[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  “I did it—all those things,” he said at last, “because I had to.”

  “Go on,” Brandauer said. His expression was no less severe, but there was an unmistakable note of encouragement in his voice now. “Go on,” he urged. “Say more.”

  Stefan pondered the question. His heart knew the answer, but he struggled for the right words to convey the emotions that had become so familiar.

  “I see a world,” he said at last. “A world where there is much good, but also—”

  He stopped, mid-sentence. Otto Brandauer nodded, encouraging him to go on. “Also much that is evil,” he continued. “It may not always be visible to us. But it is there, always with us.” He paused and wiped a hand across his face, taken aback by the feelings rising, unbidden, within him.

  “Go on,” Brandauer repeated. “Tell me more, Stefan. Tell me what lies inside.”

  “I think, I—feel,” Stefan continued, “almost as if there is a battle—a battle being waged all around us, even now, as we speak—between those forces. And I’m a part of that battle. Ever since my father died, ever since Odensk, I’ve been a part of it, whether I like it or not. And whilst the battle continues, there will be no rest.”

  He stopped and looked at the man sitting opposite him. “Don’t ask me to explain why,” he said, “because I can’t. All I know is I don’t have any choice.”

  What was Brandauer thinking? Stefan felt strangely exposed, vulnerable. He had rarely expressed himself in this way to anyone, not even to his own brother. It was a part of himself he had learnt to keep well hidden. Doing otherwise had rarely earned him anything other than mockery or disdain. But there was no mockery in Otto Brandauer’s eyes now.

  “How will you know?” he asked Stefan. “When the war is won?”

  “I don’t know,” Stefan replied. “That’s the thing. I can’t be sure it will ever be won.”

  Otto Brandauer nodded in silent agreement. “I need you for your skill with the sword, Stefan,” he said. “That was never really in doubt. But I also need what is in your heart.” He lay his hands upon the parchment scroll on the desk in front of him, began to open it and then paused.

  “Is there anything that matters more to you than that battle, Stefan?”

  Stefan considered the question for a moment. “No,” he said eventually. “I don’t think that there is.”

  “Good,” Brandauer said. He reached across the desk, and smoothed open the parchment scroll.

  It was a map, but a map unlike any other that Stefan had seen before. Through his uncle, and at school in Altdorf, he had learned to study the plans of the city, and sometimes those rarer scrolls that plotted the span of the Emperor’s realm.

  This map went beyond even the boundaries of the Empire. There, laid out in the precise lines of the cartographer’s hand, were the lands of Bretonnia, and Kislev too. Stefan knew enough of those distant places to recognise that the map accounted for a good part of what men knew as the Old World.

  He gazed at Kislev, and traced a finger around the line marking the borders of his motherland. He followed the outline of the coast to the mouth of the River Lynsk. The map was dotted with names, both known and unknown, but no name was any longer marked upon the place where Odensk once stood. He sat for a moment, thinking about a place, a life, that had vanished.

  “Take a good look at the map,” Otto instructed him. “Take a good look, Stefan Kumansky, then tell me where in all this good land the blight of Chaos might be found.”

  Stefan stared up at Otto, momentarily taken aback. It was not often he had heard the name of the Dark Powers spoken of so openly, or so candidly. He stared at Otto for a few moments then forced his gaze back to the map. “I don’t know,” he said, still discomfited by the question. He gestured with one hand towards the far edge of the map, towards where—he supposed—the northern lands of Norsca might lie.

  Otto Brandauer leant forward towards Stefan, and spread his hands wide across the parchment scroll. “The truth is,” he said quietly, “the poison of Chaos can be found anywhere, within our borders as well as without. Anywhere at all.” He looked up and held Stefan in an unblinking gaze. “Isn’t that what your heart tells you, too, Stefan? Isn’t that what you know?”

  Stefan took a deep breath. He could feel the sweat prickling the skin on his face and hands. It was as though the whole of his being was laid bare.

  “I think,” he said at last, “that there is far more darkness in this world than men ever imagine.”

  “You are right,” Brandauer told him, softly. “The gods be my witness, I wish that you were not. But you are right.” He rolled the parchment slowly and placed it away out of sight. “And you were right to say that you did not know when the struggle would end, Stefan. The truth it is, it will never end. It is eternal.”

  He stood up and took a few steps across the narrow chamber. “Nowhere is that struggle now more desperate now than in Kislev,” he said. “Kislev is the mighty dam; the gatekeeper that stands between the darkness and the light. The forces of Chaos understand that only too well. They and their followers have been repulsed before, but they will always return. Now they are readying to lay siege once more. If the dam should ever be breached, then a tide of evil might sweep, unimpeded, across the world. The light would be extinguished, forever.”

  He paused, lost in contemplation of his own words for a while. “The question is,” he continued, “are you ready to give your all to this struggle for Kislev? Ready, if necessary, to give your life?”

  Stefan thought again of the map. In his mind it had become a map of darkness; a wash of black creeping across the face of mankind, slowly obliterating it. He shuddered, but it was a shudder born of anticipation as much as of unease. He had no doubt of what his answer must be.

  “What is it that you need me to do?” he asked. By way of answer, Otto Brandauer opened the second of the two doors and spoke quietly to a servant waiting outside. A few minutes later the door opened again. A third figure stepped into the room, and without waiting for invitation or introduction, sat in the remaining empty chair by Otto’s side. The newcomer pulled back the cowl of their long grey robe and turned to face Stefan.

  “Stefan,” Otto said. “Allow me to introduce you to Elena Yevschenko. Your companion on the journey to come.”

  Stefan found himself looking at a young woman, no more than twenty years old, possibly less. Her hair was cut shorter than was customary for a noble, and though she wore the sculpted silk gown common amongst the women of the high court, she looked curiously ill at ease in her finery.

  The young woman turned to appraise Stefan. A high forehead and deep-set blue eyes gave her features a severe, intense look. Striking, rather than beautiful, Stefan decided.

  “An unwilling companion, actually,” she said, picking up on Otto’s remark. Beneath the flawless Reikspiel, the slightest trace of accent still remained.

  Elena maintained her gaze upon Stefan, looking him over rather as though she were weighing up a commodity she’d been invited to buy. Stefan discovered, to his surprise, that he’d taken an instant dislike to her. The skeptical, mildly disdainful expression on the girl’s face told him the feeling was probably mutual. Not a good start.

  Brandauer broke the tense silence that had followed Elena’s opening words. “Elena is yet to be convinced of the need for your services,” he explained. He eyed the young woman carefully before continuing. “But I take a very different, and very firm view on that.”

  “It would help if I knew what service it is I am asked to perform,” Stefan said, puzzled by the turn of events since the girl had stepped into the room.

  Brandauer exchanged glances with Elena.

  “I should explain a little of Elena’s history,” he said. “She has been living here in Altdorf, under the protection of the court. Originally, however, she is from—”

  “From Erengrad,” Stefan said, voicing the connection he had made in his mind a few moments earlier. “Or somewhere very close.”
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  Otto nodded, appreciatively. Elena merely glowered. “Your accent,” Stefan added. “Very faint, I grant you. I doubt anyone else would be able to tell. I was born not thirty leagues from the city walls,” Stefan said. “I’m honoured to meet a kinsman.”

  They exchanged a stiff, rather formal greeting, Elena responding to Stefan’s bow with a rather perfunctory curtsey.

  “Elena has been here in Altdorf for the last two years,” Brandauer explained. “Now it’s time for her to go home. That’s where we need your help.”

  “Where you need his help,” Elena countered, testily. She got up and began to pace the room, managing somehow to look both graceful and awkward. A proud but untamed animal, penned within a gilded cage.

  “No offence, sir,” she said to Stefan. “But I can look after myself.”

  I’ll bet you can, Stefan thought to himself. He looked from one to the other of them, seeking to piece this new puzzle together. “You want me to take Elena home, back to Erengrad,” he said. “And that’s all? I understand what you’ve shown me, and it’s clear the lands to the east are in peril. But with no offence to you—” he paused, and glanced over at Elena, “how is one young woman going to help redeem Kislev?”

  Brandauer smiled at the girl, and made the slightest of bows toward her. “Elena, you may as well explain.”

  Elena spoke slowly, making only occasional eye contact with Stefan. “My family is one the oldest in the western territories of Kislev,” she said. “I am—so they tell me—a distant cousin of the tsarina herself.”

  “A noble, powerful family,” Otto underlined, quietly. Elena smiled sourly.

  “For decades, our family has been locked in a bloody, pointless feud with another, the House of Kuragin. The feud has simmered across the generations, but the last three years have taken our noble kin to the brink of civil war. In that time, half of our respective families have murdered each other.” She raised her eyebrow a fraction, as if to emphasise the futility of her history. “I was smuggled out of Erengrad, across the border to the Empire a month before my eighteenth birthday. I’ve never been back since.”

  “And now?” Stefan asked.

  “Now,” Brandauer interjected, “it is vital that Elena return home. The fabric of Erengrad and the whole of the western territories is collapsing. We can no longer afford the indulgence of an Erengrad that is torn apart at its heart. Chaos presses from all sides, and there are many who would abandon the ancient alliance between Kislev and the Empire, in favour of some treaty of servitude to the dark powers. If Erengrad should fall, then others will follow. Then it may only be a matter of time before—”

  “Yes,” Stefan said, quietly. “I understand. But how can Elena do anything to change all of this?”

  “An opportunity exists,” Brandauer told him. “It may not stay long, but, for the moment, it exists. A chance to forge a new bond between the Houses of Yevschenko and Kuragin. To unite the people of Erengrad once again, and form an alliance strong enough, perhaps, to turn the tide against Chaos.”

  “So this alliance,” Stefan said, “is going to be forged—”

  “Through me,” Elena replied, crisply. “I am to be married, to Petr Illyich, eldest son and heir to the House of Kuragin.” She reached inside the pocket of her blouse and pulled out a silver locket. She released the catch and held the locket open for Stefan’s inspection. The painted image of a young, blond-haired man in his late twenties looked out at him from astride a horse on the field of battle.

  “Be in no doubt, Stefan,” Otto told him, “Elena is destined to play a vital part in the struggle between light and darkness.”

  Stefan found himself momentarily dumbstruck by the thought that the future of Kislev—and, perhaps, much of the world beyond—could hinge upon the fate of this diminutive young woman. Elena looked at him and laughed.

  “What’s the matter, Kumansky?” she asked him. “Haven’t you always wanted to rescue a princess?”

  “Elena must return to Erengrad without delay,” Brandauer went on. “The alliance is fragile, and the pressures bearing upon it are many. This family feud has becoming a weeping sore at the very heart of Erengrad. It must be healed now. We cannot afford to wait any longer.”

  “Of course,” Stefan agreed. “It must—it must be hard,” he said. “Being away for so long. This separation. It must have been painful for you both.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Elena replied, acidly. “The two of us have never met. At least, if we have, I don’t remember it.”

  She snapped the locket shut. “I’m told he looks rather older now,” she added. “Older, and fatter, as well.”

  “Elena is a soldier,” Brandauer continued, gravely. “She knows what sacrifices she must make, if true and righteous order is to prevail.”

  “I still don’t see where I fit into this,” Stefan insisted. “If you’re telling me that Elena has the protection of the court, then you surely don’t need to hire swordsmen, however perilous the journey. You have hundreds of civic guard at your disposal.”

  Elena laughed, but there was bitterness in her voice when she spoke. “A fine notion,” she said. “But I don’t think the noble court of Altdorf places quite that value on my head.”

  Stefan shook his head, still not satisfied. “But if it’s so important for the alliance that you are returned to Erengrad—”

  “The politics of the Old World are delicately balanced,” Otto cut across. “With the active support of the Emperor, we would doubtless be more secure. But Karl-Franz has been long from court.” He cast his eyes around the chamber. “Too long, in fact. Without his assured patronage, we can neither be sure who will support us, and who will not.”

  “They’d be happy enough to get an ignorant Kislevite out of their fine court,” Elena commented. “But don’t expect them to go to any trouble. I’m just a misfit here. Most of your gracious nobility couldn’t care less if I lived or died.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Brandauer insisted. “We could arrange an escort for Elena if we really needed to. But it’s also a matter of who we can trust. These are dark times, Stefan. Times when it pays to trust as few people as possible.” He glanced across the chamber at the sound of footsteps approaching along the passageway outside. The footsteps seemed to slow to a halt by the door, and then move on. Otto waited until the sound had died away.

  “If you accept this commission then you should be under no illusion,” he continued. “There are people in Kislev, in the Empire, even here in Altdorf, who would very much want Elena dead if they knew who she was.” He paused. “And they will kill you, too, if they have the chance.”

  “Which is why,” Elena cut in, “it’s better if I travel alone.”

  “Which is why you must be protected,” Otto countered, “but discreetly.”

  “How discreetly?” Stefan asked.

  “A small party. Small enough to travel anonymously, to pass almost invisibly on their journey east. Nor can you expect to spend too much of your time on the beaten paths; they may be too dangerous.”

  Stefan turned the proposition over in his mind. The idea of facing danger held no fear for him, and the answer he had given Otto was true. There was nothing in his heart more important than to take arms against the darkness. It was a path he had been destined to follow ever since that grey morning in Odensk.

  “I’m a swordsman,” he said at length, “not a scout. The forest trails east of Altdorf would be a match for all but the ablest woodsman. How do you propose we find our way, other than by staying close to the trade routes?”

  “I have mapped the journey,” Otto replied. “I may look as though I’ve spent my life safe behind city walls, supping with the elector counts. But it was not always so. I know more of the world than you might imagine.” He flicked a gaze between Stefan and Elena, and Stefan glimpsed the steel behind the features now softened by comfortable living. “I will lead the mission,” Otto continued, “at least as far as Middenheim. There you will find pap
ers waiting for you; new identities, new lives. You will travel on as part of a merchant caravan, bound for the border with Kislev.”

  The story had the ring of truth, yet Stefan still sensed there was something missing, some component of the story not yet told. For all that Elena Yevschenko might be a formidable character, he couldn’t believe that a single marriage could prevent the flood of evil from sweeping across the western plains of Kislev.

  He looked long and hard at Otto Brandauer. “Now tell me the rest,” he said at last. “There must be more.”

  Otto bowed his head ever so slightly, and exchanged a glance with Elena. The young woman shook her head, almost imperceptibly. Otto hesitated, then went on. “There is,” he conceded. “The marriage of Petr and Elena is vital. Their union will end the strife between the families. Without an end to their feud, there can be no lasting peace. But that alone will not be enough to mend the wounds of Erengrad.”

  He glanced again at Elena. The young woman seemed to read his meaning, and bristled. “Why am I supposed to trust this—this mercenary?” she demanded, her face flushing red. “If his sword can be bought and sold for a pocket of silver, what’s to say he won’t sell me?”

  Well, Stefan thought. At least we know where we stand. Otto stood up, and took a few paces around the room. For the first time his voice when he spoke to Elena betrayed a trace of irritation. “You must trust Stefan because I trust Stefan,” he said. “And, if you don’t, then you may as well not trust me either.” He glared at Elena, waiting to see whether she was going to respond. When she didn’t, he said: “Now, if you please, show him.”

  Elena Yevschenko hesitated, then, reluctantly, reached to her neck and lifted a silver chain over her head. For a moment she sat with an object locked within her fist upon the desk. Otto signalled his rising impatience; Elena opened her fist and let a metallic object fall free. She glared at Stefan, as though defying him to make sense of it. “Well?” she demanded.

  Stefan looked. The piece seemed to be fashioned from a dull silver or lead. It was moulded in the shape of a broad, flat arrowhead with a long, narrowing tail. He shrugged. “It could be a spear,” he suggested. “Or a bird in flight, perhaps—a dove?”