[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  “Not many,” Stefan said. “We have to avoid drawing attention to ourselves.”

  “So, then,” Mikhal went on. “Is Bruno with you?”

  Stefan shook his head. “No,” he said. “I wish that he were, but no. Something changed with Bruno last time up in the mountains. He won’t talk about it; he’s shut me out.” He finished his beer and refilled the pot. “I don’t know,” he said. “We ran into some bad business. Innocent people died. Maybe he’s just had enough. He’s doing well for himself now. I don’t blame him.”

  Mikhal reflected for a while. “You’ll miss him,” he said. “Who else do you have?”

  “Alexei Zucharov,” Stefan said. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Indeed,” Mikhal affirmed. “Hero or hothead, depending on who you listen to.”

  “A bit of both, perhaps,” Stefan said. “But I tell you what—I’d rather he was for me than against.”

  “Yes,” Mikhal concurred. “I hear he’s a good fighter—formidable, in fact. But surely there is someone else, someone who will ride with you in Bruno’s stead?”

  Stefan shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. It would have to be someone I could trust with my life.”

  A silence fell between them, one that Mikhal was able to break only with some awkwardness. “Look,” he said at last. “I don’t know whether you thought I should—”

  Stefan looked puzzled for a moment before he caught his brother’s meaning.

  “No, no, no!” he said. “That’s not why I came here at all. Listen,” he went on, clasping his brother’s hand. “If I had half your brain for bargaining I’d probably be a merchant myself. But I haven’t. This is how it’s turned out for us. I’m a swordsman, and you’re a trader, and an excellent one at that. Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “There’s no one I’d trust more than you. But you belong here, not on the road with one hand always resting on your sword.”

  Mikhal tried his best to look a little disappointed, but his face was a picture of relief. “If you need any money,” he offered. Stefan waved Mikhal’s gesture away.

  “We’ll be well looked after in that respect,” he assured him. He reached inside his pocket, and pulled out a small object wrapped in oilskin. “I wanted to give you this before I left.”

  “What is it?” Mikhal asked, puzzled. Stefan unfolded the oilskin to reveal a silver disc the size of a large coin. Time had dulled its lustre and blurred the engraving a little, but Mikhal recognised the little icon of Shallya at once.

  “This was our mother’s,” he said.

  “That’s right. Father gave it to me the night that he died,” he told Mikhal. “He made me promise in keeping it that I’d always look after my little brother.”

  Mikhal took the icon and held it in his hand for a moment. “Not so little, now,” he said eventually.

  “No,” Stefan agreed. “But you’re still my brother. I want you to keep this until I return. That’s my pledge to my family—to all of us. I’ll go back to Kislev, but I will return.”

  Mikhal took the icon and placed it carefully in his own pocket. “How long do you think you’ll be gone for?” he asked.

  Stefan thought for a moment. It was a good question. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But—I tell you what—” He was suddenly seized with an idea.

  “Let us fix a date, here and now,” he said, “for us to meet again, at this very table of this very tavern, and then I shall know that I am meant to return!” He paused, trying to calculate the passage of time to match the journey to Kislev and back. He allowed a full six months; surely more than enough. “What shall we say?” he continued. “Upon the eve of Kaltzeit, at this very table?”

  Mikhal took his brother’s hand and held it firmly within his own. “Done,” he said. “I’ll have your beer waiting, and woe betide you if you’re late!”

  “Done!” Stefan agreed. A clock in the square chimed the hour. “Time rushes on,” he said, and hugged his brother a final time. “Gods keep you, Mikhal.”

  “And you,” Mikhal replied. “Gods keep you from all harm.”

  Stefan emerged from the tavern into the afternoon sunshine. A fresh wind was blowing in off the water, and on impulse he decided to walk back along the quay, rather than take the shorter route through the heart of the city. The port was busy; a large crowd had gathered around one of the wharves. The Cathay merchantman was still in; most of her cargo had been offloaded now and she was sitting high in the water. From the dockside Stefan could clearly see the dragon’s head carving upon her prow and the same motif emblazoned in bright scarlet upon the sails set billowing in the steady breeze. The ship looked like a traveler from another world.

  One day, Stefan promised himself. One day.

  But it was not the exotic trading-vessel that was attracting all the attention. The clamour and crowding was directed at something further down the quay, alongside the dock rather than in it. Most likely it was a quarrel of some sort—the deep-water port of old Altdorf was a melting pot of different creeds and races, and not always an altogether happy one.

  Rarely a day went by without an altercation of some sort, and often blood would be spilled.

  But, as he got closer to the crowd, Stefan knew this was something more serious. Several beefy-looking stevedores were pushing their way out from the back of the throng, and one at least had stopped to be sick into the dock.

  He stopped a man as he pushed his way past. “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

  The man met his eye and crossed his hand upon his chest, making a warding sign. “Murder,” he said. “Found some fellow tucked in amongst the bales back there on the wharf. Nasty business.”

  Stefan forced his way through to the front of the crowd. The first thing that struck him was the amount of blood. Blood everywhere. With the bales of silk removed, the quay looked like a charnel house. A body was lying upon the ground, part covered by a tar-befouled sheet. What was left uncovered looked like the work of some berserk animal. The body was barely recognisable as human.

  “Gods preserve us,” Stefan muttered. “What manner of beast has done this?” He stepped forward, and gently lifted the blood spattered sheet draped across the dead man’s face.

  As he did so, he realised two things. The first was that this was no indiscriminate, frenzied attack. The body had been mutilated in a way that was entirely deliberate. The second thing Stefan realised was that the victim was not a stranger. As he lifted the sheet he recognised at once what remained of the man’s face.

  It was Otto Brandauer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Leaving

  Varik stepped forward tentatively, into the unyielding space that was the realm of Kyros. He stood within a void filled with a blackness more impenetrable than any night. It was like entering a world without dimensions. There was no contrast, no light; no beginning, and no end. It was said that the soul of the Lord Kyros was so wedded to the powers of darkness that daylight had become unendurable, that he could only suffer the withering sun vicariously, from within the host body of a disciple. Yet another story had it that the warping power of Chaos had wrought such terrible disfigurements upon his body that Kyros forbore any of his followers to look upon him without the covering cloak of darkness.

  The emissary paid no attention to stories. Varik had survived, flourished—even, in the shadow of Kyros’ insane majesty by keeping his thoughts to himself, until he was required to do otherwise. He stood, penitent and head bowed, waiting upon his master’s pleasure. He had learned never to try and anticipate the will of Kyros.

  The silence stretched on until the emissary became aware of something stirring, some denser form moving amidst the darkness. Varik did not move forward, but fell upon his knees, and waited. He could feel the might of Kyros bearing down upon him like an iron bar upon his back.

  “Magnificence,” he intoned. “Your emissary attends your command.”

  Varik heard, or rather felt, the Chaos Lord’s reply like a thunder echoing wit
hin his skull. The voice of his master flooded into him, filling him with a dark, divine energy.

  “You have not recovered the icon.”

  Varik clasped his hands together, and pressed his forehead to the cold ground; supine and subservient. “Master,” he said, slowly. “It is true the pieces of the Star remain scattered across the blighted realm of man. But we will retrieve them Every day brings us nearer that goal.” He raised his head, fractionally. “The Kislevite herself shall lead us to our prize.”

  Silence. He sensed Kyros measuring his words, probing them for deceit, weighing their worth in the balance.

  “What of the old meddler?” the Dark Lord demanded at last. “If he was not the custodian of the Star, then he would have had knowledge of it.”

  Varik took a deep breath. He was aware of his entire body shaking. “Our servant could glean nothing from the old man,” he said. “They searched his quarters afterwards, and could find no trace of it.”

  “Afterwards?”

  “The old man is dead, lordship. He will stand against us no further.”

  There was a pause. When the voice of Kyros spoke again, it was in more measured tones. “Much will depend upon this one servant. You are sure that they will not fail us?”

  “Their human will has been completely subdued,” Varik assured his master. “Their soul has been suspended between the world of the living and that of the dead. It is yours to command.”

  Varik felt the pressure bearing down on him lift a fraction. The pain encircling his head like a vice began to ease. His body felt suddenly lighter, blessed with a divine forbearance. Varik knelt quietly in the darkness, savouring his master’s indulgence.

  * * *

  Stefan knew that if Otto’s death signified one thing, it meant that they must now move quickly. His immediate task had been to send word to Elena Yevschenko. Normally he would have gone to her chambers at the Palace of Retribution, but after what had just happened, he was no longer sure that even the palace was safe.

  He kept the note brief, only telling Elena that she must come to his rooms in the Altquartier, alone and without delay.

  After what seemed like an age there was a knock at the door, and Elena stood before him, her head and body covered by a heavy cloak she wore wrapped around her.

  “This better be good,” she told him, curtly. “Otto must have told you I’m not supposed to go wandering the streets of Altdorf without good cause.”

  “I needed to speak to you alone, somewhere where I could be sure we wouldn’t be overheard,” Stefan explained. “Look,” he said, his tone more gentle now, “you’d better sit down. I’m afraid Otto’s not going to be helping us anymore.”

  Elena reacted to the news in near silence at first, sitting quietly, wringing her hands. Finally, the words came as the tears began to flow.

  “He often talked of his own death,” she said. “He would tell me that he would greet the end of each day as a victory, as death postponed. But he knew all the same that he would confront it, eventually.”

  “He met a cruel end,” Stefan said. “I’m sorry.” And saddened, he might have added. He had barely had time to know Otto, yet he had the certain feeling that, finally, he might have found a kindred spirit. Someone, at last, who understood. With Otto dead, Stefan knew that he stood alone once more.

  “How long was he—was the body lying there long before it was found?” Elena asked.

  “Not long, I think,” Stefan said.

  “Then it had not been well concealed?”

  Stefan hesitated. He knew this was going to be the most difficult part of all.

  “I don’t think there was any intention to conceal his body,” he said, quietly. “I think that whoever did this meant him to be found, and quickly.”

  Elena stared back at Stefan. She knew there was more to come. “Tell me,” she said. “Don’t keep the truth from me.” Grief leant a sudden harshness to her tone. “What else did you see?”

  Stefan took a deep breath. Recalling the scene at the wharf was hard enough, describing it to Elena was going to be far worse. “It looked at first as though Otto had been torn apart by some kind of wild beast,” he said. “Cut apart, into pieces.”

  Elena blinked. A tear fell across one cheek. “Go on,” she said. “I need to know.”

  “But then,” Stefan continued, “when I—looked again, I saw that this—terrible carnage—had been deliberate. And care-fill, in its way. Otto had been cut, his body butchered to fit a deliberate pattern.”

  Elena paled. She touched a shaking hand to her lips. “Pattern?” she said, weakly. “Pattern of what?”

  “Insignia,” Stefan said, continuing to force the words out. “I’ve seen most of them before, though there was a time when I would never have thought to see them here, in Altdorf. Nor displayed in such a terrible way.”

  “What kind,” Elena demanded, her voice steadied now, “what kind of insignia?”

  “The stigmata of evil,” Stefan continued. “Runes and spell-charms. Daubings paying foul homage to a dark god—the god of transfiguration.”

  “The Changer of the Ways,” Elena said slowly, aghast.

  “Yes,” Stefan affirmed. “There was quite a crowd gathered by the time I got there. I don’t think many of them knew what they were looking at.”

  “But you did,” Elena said.

  “Except for this,” Stefan replied. He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded slip of paper. He opened it out and flattened it upon the table. “I found this mark near where Otto lay.” he said. “Someone had daubed it—in his blood. I copied it down.”

  Elena took the paper from Stefan’s hand and looked at the likeness he had drawn. He knew at once that she recognised it. Elena threw the paper down and pushed it away as though she could not bear to have it near her.

  “What does it mean?” Stefan asked.

  Elena was shaking now. Fear had replaced the grief in her eyes.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Are you sure this is right?”

  “Quite sure,” Stefan told her. “What does it mean?”

  Elena did not answer directly, but Stefan caught the whispered word that she spoke, before turning away: Scarandar. He took hold of her arm, and drew her back towards him. “Elena,” Stefan said, gently but firmly. “This is important. Scarandar? Who or what is that? Why would it be here, in Altdorf?”

  “I’d never thought to that see that mark outside of Kislev,” Elena said, horrified. “In fact, not even outside Erengrad.” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Goddess Shallya protect us!”

  “Elena,” Stefan persisted. “Please.”

  She looked up out of her hands at him, her eyes reddened. “The Scarandar are the servants of evil,” she began, struggling to control the trembling in her voice. “They are human—at least, I think they are—but they have set their face against mankind and all its works. They worship a daemon, a terrible master pledged to deliver first Erengrad, then all Kislev to the Lord of Change.”

  “How will he do that?” Stefan asked, gravely. “What do the stories say?”

  Elena held down a deep breath, fighting to keep her composure.

  “That he will bring down the walls of Erengrad from without and from within,” she said. “From without, by bringing a mighty conflagration of fire and blood. From within, by sowing the seeds of unrest and hatred which will divide the people against themselves.”

  Stefan sat down, and rested his head in his hands. “Unless, of course,” he said, “something or someone is able to unite the people, and deliver them to another destiny?”

  Both of them sat in silence, the significance of their words suddenly weighing down upon them. Stefan had understood the seriousness of things when Otto had first shown him the map. But somehow, now, this had become personal. It was about Elena. And it was about him.

  He felt Elena’s hand upon his own. Her nails gripped into the flesh of his wrist. When he looked up he saw the tears flowing freely down her face.
r />   “But why now?” she sobbed. “Why choose to seek Otto out and murder him now?”

  “I don’t know,” Stefan replied. “Maybe they—if it is the Scarandar—were looking for something they thought he had. Maybe they want the Star.”

  Both were silent for a moment as the implications of Stefan’s words sank in.

  “I think Otto’s death was meant as a message,” he went on, quietly. “A message for us. I think they meant to show that they know who you are.”

  “But then why give us warning?” Elena demanded.

  “Yes,” Stefan agreed. “Why indeed?” He folded the paper carefully and put it away. “One thing is clear,” he said. “We can’t afford to delay our departure any longer. I’ve sent a message to Alexei Zucharov. He should be here at any moment.”

  “Then we’re leaving,” Elena said.

  “Yes,” Stefan replied “Without delay. Tonight.”

  Elena glanced at Stefan then looked away. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll be ready.”

  It took a moment for the word to register with Stefan. “We?” he asked, slowly. “Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

  Elena got up, and turned away from Stefan. “My maid, Lisette, and I, that’s who,” she said, curtly. “Surely you don’t expect me to travel half way across the Empire with just two strangers for company?”

  Stefan wasn’t sure anymore what he expected. All he knew was that, in the midst of his grief for a dead comrade, Elena had suddenly thrown a totally unknown factor into the equation.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” he demanded. He didn’t know what he felt about Elena’s maid riding with them. What he knew was that he had been wrong-footed, intentionally or otherwise, and it didn’t agree with him one bit.

  Elena rounded on him, eyes flashing angry fire. “Why in the name of Taal should you have been?” she demanded. “You don’t own me, Stefan Kumansky. It’s my decision if I choose to take a whole troop of servants. Surely you don’t begrudge my having my maid ride with me?”