[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  Otto nodded. “Good guesses,” he said. “The spear and the dove. Conflict and peace. Yes, it can be both of those things.” He slipped a sheet of white paper onto the desk. He handed a pen to Elena, and waited while she drew the outline of an identical shape onto the paper next to the pendant, then a second next to that. She looked up at Stefan, and, for the first time, she smiled.

  “See?”

  Stefan saw. Together the three shapes combined to form a six-pointed star.

  “The Star of Erengrad,” Elena said, quietly.

  “Individually, the three segments of the Star are all but worthless,” Otto told him. “In union, they exert a mighty, binding force over Erengrad and its people. Remember, Stefan, magic can work for good as well as for evil. In the right hands, the Star can be a powerful force for good.”

  “In the right hands,” Elena emphasised.

  “Too powerful for one family alone to possess,” Otto added. “But now Erengrad has need of the healing power of the Star.” He turned to Elena. “And it has need of the peace that your union will bring to those who would rule it.”

  Stefan gazed down at the new single shape made from the three. “Where are the other two parts?” he asked.

  Elena slipped the silver chain back around her neck. “The second of the three parts of the Star is in Erengrad,” she said. “It belongs to the man I am to marry, to Petr Illyich Kuragin.”

  “And the third—”

  “Is in Middenheim,” Otto said. “The other, and principal, purpose for your journey to the City of the White Wolf. When the bloody feud engulfed Erengrad, the three parts of the star had to be separated. We permitted the Houses of Kuragin and Yevschenko to keep one part each. But, so that neither family might gain absolute power, we arranged for the third segment to be carried to the Empire, to Middenheim. There it rests in the safekeeping of one trusted man. A friend of Erengrad. A friend,” he added, “of mine. He will be awaiting your arrival.”

  Stefan turned the words over in his mind, carefully. “And who,” he said at last, “is ‘we’? More to the point, who exactly are you?”

  Otto smiled, as if to signal that he had been awaiting this question. “I am a loyal servant of the Empire,” he said. “But I am also allied with a group of men who recognise the wider boundaries that border good and evil. Men who see the world painted stark in darkness and in light. Men, Stefan, much like you.”

  “Do they have a name?” Stefan asked.

  Otto considered for a moment. Stefan noticed Elena paying close attention, as if much of this were new to her, too.

  “We are known as the Keepers of the Flame, though the name is rarely spoken,” he said. “We tend the light that stands, eternal, against the forces of dark night. We are ever present. Ever vigilant.”

  Stefan exhaled a long breath, taking stock of the unexpected journey that this particular night had brought him to. He tried to make eye contact again with Elena, but she had turned her back on him. The decision was his alone.

  “How many men, then?” he asked. “Aside from me?”

  “Two,” Otto said, simply. “No more than that. The choice of companions is yours, but…” he looked across at Stefan. “I think you understand the qualities we need.”

  Stefan nodded. Such men were rare, even in Altdorf, but he knew who they were.

  “Well, thank you for further mapping out my life for me!” Elena declared, sardonically. She glared at both men, then seemed to accept something of the inevitability of the situation. “Once these arrangements have been made, we must leave Altdorf as quickly as possible. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Brandauer. “Without delay.” He opened the door to the chamber, allowing a little air to freshen the room. “We’ll need horses,” Stefan said. “And provisions, of course.”

  “Whatever you require will be provided,” Otto assured him. “Else you will be given money to procure what you need.”

  “What about during the journey?” Stefan asked. “It’s going to be a long ride.”

  “Arrangements will be made for you to draw fresh supplies. You’ll be told more of that in due course,” Otto said. “Now, for the moment: is there anything else?”

  Stefan considered. It seemed there should be a thousand questions to be answered, but, in another way, it seemed ridiculously simple. Simple, and dangerous. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t think there is.”

  “Then begin your preparations,” Otto said. He held the door open wide for Stefan to pass through. “In the meantime, there’s a carriage waiting to take you back to wherever it is you need to go.” He shook Stefan firmly by the hand. Elena now sat at her place by the table, gazing distractedly towards the window. Maybe time would be the best healer for their differences after all.

  Just before Stefan left the room, Otto took him aside. “Just remember, Stefan,” he said. “Evil will not always confront you with a weapon raised. It will just as likely come to you as a comrade, or as a sweet beguiling friend. But do not ever doubt its purpose, or the determination of those serve their masters in Chaos. Beware their many guises, Stefan. Beware the poison that runs within the stream.”

  * * *

  It seemed sure that no one noticed Stefan Kumansky as he left the Palace of Retribution to rejoin the outside world. Few townsfolk were still on the streets at that hour, and those that were took little interest in the drab, unlit carriage that clattered through the gates and then sped, without ceremony, through the sleeping streets towards the edge of the city.

  But far away, beyond Altdorf, in a place that was neither the Empire nor even the Old World, he had indeed been noticed. Deep within the cold, merciless nebula that spanned the dark realm of Chaos, Kyros, Lord of Tzeentch, the God of Change, sensed Stefan’s presence in the mortal world.

  For so long Kyros’ focus had been fixed upon Kislev, upon Erengrad. The prize his master had so long coveted was now all but within their grasp. The subtle powers of change had eaten away, almost unseen, at the fabric of the city, weakening its foundations of strength and unity. With the hand of Tzeentch to guide him, Kyros had steadily tightened the dark thread he had woven around and through its crumbling edifices. Soon, by stealth or by force, Erengrad would fall.

  One by one, the obstacles along the path had steadily been removed. All except… Kyros had cast his sightless eyes over the face of humanity, across the numberless hordes of weak, yet obdurate mortal men. Creatures to be pitied and despised in equal measure.

  His inner gaze had sifted through their masses, drawn suddenly back towards the west. He could neither see, hear nor physically touch the young swordsman, for Kyros’ corporeal body had long since been rendered to dust. As yet, he did not even know Stefan by his name. But he knew now of his existence, just as he had come to know of the daughter of Kislev. He sensed them both, as a spider senses the first tremor in its web. And he sensed a purpose that, if allowed to blossom, would lay threat to his intricate design.

  Kyros brooded upon his discovery, tracing out the myriad consequences scattered upon the seas of chance. He unravelled the paths of possibility, following them though to their end. He must watch them: the mercenary, the Kislevite, the scheming courtier. He must watch them all. He must dispatch his servants to walk amongst them. Unheard and unseen, they must wait; wait for the moment to act.

  It was time for the children of Tzeentch to awake.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bruno

  Stefan had not been the only one troubled by his dreams. Since coming home to Altdorf, Bruno Hausmann had struggled to bury the past, but the past had refused to die. Memories had returned, time and time again, invading the night hours. At first, the nightmares had come only rarely; Bruno had believed he could live with that. But over the last few weeks he had been visited night after night by the same, terrifying dreams; dreams that filled him with a sense of foreboding that stretched on, long into the waking day. Now his health was in decline; a sick weariness was drenching his body, sapping his strength and r
eflexes. He was growing sluggish and careless. And, that morning, carelessness was about to cost him dear.

  He didn’t react to the sword until it was inches from his face. A rush of adrenaline spared him from the blade as he reeled back. Bruno was seized with the sudden impulse to run, flee in whatever direction would take him away from the conflict. Then he remembered where he was, and why. There would be no escape. The stocky man in his bright new armour had him cornered at the back of the narrow barn. There would be no running from his sword. Bruno would have to stand, and give account of himself here.

  A voice roared in his ears. “Defend yourself, sir!” Again the sword sliced the air, just inches from his face. In front of him, a burly, barrel-chested man in bright, burnished armour stood, sword in hand, preparing to strike again.

  Defend yourself. Fight back. Bruno raised the new-forged steel of his blade just in time to parry the next flurry of blows. His thickset opponent grinned, sensing that his adversary was at last to make a fight of it, and swung his weapon with a renewed vigour.

  Bruno found his sword was light and fast. He parried the blows the knight was aiming at him with something approaching ease. Yet there was a sickness in his limbs and in his mind. The threads of his dreams wound themselves around him, dragging him down into a place of despair. In his mind, he had already lost the fight.

  Sweating and swearing beneath his mail and breastplate, the figure in armour began to force Bruno steadily back towards the far wall of the barn. A stray stroke broke through Bruno’s guard and nicked the side of his face. He tasted blood dribbling into his mouth, but felt no pain. A few seconds more, he imagined, and it would surely be over.

  His opponent suddenly broke off his attack and stood back, resting on his sword. He scowled at Bruno.

  “Come on man, fight me!” he shouted. “Can’t you do better than this?” He whipped the flank of his sword against Bruno’s blade once again.

  “Are you useless,” he chided, “or simply a coward?”

  The word stung Bruno more than a hundred cuts from a sword. A sudden rage coursed through him, filling him with a new, raw energy. His sword flashed in the air as he beat away his attacker’s blade as though it carried no more weight than a feather. He struck forward with speed and a hungry aggression. Within a few seconds he had regained all the ground he had previously lost. The other man found himself defenceless against the speed and agility of the attack. Soon he was down on one knee, his sword held up to protect his face. In the next instant the blade had been swept out of his grasp, knocked clean away by Bruno’s sword.

  Bruno bore down upon his opponent, the tip of his sword poised above the man’s throat.

  “Think twice before you call me a coward,” he advised.

  “Herr Hausmann!”

  Bruno turned at the sound of his name being called. He looked round to find his employer, Oswald Schaffner, hurrying across the barn towards him, his face red with agitation. Behind Schaffner, a second figure looked on from the shadows of the main building.

  “In Taal’s name, Bruno!” Schaffner exclaimed. “I pay you to entertain my customers, not to kill them!” He extended a solicitous hand to the prostrate figure of the knight, and helped the big man regain his feet.

  “My deepest apologies, my Lord Augenrich. I trust you’re not harmed?”

  The burly man dusted down his battered armour and eyed Bruno and his sword for a few moments. A wide grin split his features.

  “By all the gods, I ought to be,” he declared, beaming. “Don’t fuss about like an old woman, Schaffner. I insisted that your man here demonstrated the wares before I lined your pockets with gold.”

  He took the sword gingerly from Bruno’s grip. “I’m thinking I’d best buy a gross of these beauties rather than a score!”

  Herr Schaffner relaxed visibly. He, too, allowed himself a smile.

  “Now tell me the truth,” Augenrich continued. “Sigmarsfest may be the season of goodwill, but I won’t be swindled here. Is this sword of yours really as good as it seems, or is this young man just an excellent swordsman?”

  “The sword is truly without peer,” the armourer assured him. “And”—he caught Bruno’s eye—“the young man can handle it very well indeed.”

  Lord Augenrich threw an arm around Schaffner’s shoulder. “Then I reckon we have some business to conclude.”

  Oswald Schaffner gave Bruno a look that said well done—but don’t try it again.

  “Oh, Bruno,” he said. “You almost make me forget. There’s someone waiting out in the yard to see you. You’d better see what it is they want. I can manage back here for a while.”

  Bruno wiped the blood from around his mouth and made his way slowly but purposefully towards the front of the armourer’s shop. He wasn’t expecting company; he discouraged visitors at his work. A nagging unease in the pit of his stomach put him in mind of his dream, of a memory that cast deep shadows from the past.

  His visitor was sitting on the far side of the yard, his back towards Bruno, a crimson cape hung loosely over his shoulders. From a distance it might have been anyone, but Bruno knew otherwise. Even before the tall, dark-haired young man stood to greet him, Bruno knew who was waiting for him.

  The past had stepped from the shadow of his dreams, and returned to haunt him once again.

  “Stefan,” he said, his voice faltering. “It’s been a long time.”

  Stefan Kumansky smiled warmly, and held out his hand. “I was hoping I’d still find you here. You’re looking well.”

  Bruno brushed his own hand across his brow, avoiding the offered greeting. The sight of his former comrade stirred a chill sense of dread within his heart. The unease that had gnawed at him since the lonely hours before dawn now took on solid shape.

  For two days, ever since he’d left Otto’s chambers in the Palace of Retribution, Stefan had been thinking of how it would be when he finally faced Bruno again. The two men had not met or spoken since that day upon the mountain, although it had not been for want of trying on Stefan’s part. But Bruno had made it plain that he wanted nothing further to do with Stefan, and, over time, Stefan had come to accept that their friendship was at an end. But if he had been able to take only one man with him on the journey east, then it would have been Bruno above all others. He knew that he must try to mend the rift between them.

  From a distance, he had stood watching Bruno’s combat with Augenrich. Even after a year, there was no mistaking his comrade. The swordsman’s style and movement could belong only to one man. The edge that had made him one of the best fighters in Altdorf might have dulled a fraction, but Stefan knew that he would prove more than a match for the overweight nobleman in his expensive armour. He felt a surge of joy to see his friend again, and to find him apparently well and thriving.

  Closer to him, Stefan now noticed the changes that the months had marked upon Bruno. A little thicker in the girth, for sure; maybe a sign of a more sedentary life. The thick, rust-coloured curls of his hair were a little shorter, and the beginnings of a beard emphasised a similar fattening of his face. But it was still Bruno; still the man that Stefan would trust above all others. Trust with his very life.

  As he looked into Bruno’s eyes, Stefan saw again the emptiness where the light had once shone bright and strong. It was a look that mirrored Stefan’s last memory of his comrade, on the final day in Stahlbergen. If their adventure had ended with the orcs put to the sword, and the gemstone destroyed, then things might have been different. Victory would have been glorious, and untainted. Neither of them was to know that their mission was to have an unexpected and unwanted epilogue.

  The two men walked for a while without speaking, picking their way through the foundry and the smelting yards outside the armourer’s shop. In the end it was Bruno who chose to break the silence. “Before you say it, before you say anything. My answer is no.”

  “You don’t know what I’m going to say yet.”

  “Stefan, I know what you’re here for. The answer
’s no.”

  They walked on, Stefan a pace or two behind his former comrade. It felt as though the short passage of time had worn a path of a thousand miles between them.

  “You’re doing all right for yourself here,” he said at last. “Working for Schaffner. It seems to be going well for you.”

  “He pays me a living wage,” Bruno said. “Plenty enough for my purposes. And he respects my needs and skills. That’s all I want.”

  “Weren’t those needs and skills always respected before?” Stefan asked.

  Bruno turned away, unwilling or unable to face the question in Stefan’s eyes.

  “We’ve never talked about it properly,” Stefan continued. “What happened in the mountains. I don’t feel good about how things ended. It was hard for all of us.”

  “I made my choices,” Bruno replied, “and you made yours.” He started to walk away, so that Stefan had to pick up his pace to keep abreast of him. He tried to catch his comrade’s eye as they fell in step.

  “I was right about Krenzler,” he said at last. “And right about the stone. Krenzler betrayed us all.”

  Bruno pulled up short and turned to face Stefan. His eyes burned with a deep-buried anger. “Did he? Well, I’m glad you’re vindicated at last,” he said, walking on.

  “I’m just trying to explain what happened,” Stefan told him. He hadn’t expected Bruno to forgive him easily. But he had hoped he might come to understand.

  “Look,” he said at last. “You’re right. I’m here to—I don’t know. Ask you to reconsider. To ‘coax you from retirement’—whatever you want to call it. The thing is—” He caught Bruno by the sleeve, forcing him to stop and turn towards him.

  “Bruno, you’re a soldier, not an armourer’s apprentice or whatever it is you do here. You were born to the sword. It’s your life. I know it.”