[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  For a moment Stefan might have been in one of the cosier taverns back in Altdorf, although, on closer inspection, there was little that was very cosy about those gathered around the tables here. There must have been twenty, or even thirty of them crammed inside the tiny tavern, and all looked practically identical. All had the barrel-chested, almost dwarfish build typical of the forest dweller, and looked as hairy and unkempt as the beasts of the forest themselves. The newcomers stood out in stark contrast, and Stefan was anticipating the hush that would suddenly fall upon the room as they were spied for the first time.

  But the foresters kept drinking, seemingly oblivious to their presence, even as Stefan led the way through the crowd towards the bench at one end of the room that served as a bar. A short, heavily bearded man who might be the brother of any of the others greeted Stefan with a crack-toothed smile and handed him a pot of what looked like beer.

  “Not exactly Altdorf’s finest,” he said to Stefan. “But not bad, considering.”

  Stefan looked at the contents of the pot and then at the innkeeper standing before him. “Who said anything about Altdorf?” he asked.

  “Obvious, isn’t it?” the man replied, still grinning. “Altdorf or Middenheim, you got to be on your way from one to the other.”

  Stefan raised the mug to his lips. It certainly wasn’t Altdorf’s finest, but, right then, just about anything would have tasted just fine. The others took his lead, drinking eagerly from the clay pots that the innkeeper had filled for them.

  “What’s he done?” said the innkeeper, indicating Tomas Murer, standing like a forlorn captive at the edge of the group. Stefan nodded to Bruno. “Untie his hands,” he said. “Let the man have a drink at least.”

  “Where were you headed for, anyway?” It was a voice from somewhere amongst the gaggle of drinkers behind them. Stefan put his beer down on the counter and turned around. One or two of the faces now regarded him with what looked like a vague curiosity; most were still absorbed in their own chatter.

  “Eisenhof,” Stefan said. It could do little harm now; they would have to forget about their scheduled rendezvous. He was about to return to his beer when another voice, colder and more sober said: “Lucky, then.”

  Stefan scanned the faces, looking for the one who had spoken, but none of the woodsmen were looking in their direction now.

  “What did he mean, ‘lucky’?” Stefan asked, turning back to the innkeeper. The thickset man shrugged, jovially, but his tone was contrastingly serious.

  “Lucky that you didn’t continue on as far as Eisenhof,” he said.

  “Why is that?” Elena demanded, coming to stand at Stefan’s side. The innkeeper paused, and glanced around the room before going on. “Couple of the fellows came past that way, couple of days back,” he said. “Place had been pretty well razed to the ground, by all accounts. Not many folk left alive.” He leant across the bar and whispered towards Stefan “Those who did it,” he said, “were creatures of darkness…”

  Stefan set his beer down, his thirst suddenly diminished. “We need to buy provisions from you,” he said. “Water, bread, meat or vegetables if you have them. We’ll pay you a good price. And we need a place we can rest, for a few hours at most. Then we need to be on our way.”

  The innkeeper poured Stefan another beer and set it down in front of him. “No hurry, friend,” he said. “Drink your fill and get some sleep, first. We’ll sort you out once you’re done.”

  “Good idea,” Alexei agreed, already holding out his pot to be replenished. Stefan put his hand across the pot before the innkeeper could reach for it. He didn’t like the sound of what had happened at Eisenhof at all.

  His heart told him to buy the supplies they needed and get back on the road without further delay. But his head told they must also rest, if only for a few hours, before they travelled further.

  “No,” he said. “Thanks. We’ll get the food and water sorted out now, and then get some sleep, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Very well,” the man agreed. “You’ll find comfortable beds upstairs.”

  “Thanks,” Stefan replied. “But we’ll be happy to bed down in the barn with the horses and the rest of the provisions. We’ve had some bad luck upon the road just lately. Best we keep everything together.”

  The innkeeper fixed Stefan with a look that was noticeably less friendly than before, then shrugged again. “Suit yourself,” he said.

  Bruno had been first to volunteer to keep a watch, whilst the others slept. He had told Stefan he wasn’t tired; but the truth was he didn’t want to sleep. Too much of what he feared lay in the place of his dreams. Better to stay awake, in control. He could not stay awake the rest of his life, but this night, he vowed, he would not sleep. He settled himself at the door of the barn, in a place where he could keep a close watch on any activity outside.

  For an hour or so he watched the foresters passing in and out of the alehouse, out mostly to relieve themselves against the walls of the stockade, back in to fill up on what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of ale. There was no sign that the drinking would stop much before daybreak. A steady commotion of voices rumbled on, a sound Bruno found familiar and comforting in its way. After a few minutes, and despite the bitter cold, he began to feel drowsy. Maybe the beer that he’d drunk had been a mistake. He leant back against the door, trying to find a more comfortable position. As he did so, his eyelids drooped and his head fell towards his chest.

  A sudden cry from the direction of the alehouse made him sit bolt upright. It had sounded like a woman’s voice, calling out in distress. Bruno got to his feet, and peered out into the night. He rubbed his eyes, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. There, by the side of the alehouse, where there should have been only the solid wooden wall of the stockade, was a dark, shadowed hole like the mouth of a cavern.

  He stared at it in frank disbelief, but the apparition refused to vanish. Bruno drew his sword and walked slowly towards the gaping void. It was as though a passageway, invisible before, had suddenly opened up in front of him. He kept walking, past the noisy alehouse, into the shadows, towards a faint flickering of light that shone from deep within the darkness.

  The passage was long, much longer than Bruno thought could have been possible. He had no clear idea of the internal dimensions of the tiny fort, but he surely should have reached the outer wall by now.

  But he hadn’t. He kept walking, and the dull amber glow grew stronger. As he closed upon the source of the light, Bruno could hear voices again, coming from somewhere ahead of him. The sounds were faint, but gradually growing more distinct. A woman’s voice rose above the blurring sounds, calling out for help. Calling out—Bruno suddenly realised—for him.

  He abandoned caution and ran. He knew he had to run, run as fast as he could, or he would be too late. A sudden panic took hold of him. The woman was screaming now, calling his name over and over again. Just when it seemed as though the path would stretch out forever, he rounded a corner and came upon the scene.

  He felt the sword—no, it was a dagger now—balanced in his hand. He saw the woman now, just a few feet away, pleading for help. And he saw the green-skinned monster that had its pitiless grip upon her, crushing the life from her body. “Help me,” the woman implored him, “help me, please.”

  Bruno felt the muscles in his arm flex and stretch, the grip upon the dagger in his hand shift. Too late, he remembered where he was. Remembered that the outcome would be the same, would always be the same. Too late, he swung his arm and watched again the dagger take its fateful flight.

  “Stefan! Stefan, wake up!”

  Stefan roused himself from what felt like the depths of a long sleep. He pulled himself upright with difficulty, to see Bruno in front of him, his face drained of colour and his eyes stretched wide.

  “Sigmar’s breath, Bruno! You look as if you’ve been to the gates of Morr and back!”

  Bruno shook his head, furiously. “I’m sorry, Stefan. I fell asleep. I don�
��t know how long for—I’m sure it was only for a matter of minutes but—”

  Stefan held up a hand to stem the flow of words. He was still struggling to shake the weariness from his body. It was as though he had succumbed to some potion that had sent him to sleep for days rather than just an hour or so. “It’s all right,” he assured Bruno. “Everything’s still quiet.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Bruno went on. “It’s completely quiet. You’d better come and look at this.”

  Stefan followed behind Bruno as he led them on a tour of the handful of cramped wooden buildings that was Jaegersfort. Each and every one of them was now empty. Jaegersfort was completely deserted.

  “When did this happen?” Stefan asked, puzzled. “Where did they all go?”

  “I don’t know,” Bruno admitted, his face flushing red. “I was asleep for just a moment or two. When I came to, I found the place like this.”

  Stefan looked at Bruno for a few moments. He could feel the heaviness in his own eyes and limbs. The warm straw of the barn seemed impossibly inviting. It would be so easy just to forget about this; to curl up in the warm embrace of sleep. He rubbed his eyes, vigorously, forcing them to stay open.

  “This is more than weariness,” he said. “I suspect the landlord’s brew had more of a punch to it than any of us bargained for.”

  They went back inside the alehouse. The room that had been full to bursting only a while before was now empty save for the insects swarming around the greasy plates of half-eaten food, and the pots of beer, unfinished upon the tables. The woodsmen had totally vanished.

  Stefan stood in the centre of the room, listening to the silence. There was nothing but the sound of the wind, sighing in the trees, and the faint groan of the timbers around the stockade.

  “Looks like we’ve been left alone,” Stefan said. Somehow, his instincts told him, they wouldn’t remain alone for long.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Bruno said, quietly. “Is it another trick, another trap?”

  “Rouse the others,” Stefan commanded. “We’re not going to stay around to find out.”

  The gatehouse at the entrance to the fort had been abandoned, its occupants melted away to leave the fort unguarded. Stefan hurried the riders along, across a makeshift bridge and out into the forest. They threaded their way back into the heart of the Drakwald under a black, moonless sky. About fifty yards clear of the fort, Stefan pulled his horse up and looked round. At first there he saw nothing except impenetrable night, but he had not long to wait. Like stars rising above the horizon, a prickling of lights appeared out of the darkness to the north and east of Jaegersfort, heading in their direction.

  “Men on horseback,” Bruno muttered, “bearing torches to light their path.”

  “Men?” Stefan asked. “Or mutants?”

  As they watched, the lights multiplied until they numbered twenty or thirty, spreading out as they approached, a cordon encircling Jaegersfort.

  “What new game is this?” Alexei muttered. “One that we are not going to get caught within,” Stefan said. “Time to go,” he told them, briskly. “Let’s get out of this while we still can.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Soldiers of Tzeentch

  Months had now passed since Andreas had last received word from Otto Brandauer. The priest was accustomed to long gaps in correspondence with his old friend, but this was different. The last letter he had received had not contained the usual mixture of news and speculation. It had come under seal, and had been written in an elaborate code known only to the few sworn to the Keepers of the Flame. It had taken the priest the better part of a day to decipher the elaborate pattern of the runes encrypting the letter. His efforts were rewarded with the news he had been waiting nearly four years to hear. The burden was soon to be lifted from his shoulders. The Star of Erengrad was returning home; the fragments were to be made whole once more. The wounds of a generation were to be healed.

  In his letter Otto had described the arrangements being finalised for the journey from Altdorf to Middenheim and then on to Kislev. He described Elena and her companions, and the detailed plans for their meeting in Middenheim. Otto had promised to write again on the day that they rode from Altdorf, but that second letter had never come. The priest feared in his heart that the light of their brotherhood had been extinguished in this life. Otto Brandauer was dead.

  But the girl, Father Andreas told himself, the girl is still alive. And she is coming, coming to Middenheim. In the still of each night since that last letter the priest had lain in his bed, waiting, listening. He had never met Elena Yevschenko, yet he sensed her soul was very close now. He had been preparing for her coming for four years, and now the time was nigh.

  For the past week Father Andreas had set a watch upon the appointed meeting place. Night had followed empty night, and the due time for their rendezvous had now passed. But this night, his heart told him, they would surely come. Throughout the daylight hours Andreas attended dutifully to his sacraments in the tiny chapel of Morr. It had been a good day, by recent standards. Fewer than fifteen deaths all told in that quarter of the city. Fewer than the day before. Fewer by far, if the stories were true, than the mounting toll of death to the east.

  The priest neither abhorred nor shunned death—his life’s work was devoted to smoothing the passage of souls through the gates of Morr—but he grieved for every one torn early from the path of their natural life. He greatly feared that Otto was one such soul.

  His ministrations complete, Andreas locked all the doors within the chapel, and knelt in solitary prayer. Silence settled upon the cold marble facades of the chapel. Andreas closed his eyes and bowed his head, and pledged devotion to his god.

  The priest repeated his litany of prayer until the exterior world faded away and the Gates of Morr opened before him. In his mind he gazed through portals into the lands of the dead, towards an eternity without horizon, a final resting place for the children of Morr. Andreas listened to their voices; the ceaseless song of tormented souls brought finally to peace. He searched the endless plains, trying to find Otto, a lone soul amongst the multitude. In his heart he hoped that, if Otto were truly dead, then he would find him there. But there were too many voices. Not hundreds, not thousands, not any number that mortal man could reckon. All life fell to dust; the souls that survived were gathered here. Since time began, all the children of the great god Morr had been scattered upon these, his fields of rest. Now they numbered more than the grains of sand upon the shore.

  He would meet again with Otto, but not until he himself had walked that final path. Andreas’ breathing deepened and grew slower. His soul slipped further within the kingdom of Morr. “Great god of eternal peace,” he intoned. “Show me your children on both sides of the great divide. Grant me sight of the living as well as the dead.”

  Gradually the swell of voices broadened and filled. Now Andreas sensed the presence of those yet to be called beyond the gates of Morr. Sadness welled within him as he listened to the anguished cries of those about to be consumed by the fires of death: the sick and the dying, the wounded lying upon the field of battle. Souls struggled within their mortal frames as the swell of fate carried them, inexorably, along their last journey.

  Andreas concentrated, filtering the wider pandemonium from his thoughts. He focused his mind upon the nearer shores, upon the flickering energies emanating from the souls of those within the city walls themselves. Middenheim now revealed itself to him as a tableau, a shifting pattern of light and sound. The clamour of living souls grew in intensity inside Andreas’ head, some further, some nearer to their final destination. Few if any knew the true duration of their remaining span of life, but to the priest, immersed deep in prayer, all was laid bare.

  He focused his mind, sifting the lives that flashed before him. Humanity was there in all shades of virtue and sin, but Andreas was searching for one amongst the sea. An image sparked; a picture of a young woman on horseback. Near, very near now to Middenh
eim itself. A jolt passed through the priest’s body as he recognised the shape of the Star concealed upon her, a pulse of bright energy in the darkness.

  The woman was flanked on either side by riders; their spirit lights shone strong and clear. These were the escorts Otto had written of. His sorrow deepened with the certain knowledge that his beloved comrade was not in their midst. Andreas set aside his grief and forced himself to concentrate, probing these other souls. They were growing closer by the moment, close enough now to almost touch—

  Andreas sat bolt upright, shaken by some unbidden force out of his pious reverie. His body was shaking, and for a moment it felt as though an icy claw had taken a grip upon his heart. He scrambled to his feet and drew his robe around him, struggling to regain warmth. Without knowing quite why, Andreas was suddenly filled with fear. He had touched the spirit of the young woman. She would reach Middenheim safely, and all was well. And yet—for a moment he had sensed something else, something so close by as to be almost indivisible from the riders. Its form in that instant had seemed human, yet Andreas had sensed within it terrible evil.

  He shuddered. The shadow faded from his consciousness but he knew that danger was close at hand. Andreas set about his preparations. As he did so, he muttered a final prayer to the gods, a prayer that it might not already be too late.

  The emissary fled the old man’s body an instant before he died. As the stooped figure of the shopkeeper crumpled lifeless upon the ground, the emissary’s spirit flew free, fixing itself again in the new host body standing waiting before him.

  Through new eyes, he looked down at the body without pity. The old man’s dim brain and blinkered spirit had served as host for the emissary, a vessel with which to pass beyond the spell-guarded gates. Having served that purpose, it was just a husk; refuse to be scraped like excrement into the gutter.