The workman paused in his labours at the sound of footsteps approaching. He set the pick to one side, but did not put it down. Instinctively, Stefan’s hand closed over the hilt of his sword.
As they came closer, the priest raised his hand. The workman returned the greeting, and turned his gaze upon the newcomers. He seemed particularly fascinated by Elena and Lisette, his gaze barely leaving them as they approached.
Soon all eight were gathered around the grave the old man had been digging out. Elena turned to the priest, unsure of what was expected of her. “What now, father?” she asked. “Is there something else you require of us?”
The priest slipped back his cowl, revealing a clean-shaven young man with dark, receding hair. For the first time, he favoured Elena with a brief smile.
“I’m flattered to be called father,” he said. “But it’s a little premature.”
The gravedigger laughed and rested upon his pick. “For me, on the other hand, this meeting is long overdue.” He held out a soil-crusted hand. “And very welcome,” he added. “I am Father Andreas.”
Elena hesitated, still confused. Stefan seized the offered hand. “A good disguise, father,” he said. “We had not expected to find you still at work so late in the evening.”
Father Andreas laughed again. “Oh, this?” he said, indicating the pick. “That was just my insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“In case you were visitors of the unwelcome kind, and I had cause to crack open your skulls.” His eyes for a moment were hard steel grey. Stefan saw that he was not joking. Suddenly the priest looked much younger, not to mention much stronger, than the decrepit gravedigger of a few moments ago. Father Andreas turned towards the man in priest’s robes who had led them through the Morrspark. “Good work, Johann,” he said. “You can leave us now.”
The younger man looked uncertain. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I sense a heavy foreboding come upon this place tonight, father.”
“All the more reason for you to go now,” Andreas told him. “I’ll brook no argument, Johann. Go. And go safely.”
Father Andreas watched the younger man retreat into the night. “He’ll make a fine priest of Morr before too long,” he commented. He turned his attention to Elena, his stare lingering upon her, weighing her up.
“You carry a great burden upon your young shoulders, my lady.”
“Then it’s a burden I carry willingly,” Elena replied. “And I’m resolved to carry it to the end.”
The priest nodded. “I know that you are,” he said. “I was told as much by—” he hesitated, and his sharp eyes seemed to grow dull. “Otto is dead, isn’t he?” he said, his voice quiet.
It was Bruno who spoke first. “I fear your guess is right. He is dead.”
“Murdered,” Stefan added. “I’m sorry—he was a friend of yours?”
Father Andreas bowed his head and drew a hand across his eyes. He stood there for a few moments in silent contemplation. A sound, like a small cry or a muffled sob, escaped his lips. Then he pulled himself upright, and drew down a deep breath.
“Come,” the priest continued. “Let’s waste no more time on welcomes.” He looked around the group. “No one followed you here, as far as you could tell?”
Alexei Zucharov shook his head. “But I suggest we don’t read too much into that.”
“Agreed,” Father Andreas replied. “We should not presume that we’re safe yet.” The priest’s eyes fell upon Tomas Murer, a forlorn figure with his hands secured tightly behind his back.
“What story attends this sorry fellow?” he asked. Tomas spoke up before any of the others could reply. “Sir, I have been much maligned, and the victim of misunderstanding,” he insisted. “As the great god of death shall judge me, I stand before you a good man and true.”
“We shall see the truth of that,” Stefan responded. “That’s a matter we seek your judgment upon, father, once our principal business is done.”
Andreas looked Tomas up and down. “So, you beg the judgment of Morr?” he said, gravely. “Say your prayers if he should find you wanting.”
The priest paused, deep in thought. “Well. We’ve waited four years. Let’s wait no longer.” He produced a rusted iron key from inside his robe, and walked towards the vaulted tomb standing behind them. With a knife, he worked free one of the stones set into the marble facade, exposing a lock. He placed the key in the lock and turned. The facade became a door, swinging outwards to reveal a narrow stone staircase leading down below the earth.
He beckoned, and Elena stepped forward, with Lisette at her side.
“Wait!” Andreas commanded. “The bearer of the Star only. The others must wait, and keep watch over the vault.”
“But Lisette is my handmaid,” Elena said. “She only wishes to attend me, as is her duty. Surely there can be no harm—” The priest held his hand aloft, stifling her protest. “Wait, though,” he said, reflecting for a moment. “Which of you is Stefan Kumansky?”
Stefan stepped forward. The priest looked him over carefully. “Yes,” he said at last, as though Stefan’s appearance tallied with a description. “You should also step below. The others, wait here.”
Stefan followed the priest and Elena down into the musty gloom. Below ground the temperature plummeted. The air frosting their breath had the still, cloying sweetness of death itself. The stairs led down to a single cell, a narrow chamber lit by the light of candles affixed to each of the walls. Once the door had been secured behind them, the priest turned to Stefan and Elena, his expression grave.
“Otto’s death is a source of mighty grief to me,” he said.
“We feel that loss every bit as keenly,” Stefan assured him.
“There is more bad news,” Andreas went on. “News that will concern your onward journey.”
“Has there been a change to the plan?” Elena asked.
“Not a change as such. But the merchant convoy you were to travel with left Middenheim two days ago. The main trade routes between the Empire and Kislev were about to be sealed. They would delay their departure no longer.”
Stefan considered the priest’s words. This was a major blow to their plans. “Then the border itself has been dosed?”
The priest nodded confirmation. “If you are to reach Kislev then there are only two routes now open to you – through the Forest of Shadows, or through the Middle Mountains. Both are perilous, but the mountain paths are now ruled by bandit gangs. Stay away from them.”
He sat himself on one side of the table and stretched out his arms. “But more of that anon,” he said. “For now, give me your left hands.”
Stefan and Elena extended their hands and the priest took each of them in his own. He closed his eyes, and lowered his head. Stefan assumed for a moment that they were about to join in prayer. Then he felt something, like the jolting sting of a river eel, surge through his body. Once the shock had receded he realised that he was not being attacked. It was rather as though the energy was coming direct through the body of the priest, searching him out, delving into the depths of his soul.
When, a few moments later, the priest released his grip upon their hands, he was smiling. “Now,” he said, “let me see the Star.”
Elena unfastened the top of her robe and pulled the chain from around her neck. She hesitated for a moment before handing the icon to the waiting priest.
“I’m not used to letting this out of my possession,” she explained.
“Well,” the priest replied. “There has to be a first time for everything.” He lay the segment down, then pulled a drawer out of the table in front of him. It appeared empty. Then Andreas lifted the silver leaf lining the bottom of the draw to reveal another compartment. Inside lay the icon’s companion piece, the second segment of the Star of Erengrad.
The second piece seemed at first to be an identical copy of the first, but when Andreas lay the two together, the segments matched exactly so that barely a line could be seen dividing them.
Elena gasped, se
eing the two pieces together. “I’ve long dreamed of this moment,” she declared.
“So have I,” Andreas said. Stefan realised he had been expecting something more spectacular; thunder or lightning, perhaps, some token from the gods at this momentous event. But it remained very still, and very cold, in the chamber.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now?” the priest looked bemused for a moment. “Now you take the two parts of the Star, with my blessing. And may all the gods take you safe to find the third.”
Elena looked down upon the icons lying joined upon the table. “How should I carry them?” she asked.
“Ah.” Andreas lifted the Star, and separated it once more. He gave the original piece back to Elena, and slid the second across the table towards Stefan.
“This must be your burden now, until our quest is fulfilled,” he told him.
Stefan reached out, tentatively, and closed his hand upon the icon. The piece felt cold to his touch, yet, as he placed the silver chain around his neck, he felt a surge of warmth radiate out from it, suffusing his body. He looked across at Elena. From the look of astonishment on her face, he guessed she must be experiencing the same thing.
“The separate parts are inert, dead metal,” the priest said. “But, bring them close together and you will begin to feel the power of the Star.”
“And these are just two of the three segments!” Elena exclaimed.
Andreas nodded. “Now you begin to truly understand its worth, and why it must not fall to the wrong hands.”
Stefan sat for a moment, lost in wonder at the strange, elemental force. Then he remembered they had other business that must be attended to before they bid farewell to the priest. “One final thing,” he said. “We must know the truth of Tomas Murer,” he said. “And then deal him the justice he deserves.”
Werner had been taken to an abandoned building on the edge of the city, a foul crumbling place that reeked of dye and decaying fat. He remembered the building from somewhere. It was the old tannery. He had collected some leather there once for his master. Or the man whom once he had called his master.
Dimly, Werner realised that he had a new master now. Things were going to be different.
The tannery was long abandoned, but tonight it was not empty. Faces loomed out of the darkness, soldiers waiting for the call to arms. Some Werner recognised, some he did not, but, for the first time in an otherwise worthless life, Werner Schlagfurst knew he was not alone.
Before long, they were on the move, walking alone or in groups of two or three. At their head Werner saw a man—if man it was—wearing a helm of black steel that gave his head the appearance of bearing wings or horns. The face of the helm had been moulded in the likeness of a snake striking at its prey. Werner knew this man from somewhere—or had known him, in the other wretched life that was rapidly fading away. He struggled momentarily for the miller’s name. It no longer mattered. All that mattered was here, now. The helmed head moved from side to side, the snake eyes reaching out, penetrating deep inside the head of each and every man amongst them.
Werner gazed around, almost sick with a giddy excitement as more and more figures emerged from the mists around him. Their numbers were growing with every moment, and yet they seemed to pass silently along the darkened streets. It was as though the fog shrouding the pathways was swallowing any sound. They had become ghosts.
Even before they reached the Morrspark, Werner knew where they were headed. And he knew why. Knew that there would be fresh blood spilt upon the fields of the dead that night. As he neared the portals of Morr, Werner saw the helmed figure raise his arms towards the sky, and an arc of light flash across the air, setting the mist aflame. For a moment, Werner was blinded. When his sight returned he saw that the fog had parted, clearing a passageway for his brothers into the Morrspark. As Werner and his comrades passed through, the mists closed in like waves falling back upon the shore, sealing off the outer world. Without understanding what had happened, Werner understood that this was the work of powerful magic, magic that served the same master as he.
A drum was pounding. Werner could no longer tell if it was beating inside or outside his head. Nor could he fix upon the words that the snake man was offering up, but, nonetheless, he understood. Understood that he had waited a lifetime for this moment to come. At last, he knew his purpose.
* * *
Father Andreas laid his hands upon Tomas’ forehead, and let them rest there whilst he stood, eyes closed, listening to the inner voice of his soul.
Eventually he lifted his hands, and opened his eyes once again.
“Well?” Stefan asked, his throat dry. Andreas looked down at Tomas Murer, and bid him rise to his feet.
“This is a life that has known much sin,” he said at last. “Sins of weakness, and the follies born of excess. But I also see a sound heart, honest and strong in its way.” He looked towards Stefan. “I find no taint of darkness in him.”
Tomas expelled a mighty sigh of relief. For his part, Stefan felt a weight lift off his shoulders. “That’s good news,” he said.
The priest’s brow furrowed. “Not entirely,” he said. “I say I find no darkness in Tomas’ soul, that much is good. But evil is close, very close. I sensed it just now, even as we talked up above.”
Elena shot Stefan an anxious glance. “What are you saying?” she asked the priest.
“I’m saying that darkness attends you, lady,” he replied. “Not in yourself, of course,” he assured her. “But close at hand. I sensed it earlier today when I was immersed deep in prayer. And, since your party has come to me, I sense it even more strongly. There can be only one explanation. One amongst you carries the dark seed.”
Stefan felt a sickness growing in the pit of his stomach as he listened to the priest’s words. “We must find who it is,” he said without hesitation. “We can go no further until we have.”
He turned to begin climbing back towards the top of the vault, but was met almost immediately by Bruno, rushing down the steps as fast as his legs could carry him.
Bruno gazed round at them, his eyes wide, almost crazed. “You’d better get up here fast,” he said to Stefan. “We’ve got company, and plenty of it.”
CHAPTER TEN
The White Wolf Bleeds
The dark fields of the dead were suddenly alight, countless figures bearing torches pouring through the breach in the wall where the gates had stood. Stefan put the odds against them at something like ten to one. Maybe worse. He could count only what he could see, and he feared that many more lurked in the shadows beyond the torchlight. Certainly, the insane chant rising from the mob had the sound of an army about to bear down upon them.
Father Andreas stood by Stefan’s side, mouthing the words of a prayer. Stefan found himself momentarily shocked, unable to fathom how so many armed enemies could be upon them so suddenly. “Where can they have come from?” he demanded of the priest. “How could they have entered the city?”
“They had no need to gain entry to the city,” Father Andreas replied, his voice steady but sombre. “They’ve been amongst us all along, waiting. Waiting for this moment.”
Stefan’s mind suddenly filled with the image of Otto, standing over the Map of Darkness. Who knows where the serpent might rise next, Otto had said.
Now they knew.
“As for how they found us so quickly,” the priest continued, “I fear that one among us has led the dark powers here. Drawn them to us like a beacon.”
Stefan swallowed hard upon the uncomfortable truth. To face battle on this scale was bad enough. To do it knowing that someone close at hand was a traitor—someone, perhaps, he might have trusted with his life—was almost unbearable.
He looked at Andreas. Part of him desperately wanted the priest to be mistaken, but his heart told him it was not so. “We must find them,” he said, firmly. “Find them, and eliminate them.”
“No time now,” Andreas replied. “More pressing demands are upon us. Besides�
��” he looked around. “I suspect our traitor will soon betray himself.”
There was a hammering of hooves upon the ground, and the horse bearing Alexei Zucharov appeared through the gloom. Alexei’s face was flushed and animated.
“They’ll soon be all around us,” he declared. “They’ll have the Morrspark completely surrounded. There’s no escaping them.” He paused, fighting for breath. “We live or die by the deeds of our swords.”
“So be it,” Stefan said. “But how many swords do we have?”
“Every stroke of mine will exact a heavy cost,” Alexei promised him.
“Mine, too,” They both turned at once. Elena stood before them, with Lisette at her side. The young noblewoman’s eyes burned with a fierce defiance. “I haven’t come this far to surrender our prize and our lives to some filthy mob,” she declared. “What’s the matter?” she demanded angrily. “Didn’t anyone tell you a Kislevite woman can fight as well as sew?”
Stefan turned on Elena, his head still spinning with thoughts of a traitor amongst them. “There’s no point in fighting at all if we don’t manage to keep you alive,” he insisted. “Like it or not, that’s the whole reason for us being here. We have to keep you out of harm’s way for as long as possible.”
“Then it’s just you and I,” Alexei said. “And Bruno. Just like old times.”
“Just like old times,” Bruno responded. His voice sounded distant, detached. Stefan stared at his old comrade. Please the gods, no, let it not be Bruno. He pushed the thought out of his head, and his gaze fell upon Bruno’s captive. The priest had found Tomas true of soul. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to put that to the test, on the other hand, maybe there wouldn’t be another time.
“Bruno,” he called, sharply. Bruno turned with a jolt, as if coming out of a daydream.
“Untie Tomas’ hands,” Stefan commanded. “Give him back his sword.” Alexei stared at Stefan, his expression somewhere between bemusement and dismay.
“You’re arming this wretch to fight alongside us?” he said to Stefan. “Are you sure?”
[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad Page 16
