since Zucharov had been sucked down by the whirlpool, the fall of the waters had been dramatic. The lake that had been Tal Dur had halved in size in less than an hour, and the levels were still falling. All across what remained of Sigmarsgeist, the waters were draining away. Soon there would be no sign of their existence save for the ravages they had left behind.

  Bea waded into the water, bearing Bruno’s body into the depths. She motioned for Stefan and the soldiers to stay back.

  “Wait,” she told him. “Trust me. Trust in the healing powers of Tal Dur.”

  She lay Bruno upon his back, then guided the injured man across the surface of the pool until the waters had risen up above her waist. Then, with her arms supporting Bruno’s weight in the water, she bowed her head until it was resting upon his chest, and made a silent prayer.