Stefan cursed the confusion swilling inside his mind. He sifted through the jumbled memories, trying to make some order from them.
“I do recall the battle,” he said at last. “We were heavily outnumbered, but we destroyed the forces of Chaos all the same. At least—” he said, uncertainly, “I think that’s what happened. Is that where I was injured? Struck down in the battle?”
Before Bruno could answer, the door opened and a third person entered the room. Stefan caught a glimpse of a stark red uniform, and a face that, though familiar, he struggled to name.
“Your injury came later, Stefan,” the newcomer explained. “Whilst we were pursuing the last of the marauders. You were unlucky.”
“But we got them all,” Baecker continued. “Every last one. Our mission was successful, Stefan. Once again, you come to Sigmarsgeist a hero.”
“I can’t say I remember much of the getting here,” Stefan said. He turned his head, experimentally. The slightest movement corresponded with a bolt of pain, but it was becoming steadily more bearable.
“You were struck down from behind, Stefan,” Bruno told him. “One of the Norscans, I think?”
Baecker nodded in confirmation.
“A last desperate act. Luckily he managed only to catch you a glancing blow, or the damage could have been worse. Don’t worry,” he assured Stefan, “our Norscan friend was paid in full for his trouble. I cut the vile brute down myself.”
Stefan looked around the room, his eyes now growing more comfortable with the light.
“In that case,” he said to Baecker. “It seems I owe you a debt. I’m only sorry I have no memory of your bravery.”
Baecker grinned broadly. “The main thing is, you are safely returned, and your wounds will mend.” He glanced at Bea. “He is mending, your patient, isn’t he?”
“The blow he suffered did more harm than I would have expected,” Bea said. “But, gods be thanked, he is through the worst of it now.”
“That’s all I need to know,” Baecker replied. “I’ll leave the three of you in peace. But you must rest. Stay here.” He saluted Stefan smartly. “Someone will come for you when it is time.”
Stefan waited a few moments after Baecker had left the room. “Is he gone?” he asked at last.
Bruno checked the passage. “I think so,” he said, and frowned at Stefan, slightly perplexed. Bea came and seated herself next to Stefan, and touched her fingers against his forehead again. “Have you truly no memory of what happened once the battle begun?”
“Not a lot,” Stefan confirmed. “The things I can remember seem broken up—as though they don’t fit together properly. Everything seems mixed up with the dream.”
“The dream?” Bea asked.
“The dream about your village, when you were child?” Bruno interjected. “Have you been dreaming of Odensk again?”
“Yes, there was something like that,” Stefan began, then hesitated. There had been a dream, a dream of darkness and smoke, of houses burning. It was the same dream he had been having since before even they had arrived in Sigmarsgeist. And Bruno was right, it was like the old dream that haunted him, the dream of Odensk. Except that something was different. Except that it wasn’t Odensk. And that was what was troubling him.
The pieces of memory were gradually coming together. It was starting to make sense now. He had been in Mielstadt again, he remembered that now. And there was something else, something lurking just in the shadow of memory that he was clutching for, as well.
“What was his name,” he demanded, suddenly sitting up. “Bea, the graf of Mielstadt. What was his name?”
“Sierck,” Bea replied, puzzled. “Augustus Sierck.”
Now Stefan saw him. The pompous dignitary strutting around his office. And the frightened man upon his knees in the town square. Two different occasions, but the same man: Augustus Sierck. As Stefan made the connection, he knew then that Baecker had lied. There had been no Norscan, no savage attack fended off by Baecker’s avenging blade. But important though it was, this wasn’t the detail that was occupying Stefan now. He was back with the dream, with the fires and the screams of the dying. He thought the gods had been taking him back to Odensk, but they hadn’t. It was somewhere else.
“Bruno,” he said. “What was the name of the village? The name I said we must hold in our hearts?”
“The village?” Bruno asked, confused. “You mean Grunwald, the one that had been destroyed by the mutants?”
“Grunwald, yes,” Stefan replied. With the name came the answer to a puzzle. Something that had been gnawing at him incessantly, whispering a warning that he only now began to understand. Now, he knew what the dream had been telling him.
“It wasn’t the mutants who destroyed Grunwald,” he said.
“But,” Bruno protested, “we found a body there.”
“We did,” Stefan agreed. “But the mutant didn’t die fighting the villagers. And, unless I’m badly mistaken, the villagers didn’t die fighting the mutants, either.” He got up, ignoring the pain still throbbing inside his head.
“Throw me over my boots,” he said to Bruno. “We need to get moving.”
“Just a moment,” Bea interrupted. “You won’t be in a fit state to go anywhere for a while yet.” She looked to Bruno for support. “Bruno, tell him.”
But Stefan was already on his feet, fastening his tunic. He looked around for his belt and sword. Neither of them were anywhere in the room.
“My sword,” he said to Bruno. “Was it with me when they brought me here?”
Bruno shrugged. “I’m sorry, Stefan. I didn’t notice.”
“What about you, are you armed?”
Bruno lifted his coat. His sword harness hung empty about his waist. “Stefan, Bea’s probably right,” he urged. “Maybe you should rest a while yet.”
Stefan seized hold of Bruno, and brought him round to face him. “If I’m right, then we may not have much time,” he said. “Bruno, you’re going to have to trust me on this. Please, go to the door, and see if the way is clear outside.”
Bruno hesitated for a moment, then did as Stefan had bid.
“There are guards at the end of the corridor,” he said, puzzled. “Two of them, and definitely armed.”
Stefan nodded. “I don’t suppose they’re there for our own safety,” he commented. He turned to find Bea. “We’re going to need some help,” he said.
* * *
Deep below ground, Alexei Zucharov prowled the airless gloom of his narrow cell, and cursed the trick of fate that had brought him to such a bitter end. In a fury, he beat against the granite walls until his fists were raw and bloodied, and strained with all his might against the irons that anchored his body to the bare stone floor. Kyros had promised him treasure beyond his wildest imaginings, a path to glory in return for his humiliation by the bounty hunter. Instead, he found himself trapped within a grey tomb, with only the tortured screams of the foul servants of Chaos for company. Was this how his life was to end, not with the thunder of battle, but with his body slowly rotting away, lost and forgotten in some Morr-forsaken hole?
Zucharov railed against the injustice, against the false god that had led him here. And he cursed the insidious power of the gold band that had lured and trapped him more surely than chains or prison walls ever could. But all his anger, all his rage was for nothing. As hour followed hour he remained as he was, alone in the darkness.
Finally, his rage was spent, leaving him with despair as his sole companion. Only then, finally, did Kyros come to him. Only then did the Dark Lord whisper to him of what would come to pass.
Your faith is barely tested, and yet you founder, Kyros chided. This is not strength.
“Set me free of this poisonous trinket,” Zucharov said out loud. “And I’ll show you what my strength can achieve.”
That will never come to pass. Only death will part you from the amulet now.
“Then let it be so,” Zucharov screamed out loud. Let death come, for he wou
ld rather die than live another day as a prisoner.
But death would not come, he knew that. Death would not take him, not yet, for there were tasks for him to fulfil before he left this mortal world. His life in service to the Lord of Change was only now beginning.
And as Zucharov sat within his cell he thought he saw the enveloping gloom start to lift, as though an unseen candle had been brought to light the darkness. He looked down at the gold band, glowing like cold fire upon his wrist, and at the black shadow of the tattoo. The disfiguring mark now covered all of his arm, and was already beginning to spread in a dark web across his chest. As he looked, the picture written in the tattoo started to move again. Zucharov sat, spellbound, and watched the story come alive. After a few moments the glow from the amulet faded, and Zucharov was alone with the darkness again. But he knew he would not be alone for long. He had read the future in the figures that crawled upon his skin. He waited. For a while there was nothing but the anguished wailing of the creatures chained in the blackness of their cells, a sound like a sea of torment rising and falling against the rocks of despair.
But then came another, distinct sound. Of footsteps, moving down the passageway towards his cell. Quick, purposeful footsteps. Zucharov knew where they would stop, and, when he heard the first of the keys grinding in the lock of the door, he was expecting it. He waited another moment, as the iron panel in the door was pushed back, and then looked up.
Someone was staring in at him, their face illuminated by the flicker of an oil lamp. As Zucharov met the gaze of those searching eyes, he smiled. They had never met before in this life, but it was a smile of recognition nonetheless. The time of waiting was almost over.
Anaise von Augen stood back, and waited whilst the door was hauled open. There was a few seconds’ delay whilst the first, and then the second locks were turned, and the bolts placed at intervals across the door drawn back. Then it was done, and she was standing upon the threshold of the cell, almost within touching distance of whoever—or whatever—the gods had seen fit to gift her.
The figure crouched in the darkness was fastened by chains attached to both his arms and his legs, chains embedded securely in the stone floor of the cell. There was surely no risk to her safety, and yet Anaise was trembling as she took a step further into the cell.
“Bring more light,” she commanded. “Let me see properly what we have here.”
Two guards followed her into the cell, each carrying a lantern.
“The prisoner is quite secure?” she asked them. And then, without waiting for the answer told them, “Put the lamps down upon the floor. Leave me with him for a while.”
A shiver of fear ran through Anaise as the door closed at her back. She took a deep breath, and pulled herself up to her full height. She would not let any creature of the night intimidate her, no matter how cruel or terrifying the disfigurement that Chaos had worked upon it. She folded her arms across her chest and took a step forward, remaining just beyond the prisoner’s reach.
“Do you know where you are?” she asked. The creature made no answer, but continued to return her stare with a steady, unblinking gaze. Anaise had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that she had somehow been expected. And the feeling that it was not she who was truly in control.
“You have been brought to Sigmarsgeist,” she continued, hurriedly, “and here you will be judged and your sins will be accounted for.” She lifted one of the lamps, so that a wash of light fell across the figure shackled before her. “What do you have to offer us, that might possibly postpone your miserable end?”
But she already had the answer to that question. There was no doubt that this was the fugitive that Kumansky and his friends had been pursuing. Her eyes took in the thickly muscled body of the warrior, the animal power barely contained by the chains. She saw the amulet, the polished gold shimmering in the light of the lamp, more wondrous than Konstantin had described it, impossibly beautiful. And below the beauty, the ugly stain: the tableau printed upon the flesh. The tattoo was surely the visible embodiment of evil, yet somehow impossibly intoxicating.
Anaise had been edging steadily forward towards Zucharov. She suddenly stopped short, pulling herself back. “You are an abomination of Chaos,” she declared. “A creature of darkness. You will die here in Sigmarsgeist, and your death will purge a blight from the world.”
Zucharov turned his head to one side, the same smile still playing across his face. “We have waited long for you,” he said at last. “Here our destinies intertwine.”
Anaise gasped. Part of her was outraged by the profanity she had just heard. But another part, hidden within her, had jolted in shock in recognition of the deeper truth.
“How dare you presume to speak to me as an equal!” she retorted. “I should order you to be hacked apart here in your cell, and your poisoned corpse fed to the rats.” She edged back towards the wall, a sudden wave of giddiness flooding through her.
“Whatever could link my destiny with a spawn of damnation such as you?”
By way of answer, Alexei Zucharov raised his arm towards the light. The tiny figures etched upon his arm began to twist and turn, moving in a slow dance amongst the shadows cast by the lamp. Anaise wanted to close her eyes, but she knew that she had no choice but to look. Zucharov flexed his arm, and opened his hand to Anaise like a flower coming into bloom. Anaise looked down, and saw the waters cascading down to the rocks below.
Alexei Zucharov saw the expression upon her face change. He nodded, in confirmation, and spoke the words that Kyros had placed upon his lips.
“Tal Dur,” he whispered to her. “Tal Dur.”
The guards drew their swords as soon as Bea emerged from the room and stood with blades pointed toward her, barring the way. “You’re supposed to stay in there,” one told her. “Get back inside.”
“But his fever is getting worse,” Bea protested. “I need your help, or else he may die.”
A sound of moaning came from the room behind Bea, followed by a louder cry of pain. The two guards exchanged nervous glances and took a few tentative steps forward.
“Come quickly, please,” she implored. “There may not be much time.”
The first guard hesitated then followed Bea into the chamber, with the second some distance behind.
“What’s going on?” the first man demanded. He looked around the chamber, taking in the scene. Bea stood in front of them, a look of fearful dread on her face. Bruno was seated anxiously by the side of the single cot, and Stefan lay upon the bed, the sheet drawn up to his chin, his body twisted and hunched.
“His fever has returned,” Bea told them. “He’s burning up. We must get help.”
The first guard took a step toward the bed. Gingerly, he peeled back the sheet a few inches then touched his hand against Stefan’s forehead.
“Doesn’t seem to be anything wrong to me,” he commented. “Anyway,” he looked round at Bea. “You’re the healer,” he said, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice. “Can’t you help him?”
Before Bea had time to answer, Stefan had his arm around the guard’s throat, wresting him down towards the ground. Before the second man could react Bruno was onto him, the two of them battling for control of the weapon. Stefan was struggling to keep his arm locked around the first guard’s head. The soldier was strong, and heavily built. On a good day Stefan might be a comfortable match for him, but this, he was quickly discovering, was not a good day.
Stefan pulled himself back, and managed to aim a series of punches to the man’s midriff, hoping to wind his adversary rather than do him any serious harm. But the Red Guard had recovered his poise, and was fighting back powerfully. There was a splintering of wood as a table broke beneath them and the two men fell to the floor. The guard shrugged off Stefan’s hold and swung a blow at him, and then another. Stefan was first to his feet, but now it was he who was having to defend himself. He glimpsed a flash of steel, and realised that the guard had drawn a knife. The soldier lunged, and narrowl
y missed, the blade slicing instead through Stefan’s tunic. All Stefan’s concentration was now on getting hold of the knife. He was convinced the guard was going to kill him if he could.
As his opponent drove at him with the blade for a second time, Stefan caught hold of his hand, and held on for dear life, ploughing all the energy he could muster in turning the sharp steel away from his body. For a moment the two men tottered across the room in tandem, their faces only inches apart. The other man’s face was an angry, purple mask as he matched his strength against Stefan’s. The pair staggered forward, then fell back, and Stefan felt something warm streaming down his hand. The look in the other man’s eyes changed from rage to disbelief. Stefan lost his grip upon the other’s wrist, and the two broke apart. The guard staggered back. The red of his tunic was stained with the darker hue of fresh blood. He dropped the knife, and clamped his hand to his stomach, trying to stem the flow from the wound.
On the far side of the room, Bruno finally wrested the sword from the second guard. The guard looked to his fallen comrade, and the bloodied figure of Stefan standing over him. He made a final, futile attempt to clutch at the sword, then turned towards the door. Bruno aimed the sword carefully, and struck the guard behind his head with the flat of the blade. The second man staggered forward a few steps further, then collapsed.
The eerie silence hanging in the room was broken by Bea.
“Stefan,” she said. “I think he’s dead.” Her voice sounded numb, disbelieving of what she had just witnessed.
Stefan dropped down upon one knee, next to the fallen man. “I didn’t mean to kill him,” he said, fighting to regain his breath. “As the gods may judge me, I was trying to take the knife from him.”
“The other’s still breathing,” Bruno announced. “But he’ll be out for a while.” He went to Bea, and drew her into his arms to comfort her. Stefan read the look written on his friend’s face, the message clear: You’d better be right about this.
[Stefan Kumansky 02] - Taint of Evil Page 16
