[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  But the voice would not relent. It kept whispering, quiet but insistent, keeping Stefan on his guard. Even at his lowest ebb, part of Stefan remained alert, watching and waiting, although he no longer knew what it was that he waited for. Then, a year to the day after he had returned from the Grey Mountains, the dreams had begun.

  They had begun as no more than a faint but incessant tug upon the memory of sleep. He would wake suddenly, clutching at the shape of a dream that would melt away with the breaking light. But, after time, the dream took on more solid shape, and the image of a man, a man he had never met before, started to fix itself in his mind.

  At first the face had shown itself only at the very edges of his imaginings: a distant figure blurred in shadow, a passerby in a crowd. But, as the nights passed, the stranger loomed ever larger and clearer in his nocturnal world, until his dreams were of him alone. Across the nights of troubled sleep, the dreamer began to study the face, committing every line and aspect of its features to memory.

  Soon Stefan had begun a new search. A search to find the bearer of the face that now haunted him, or, rather, its counterpart amongst the living world. He roamed the streets of the city almost at random, unsure of where this new search should begin or end. Soon the face had come to dominate his waking thoughts as much as it saturated his dreams, displacing all thoughts of Krenzler. Now Stefan Kumansky began to wonder if, truly, he were not losing his sanity. He tried to shut the anonymous stranger away, banish the spectre from his thoughts, but to no avail. The image haunting him only intensified, until the picture of the rounded, well-fed face with its knowing smile filled his imaginings night and day.

  Sometimes, during his travels across the city, Stefan might stop to confront his reflection staring back it him from the glazed frontage of a busy tavern. What he saw was not entirely comforting. It was the face of a man still young, dark, shoulder-length hair pushed back from a lean and unscarred face that many would call handsome. Yet Stefan himself recognised a look that marked him out from the revellers on the other side of the glass. It was a look of single-minded purpose, a look that bordered upon obsession. A look that had only hardened since Stahlbergen. A look—perhaps—of a man nearing the edge of madness.

  At such times, Stefan would wrap his cloak tight around him and hurry on into the gathering night. If there was something within him that marked him as different, then that was only as it always had been. Whatever the path that destiny had chosen for him, he was surely meant to travel it alone.

  Finally, and unexpectedly, his search came to a resolution. Stefan found himself one day crossing a wide boulevard somewhere in the wealthier part of the city. With a start, he realised that he barely knew where he was or how he had come to be there. Bewildered, he looked around, trying to get his bearings from the tall imposing buildings that lined the streets on either side. As he stepped into the road he narrowly avoided being struck down by a coach thundering down the centre of the street. At the last moment Stefan threw himself to one side, out of the unswerving path of the carriage.

  Stefan looked up at the windows of the coach as it raced past, and found himself face to face with the passenger riding inside. The encounter lasted barely a moment, but long enough for Stefan to be sure that this was the face he had been searching for. It was the face of a man he had never met, yet something in the stranger’s eyes spoke of a recognition, an old, almost buried, association. It was the eyes that held the key to his dreams.

  “Come on mate!” Stefan felt hands, rough but not unkind, pulling him back upon his feet. “You’re lucky,” said the man at his side. “That one doesn’t stop for nobody.”

  “Aye,” agreed a second who had come to Stefan’s aid. “That he doesn’t. Though, it could be argued you’re unlucky—I hear tell he doesn’t venture out much at all.”

  Stefan muttered his thanks to the two men. “Tell me,” he asked them, “who is he? Does he have a name?”

  The first man laughed. “I should think he does,” he said. “If you don’t know it now, you will before long. His name’s Ernst Furstlager,” he added, “merchant and speculator,” The man made a low, sarcastic bow. “A rags to riches story that will be the talk of all Altdorf before long,” he added. “He’s made more money in the last year than my guv’nor has made in twenty, and doubtful if he’s come by it honestly, neither,” he said. “Leastways, that’s how my guv’nor tells it.”

  Stefan brushed himself down and shook each of the two men in turn by the hand. “Thank you,” he said to them. “Thank you very much.”

  * * *

  That was the point at which the dreams stopped. Stefan Kumansky knew now that the gods had sent him a message, that his searching was finally at an end. From then on the night hours were given over to a vigil, close by the walls of Ernst Furstlager’s mansion. What he learnt did not greatly encourage him. His rescuer on the street that day had been right. The merchant Furstlager might recently have grown wealthy beyond all imagining or reason, but it seemed he rarely ventured far beyond the confines of the mansion. But this night, Stefan promised himself, this night would surely prove to be the exception.

  Stefan set out across the city shortly after dusk, a cloth bag slung over one shoulder. His journey took him through narrow, airless streets bordered by tall wooden-framed buildings, each path and dwelling brim full with the clamour and bustle of life. Tonight the traffic of drinkers, peddlers and dealers had a particular urgency to it. The normally drab streets were decked with banners, and garlands of sweet-smelling flowers took the edge off the usual human stench. Tonight was the first evening of Sigmarsfest, and all of Altdorf was readying itself for a week of festival.

  All except one. For Stefan Kumansky, the night offered only one thing. The prospect of Ernst Furstlager at last leaving his home to spend the evening in the city. The Founders’ Feast, held each year on the eve of the Festival of Sigmar, was a banquet graced only by the richest and most powerful of Altdorf nobility. Each year the founders would elect to invite as their guest of honour one merchant who had shone above all his peers. If what Stefan had heard about Ernst Furstlager was true, then this year there could be only one name upon the founders’ lips. This year there could be only one guest of honour, and Stefan had made his silent wager that Furstlager would be unable to resist the chance to parade his newly-made wealth amongst them. If he was ever to get inside the Furstlager mansion, then surely it would be this night.

  At length he reached the Albertschloss, the quarter of the city populated by the pinnacle of the merchant classes. A year ago Ernst Furstlager’s name would have meant nothing to the feted men of commerce who had settled here. Now, suddenly and inexplicably, it was on the lips of each and every one. Furstlager—and his meteoric rise—was the talk of the city. The dreams had begun to tell Stefan why. Now he would find out for sure.

  The Furstlager mansion could only be approached from one direction: a tree-lined avenue off the main highway that led to heavy iron gates set inside a perimeter wall. Keeping well beneath the cover afforded by the trees, Stefan advanced up the avenue until he had clear sight of the house. Once he was sure he was concealed from view, Stefan crouched down, and waited.

  Aside from its size and obvious trappings of wealth, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the house itself. In common with just about every other building in Altdorf that night, flags of the Empire flew from poles or from windows, fluttering gently in the evening breeze. A few lights burned in windows at the front of the house, but most of the residence seemed to be in darkness.

  Stefan stayed watching, motionless, oblivious to the cold penetrating his limbs. After about an hour, the gates to the coach house at the side of the main building swung open, and the silence was broken with the sound of iron-clad wheels turning upon the paved forecourt.

  A carriage flanked by at least a dozen outriders emerged from the gates of the mansion. The windows had been covered, but Stefan allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as the entourage swept past. He wait
ed a few moments longer after the carriage had passed out of sight, to be sure that there was no other escort following. Then, one hand touching lightly upon the hilt of his sword, Stefan approached the house.

  With the iron gates most likely to be guarded, Stefan edged his way around the outside of the walls, staying as far as possible beneath the cover of the trees. Once he had the back of the house in view, he pulled a climbing iron out from his bag, and cast it towards the top of the wall. Stefan drew hard upon the rope to be sure it was firm, and began to climb.

  This was the point at which he would be most vulnerable. If he had been seen by any guards on either side of the wall there would be little he could do to evade capture, or worse. It was a risk he knew he had no choice but to make. If he was to get inside the house, then it was to be tonight, or never.

  Stefan scaled the wall in two swift movements. He paused momentarily on top to scan the area below. The grounds of the mansion stood empty in the silver moonlight. No sign of any guards. The few lights that burned were at ground level off at one side. Stefan guessed that what remained of the guard would be quartered there, probably taking advantage of their master’s absence to enjoy a pot of ale and a few hands of cards. Enjoy them at your leisure, Stefan enjoined them. I promise you, I’ve no intention of disturbing you.

  He made his way quickly across the open grass. All the windows at ground level had been secured with iron grilles. Stefan selected a casement where the iron and brick looked weakest, and set about forcing the bars apart. He had no excuse to offer if he was apprehended. The truth was, there was none. The honest answer—that he suspected that Furstlager had somehow come into possession of the gemstone, and had used its evil charm to generate his power—would have no credibility whatsoever, and the best he could have hoped for was a spell in the Altdorf asylum. Probably, he reflected, a long one.

  He bent one window bar back. A second soon yielded to the heavy iron lever, a loud crack penetrating the night air as the metal snapped in two. The locks themselves were relatively flimsy and Stefan now had the window open in a matter of seconds. He hauled himself upon the ledge and squeezed through the gap between the bars and into the house. Easy, he reflected. Almost too easy.

  Stefan stood for a moment until his eyes grew accustomed to the interior gloom. Directly ahead, a flight of stairs led up to a room from where a faint light shone. Stefan had taken barely half a dozen steps towards the stair when a voice called out, cutting through the stillness inside the house.

  “Stop right there! Whoever you are, drop your weapon and turn around!”

  Stefan stopped in his tracks, and turned, very slowly, in the direction of the voice. A figure was dimly visible in the darkness behind him; a man of much his own build, but wearing some kind of uniform topped off with a light steel helmet.

  “Drop the sword,” the voice repeated. “Drop it now.”

  Stefan hesitated, then placed the weapon carefully down upon the ground at his side. The figure moved a few steps forward out of the shadows. “Now come over here where I can see you,” the man commanded. “Don’t try anything clever.”

  Stefan did as he was bid, walking slowly, one step at a time with his hands hanging by his sides. He could see the guard’s face now, and the long halberd aimed towards him. Stefan looked at the man, knowing that he wanted to find evil in his face. Knowing it would be easier that way. But all he saw was an ordinary man—barely more than a boy, in fact—struggling to keep from shaking as he faced an intruder. Just a frightened boy, trying to do his job. Stefan forced a smile of reassurance, hoping to stop the guard from doing something stupid. But in his heart he knew this could not end well for both of them.

  “Listen,” Stefan began, “this isn’t what you think—”

  “Shut up!” There was a tremor in the guard’s voice. “Just come over here, and keep your hands down.”

  Stefan walked towards the youth, his expression neutral, unthreatening. The last thing he wanted was for the young soldier to panic. The two men were no more than arm’s length apart. Light from the moons beyond the window ran the length of the halberd, revealing a lethally sharp blade. Stefan took a step closer.

  “Sorry,” he said. With one hand he knocked the staff aside. With the other he grasped hold of the guard’s tunic and pulled him forward until the two were all but entwined. By that time Stefan had his short knife in his hand, and was sliding it between the other’s ribs. He brought his free hand up to stifle the young man’s cry, and held it there until his life had ebbed away.

  He let the body slide to the ground, then stooped to close the boy’s eyes. “May Morr grant you peace,” he whispered. “You were not deserving of this.”

  He stood for a moment in the darkness of the stairwell, listening. The only sound bar the few words exchanged had been the clatter of the weapon as it fell to the ground. It might have been enough to raise the alarm, but, for the moment at least, all was quiet.

  He turned away from the body and climbed the stair towards the source of the dull amber light. Ahead of him, beyond an open set of heavy oak doors, lay a huge chamber almost the width and breadth of the entire mansion. Inside, shapes began to reveal themselves. The walls were decked with pictures, elaborate works in oil and ink. Statues lined the walls each side of a long table, images of gods shaped from bronze and marble. At the near end of the room was the source of the light: the embers of a fire, all but dead. The glow from the fire was glinting off something mounted upon a plinth on the far wall, a polished stone the size of a man’s fist. The crystal glowed a sickly yellow in the firelight, a single, jaundiced eye drawing Stefan in.

  He had never set eyes on the crystal before, yet he knew in a moment that this was the Gratz stone. And he knew why the orcs and now Furstlager had gone to such lengths to possess it. The stone radiated magic energy.

  As he stood, gazing at the wondrous yellow orb, Stefan began to wonder what gifts the stone might bestow upon a man such as himself, if he possessed it. The answer that came, unbidden, was that the stone could grant him powers beyond his wildest dreams. Who knew what he might achieve, were his swordsman’s skills to be wedded to the magical properties of the stone. Who knew what—

  Stefan shook his head vigorously, averting his eyes from the insidious sulphur glow. His head cleared. He took out a thick cloth and wrapped it securely around the stone then placed it in his back pocket.

  Suddenly, there was a sound behind him like a heavy breath being exhaled, and then a tiny, muffled explosion. He turned around to see the dying fire suddenly brought to vibrant life.

  He was not alone. Seated by the fire, an old and emaciated dog by his side, was Ernst Furstlager. The merchant looked up at Stefan and smiled.

  “Stefan Kumansky, if I’m not mistaken. As you can see, you were expected.”

  Stefan gazed at the merchant. He had never before seen Furstlager at close quarters, but this was undoubtedly him—the face from the dreams. There was something about him—something in his face—that tugged at another, deeper memory.

  “I see there’s no need to introduce myself,” Stefan responded, coldly.

  “None at all. All Altdorf knows of you, Kumansky.” The merchant reached for a glass set upon the table at his side, and took a careful sip. “I can’t say that your reputation is entirely flattering.” The dog at his feet, ancient and painfully thin, stirred fitfully, moaning in its slumbers. Furstlager stroked the animal and smiled.

  “Stefan Kumansky the fearless fighter against evil,” he said. “Always chasing shadows where in reality there is only light. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to come to thieve what is legitimately mine.”

  “There’s nothing legitimate about the gemstone, however you came about it,” Stefan countered. “It has only one purpose: to advance the cause of evil, and the fortunes of the men who embrace it. That’s why I’m going to destroy it.”

  Furstlager gazed at Stefan, indulgently. “You’re a young man, Stefan. Perhaps I should forgive y
our foolishness. I’m a merchant and a collector of artefacts. The stone you came to steal is just one such artefact: beautiful, but quite harmless. You’ll start by putting it back in its proper place, then we’ll think about what to do next.” He laughed. “Who knows, perhaps I could be persuaded to find a place for you. With the right guidance, you might do well.”

  “You won’t buy or threaten me,” Stefan replied. “I’m here for just one thing. I’m not leaving without it.” He paused. “What have you done with him, anyway?”

  Furstlager’s eyes widened, his expression blank incomprehension. “You talk in riddles now. Done with whom?”

  “Krenzler. Did you pay him to bring you the stone?” Stefan looked again at the seated figure of the merchant; the well-fed face with its smooth, glistening jowls. Something about the face told Stefan that Krenzler was far from dead.

  Furstlager’s expression hardened. “Return the stone,” he said, coldly.

  “I don’t think so,” Stefan replied.

  “The stone,” Furstlager repeated, no cajoling or humour in his voice now. “Replace the crystal where you found it.”

  There was a sudden, rending sound from the shadows by the fire. Something large and powerful had started to move. Stefan glanced round. It looked as though the body of the sleeping animal had been ripped in half. From out of the torn bag of skin and bone, something else, something terrible, was emerging. The creature growled, a hungry, brutal sound.

  Furstlager smiled. “I won’t repeat my request.”

  “You’d be wasting your time if you did,” Stefan countered. He spun round just as the creature launched itself at his throat. Stefan had a momentary glimpse of two eyes that glowed like phosphor, and a row of bloodied teeth bearing down. The dog-monster howled as it fell upon him. Stefan got his sword across his body just in time to fend off the attack. The creature had its jaws locked around the blade, grinding its fangs upon the polished steel as though it was gnawing at a bone.