“Konstantin?”
“He should have command over every man in this city. And we can’t hope to turn this situation about without them.”
“Do you really think Konstantin will help us? We were hardly honoured guests last time we came before him.”
“Things have changed,” Stefan said. “And they’ll change a good deal more before long unless we can act.”
“And Anaise?”
“Anaise has contributed to this evil, knowingly or not. But we stand a better chance of dealing with her if we can sway Konstantin.”
Bruno fell silent, pondering Stefan’s words. “You’re right,” he said. “We must reach the palace then, if we can.” His head was nodding agreement, but his face told a different story. It took Stefan a moment to realise what must be going through his mind.
“Of course,” he said then. “Bea.”
“I’m sorry, Stefan,” Bruno blurted out. “I know there are more important matters to be resolved. But I can’t just forget about her.”
“No, no,” Stefan assured him. “It’s I who should apologise.” He took hold of Bruno. “Of course you must go,” he told him. “You must do whatever you can. But—” he hesitated. “Is it not possible that Bea is still inside the palace too?”
“Possible, yes, but…” Bruno shook his head, firmly. “There’s only one place she would want to be,” he said. “Amongst the fallen, tending to the wounded as best she can. She’s out here, somewhere. I’m sure of that.”
Stefan mulled over his words. “You may be right,” he concluded. “Then we must go our separate ways.” He thought for a moment.
“We’ll stay together until we reach dry ground,” he concluded. “Then I’ll head in towards the heart of the citadel, and the palace.”
“And I will look for Bea,” Bruno said. “Wherever she is, I’ll find her.”
“I pray you will,” Stefan said. “And may the gods smile kindly upon us both.”
Anaise held out the battered metal bowl, and all but forced it into Bea’s hands.
“Take it!” she demanded. “What are you waiting for? This is water drawn from the holy flood. It can heal your patient, can’t it? Or will you now deny everything that you have ever believed?”
“This same water has claimed the lives of countless of your people,” Bea countered, quietly. Anaise stared at her, unblinking.
“Water touched with the gift of Tal Dur,” she insisted. “In the right hands—the hands of a healer—it can restore the powers of life. Isn’t that so?” she demanded.
Bea shrugged, and tried in vain to evade Anaise’s grasp, her burning stare. In truth she no longer knew what to believe. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
Anaise cast her eyes down at the injured woman, barely more than a bundle of rags, lying on the damp floor between them. She had been trapped between two buildings when one had collapsed into the other. Anaise knew little enough of the arts of medicine, but she knew that the woman would die soon, and she knew that Bea knew it too.
“Why do you hesitate?” she pressed. “You know that the waters are her only hope. ‘That which lays waste may also yet make whole.’ Isn’t that what the prophesies tell us?”
Bea shook her head, unhappily. There was no point in denying the truth of what the Guide had said. Without another word, she took the proffered bowl and began to dab water from it lightly upon the injured woman’s brow. She waited a moment then dipped her fingers carefully in the bowl again, this time letting drops of water fall where the woman’s wounds were gravest. The woman stirred, fitfully, then began to breathe more easily.
Anaise jumped to her feet, her eyes ablaze with excitement. “There!” she exclaimed, delightedly. “You see! The gifts of Tal Dur begin to work their magic!”
“They channel their powers through me,” Bea said, hesitantly.
“Then they shall channel that power through me, too,” Anaise declared. “You shall show me, Bea.” She crouched down once more and put her hands either side of Bea’s face, running her fingers through her curled brown hair as though she were a treasure. Bea shrugged her off and turned back to her patient.
“This is not Tal Dur,” she said, “only a weak reflection of its magic. The true power of Tal Dur will only be found at the water’s source.”
“But that cannot be far from here,” Anaise insisted. “It cannot.”
“No,” Bea conceded, wearily. “It cannot be far.” She was tired. Too tired for any more subterfuge, any more trying to divine what was the right thing to do. She just wanted to be left alone, left to answer the call of healing.
The woman coughed, and her body went into a sudden spasm, then, for the first time since Bea had come to her, opened her eyes. Bea turned to the woman’s husband, a pitiful figure who had been sitting mute on the sidelines whilst she tried to work her healing.
“Keep her warm,” she told the man. “Pray, and she will live, I’m sure of it.”
“The waters cured her,” the man replied, his voice cracked and thin. “She should take more of them.”
“No,” Bea said, firmly. “It’s not safe for you to do what I did. You would cause more harm than good.”
Anaise’s patience had worn thin. She tugged Bea to her feet, roughly and without ceremony. “You know where the source can be found,” she insisted. “Where is it, Bea? Where?”
Bea struggled half-heartedly, but knew she could never evade Anaise. Only one thing would satisfy her now, she was blind to all else.
“All right,” she said at last. “Very well. My sense is that the waters will converge near the bottom of the Well of Sadness. That, if anywhere, is where the locus of Tal Dur may be found.”
Anaise glowered. “Nonsense,” she retorted. “I spent long hours sitting at its edge only this day. It was dry as tinder.”
“The ways of Tal Dur are not so transparent,” Bea said, obdurately. “The first waters were channelled elsewhere, to surface at the lower part of the citadel. But I will wager my all,” she went on, “when the springs at the very heart of Tal Dur burst forth, it will be through the Well of Sadness.”
“Then that is where we go,” Anaise declared. She seized Bea and started to drag her along behind her. “We go there now. I’ve waited long enough.”
Fortune had favoured Stefan, at least as far as the gates of the palace. His journey across the rooftops of the city towards the higher ground had taken a zig-zag course, following the paths connecting the taller buildings that still held out against the flood. There had been times, when two buildings were separated only by a short span of water, that he had been tempted to leap into the flow and swim. But he did not. Some instinct of nature told him to avoid the dark sea that was slowly swallowing up the citadel, even if it meant finding a much longer way around. Progress was steady, but slow.
For the most part, he managed to stay clear of the Norscans. Once or twice he had seen gangs of them, patrolling the distant skyline, or traversing the flood waters in makeshift boats. It seemed that they were unopposed. With no sign anywhere of the Red Guard, the Norscans had taken complete control of the citadel. Just once, Stefan encountered a single northerner, climbing from the shattered window of a building. He was laden with plunder he had stripped from the house, and hadn’t been expecting to find an armed adversary waiting for him. The combat was brief and bloody, and left another Norscan body floating on the tide. But otherwise Stefan avoided contact where he could. This was not the time to fight, not yet.
In time he reached the heart of the citadel, where the waters had only just begun to penetrate. Now, as he came within sight of the palace, Stefan realised what had happened to the Red Guard. They were here, scores of them, lining every wall and standing guard upon every door and gateway, even though there was no obvious sign of Norscan attack.
Stefan sheathed his weapon as he climbed the hill that led to the great courtyard. The streets beyond the palace were teeming with people, workers no longer, now s
imply refugees from the unforgiving flood. But there was to be no refuge for them within the palace, the guards surrounding the walls refused to let them inside.
Stefan fought his way through the crowd and approached the gates with his hands high above his head. There was no way he could hope to fight his way in. It would have to be his word, not his sword, that served him now.
An exchange of shouts greeted Stefan as he approached the gates. Several of the guards had recognised him and had drawn their swords. They looked on, some incredulously, as Stefan drew out his own weapon then held it out towards the men in scarlet. “I am a prisoner,” he said. “I offer you my surrender.”
Konstantin von Augen had taken his customary place in the chamber of the High Council. Although at least a dozen of his men were with him, he looked very much alone. When he at last looked up, Stefan saw he was much altered. The madness that had seized hold of Sigmarsgeist had taken a different path in Konstantin. The elegant, lined face with its mane of iron-grey hair was unchanged, but his eyes were empty, devoid of hope or inspiration. Konstantin looked like a man already contemplating the aftermath of defeat.
He looked up at Stefan for a few moments before seeming to recognise him.
“Ah,” he said at last. “It is you, then. I thought it might be Baecker. I am waiting news of his return.”
One of the attendant guards stepped forward and knelt by the Guide. He coughed, awkwardly. “Sire,” he began, a tone of careful deference to his voice. “You will recall the news that was brought earlier. Hans Baecker is dead. My men have recovered his body.”
Konstantin nodded, absentmindedly, oblivious to what had been said. “Baecker has a plan,” he told Stefan. “A plan to save Sigmarsgeist.”
“Konstantin,” Stefan said. “I must speak with you. I need you to hear what I have to say.” The guards standing around the chamber looked from Stefan to the Guide, uncertain whether Stefan was to be treated as a prisoner or an emissary. When Stefan took a step closer to the Guide, he was not opposed. Stefan moved within arms’ length of Konstantin, then settled upon the floor of the chamber, facing the Guide.
“Why do you keep your men here?” he began. “Don’t you realise that the Norscans will soon have the run of Sigmarsgeist? Your people are being tortured and killed. Sigmarsgeist is being torn apart.”
Konstantin drew himself upright and stared back at Stefan. For a moment he assumed the grandeur and authority of old.
“My men will defend the sanctity of Sigmarsgeist,” he said. “No enemy—neither man nor flood—shall pass through these gates. Sigmarsgeist shall prevail, ready to face the dark tide to come.”
Stefan wanted to grab hold of Konstantin and shake him. But instead he mustered all of his patience. Reason, he told himself, reason must prevail.
“Look around you,” he told the Guide. “You devoted your life to building a fortress, a great wall to keep the forces of evil at bay.” He paused, and took another breath. Konstantin still gazed at him, his blank expression unchanged. “But all you have kept at bay are your own, frightened people,” Stefan continued. “Somewhere, Konstantin, your purpose was lost. You became what you wanted to destroy, and opened the gates to the very thing you wished to oppose. The great battle against the darkness that you spoke of so eloquently. It is not ahead, in some distant time yet to be imagined,” he told the Guide. “It is here. And it is now.”
“Baecker will reverse our fortunes,” Konstantin said again, with a hollow defiance. “Sigmarsgeist will stand firm.”
On impulse, Stefan reached forward and took hold of the Guide. No one moved to stop him. “Baecker is dead,” he reminded the old man. “Your men have his body.”
“His plan was to breach the walls to release the flood waters,” one of the guards added. “I fear it is too late for that now.”
“And where is your sister?” Stefan demanded. “Is she here, by your side? Is she fighting for the soul of Sigmarsgeist?”
“My sister?” Konstantin looked around, taking in the figures standing about the room, as if searching for some sight of Anaise. “My sister is lost,” he said, at last, sadly. “And so now are we all.”
“We are not lost yet,” Stefan told him, defiantly. “Until we stand at the very gates of Morr, there is always hope.” He paused, trying to marshal the thoughts racing about his mind. “Do you remember,” he said, “when we first spoke. You asked me if I knew what it was that I stood for? Not just what I stood against, Konstantin, but what I stood for.”
Konstantin made no response.
“I couldn’t answer your question then,” Stefan went on. “But I know the answer now.” He got to his feet. “This—this struggle, until the very last hope is extinguished, that is what I stand for. I stand for all the people who live their lives, not by some shining ideal, but as well as they can, in order to survive. I stand for life, Konstantin, impure and imperfect.” He turned and scanned the faces looking on. “And, by all that is mighty, for as long as life survives, we owe a debt to the gods to fight for every precious last breath of it.”
Konstantin looked up at Stefan, a broken man at the end of his life. But somewhere inside him, Stefan’s words found their mark or at least tugged at a memory of the dream that the Guide once held for Sigmarsgeist.
“What is it you want of me?” he asked, mildly. “What do you want me to do?”
Stefan looked round in search of the soldier who had spoken up before. “How did the Norscans get out?” he asked. “Who set them free?”
“The mutant,” the guard replied. “The one whose body bears the living tattoo. He accounted for Baecker, and Rilke too.” The man looked round, nervously, at his comrades. “He has—he has the confidence of our lady Anaise,” he said.
“Then he will account for all Sigmarsgeist unless we act now,” Stefan replied, tersely. “You must turn control of your men over to me,” he told Konstantin. “All is not lost yet, but we must act now.”
A look of pain crossed Konstantin’s troubled features. “You last came before me as an enemy of Sigmarsgeist,” he recalled.
“Then ask yourself this,” Stefan urged him. “Ask yourself how things have come to this. Ask yourself who are the true enemies of Sigmarsgeist now.”
Konstantin made no reply, but there were tears welling up in his eyes. After some hesitation, he slipped a bronze ring from his right hand, and offered it to Stefan.
“This is my authority,” he told him. “My sovereignty and my power. Take it and you have my all.” He cast his eyes about the chamber, meeting the gaze of his men. “Witness this act,” he commanded. “And witness with it the end to the vain folly that has brought us here. He is your captain now,” he told them. “Follow his command as though it were my own.”
The Guide slumped back, his eyes closed, his breath slow and deep.
“And may Sigmar grant some stay against the dimming of our light,” he whispered.
As the long day of carnage gave way to grim night, so Alexei Zucharov made his way through the drowning citadel. He had no need to look for the healer girl, no need to guess where she might be found. He had Kyros to light his path, to guide him, sure and certain, to his destination. The spirit of the dark lord flowed in every fibre of his being. It was the voice that whispered incessantly inside his head, and it was the rhythm that beat, without pause or falter, inside of him, a second heartbeat next to his own. Zucharov could feel it rising from the golden amulet clamped tight about his wrist, a burning flow of pure energy pouring through his body.
His progress was slow, but inexorable. Where he met with resistance—from what few of the Red Guard were on the streets, or the even fewer townsfolk stupid enough to stand in his way—he repressed it, ruthlessly. He dealt out death, but not as the Norscans had done. Zucharov took no delight in this simple, meaningless killing. His was the greater purpose ordained by Kyros. He killed swiftly, efficiently and economically, expending no more effort than was necessary to remove the obstacle. He would leave the Norscans to
enjoy their mindless plunder whilst they may. The greatest spoils of blood still lay ahead.
Beneath the sound of the surging waters, he could hear the last desperate calls of those left behind in the ruins, praying against all odds that salvation would still come. They would pray in vain; if the waters did not claim them, then the Norscans surely would. Their plight did not interest Zucharov.
He stood, head turned slightly to one side. Gradually, Kyros tuned out the plaintive wails of hunter and hunted, and the tumult of the waters, leaving only silence. Gradually, into the silence came the sound of footsteps, two pairs of feet, hurrying away from the rising tide towards the dry ground above.
Zucharov stepped back into the shadow of an adjacent street, and waited. The footsteps grew louder, and with them the sound of two women’s voices, one raised against the other. Zucharov stood within the shadows, very still, and let them come. Only when they had passed, one tugging the other behind her, did Zucharov step from his place of concealment and call out, “Where are you going?”
The two women stopped, and turned around. Zucharov moved closer, stepping fully under what light the moons allowed, recognising one of them as Anaise. He watched, with satisfaction, as the expression upon their faces turned from surprise to a disbelieving horror. The transformation that had raged like a fire inside him and out was all but complete now. Every inch of his flesh was now mapped by the lines of the tattoo. Even Anaise could not have imagined it coming to this. Besides, who knew what dark future each woman saw—or imagined she saw written in the terrible tableau of his face?
“Where are you going?” he said again, slowly, deliberately. “Where are you going, Anaise?”
He watched the Guide carefully. In her surprise she had let go of the healer. Now she grabbed the girl back, like some precious treasure she meant to horde. Zucharov knew already what reply she would make, but it amused his dark lord to hear the worm-tongue words.
[Stefan Kumansky 02] - Taint of Evil Page 29
