He sat for a while, watching Alexei and Tomas at their sparring. More than once, the older swordsman got the better of his opponent, even managing to knock the blade from Zucharov’s grip. The bigger man simply roared his approval, more than happy to be outdone. And Stefan was happy enough with his solitude. But he was not alone for long.
“Mind if I join you?” He looked up, and saw Elena standing nearby. Without waiting for a reply, she wriggled down onto the grass by his side, another flagon in one hand.
“More wine?” Stefan laughed. “I’ve just told Bruno I’ve had my fill.”
“Well, you haven’t,” Elena said, emphatically. “I never drink alone—except when I am alone, of course.”
“Of course,” Stefan agreed. He took the offered flagon and drank. A mouthful of pungent Brandtwein stung the back of his throat. “Good stuff,” he volunteered, hoarsely.
Elena drank a long draught of the Brandtwein straight down. “What about him?” she asked, pointing in the direction that Bruno had gone in. “Have you made your peace?”
“Yes,” Stefan said “Or maybe it’s more that Bruno has found his peace. Either way, we’ve said what needed to be said.”
“That’s good.” Elena took another draw from the flask. “Well,” she said, defensively, “why not? Isn’t it drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die?”
“I hope not,” Stefan said. “But there’s little doubt that many of the men in this field are seeing the stars for the last time.”
Elena thought for a moment. “Ah. So this is the bit where you say to me something like, ‘Elena, I know you want to be brave, but for your own sake we must keep you away from the fighting tomorrow.’ Yes?”
“No. I’ve done what I can to get us this far. As for tomorrow, well—” He stared across the massed ranks of Castelguerre’s army. That’s up to you. Your decisions have proved to be as good as mine.”
“Oh.” It was hard for him to tell if Elena was surprised or disappointed. “Well,” she went on at last, “if you’re interested, Castelguerre has arranged for me to ride under the protection of Franz and his men.”
“I’m glad of that,” Stefan replied. “I’m saying I trust your decision. Of course I’m interested in what happens to you. You are very valuable. Valuable to Erengrad and—who knows? Maybe valuable to the whole of the Old World.”
“Valuable… to you?” she asked him.
“Yes,” Stefan said at last. “To me, too.”
She spread her arms out by her side and lay back on the lush grass, staring up at the sky. The last wisps of cloud had been blown away. It was a clear, cool evening and the stars shone out from the heavens like iced crystals floating upon the night air.
“This is wrong, isn’t it?” she said wistfully. “The skies on the eve of battle should be full of storms and torment. This is too—too perfect.”
Stefan sat in thought for a few moments longer, then stretched out beside her to share the view. “Let’s enjoy it while we can,” he said. “Try to savour the sight as though it were our last.”
They lay side by side, tracking the slow, steady motion of the heavens in silence. Eventually Stefan pointed to the sky in the east and said: “Do you know what that one is?”
“The constellation? No. Tell me.”
“That’s the Sword of Jewels,” Stefan said. “Legend says it was worn by Taal when he slew the Hounds of Chaos and freed the world from captivity. And there,” he said, “to the left, you see? That’s Ulric’s Staff.”
“Sometimes I dream of the stars,” Elena told him. “And of the other worlds far away, beyond the sky. Do you believe there are such places?”
“Yes,” Stefan said. “Maybe other worlds just like this one.”
“Strange thought,” Elena murmured. “I mean, that there might be two other people, just like us, at this moment looking down upon our world from somewhere up there!”
“Strange indeed,” Stefan agreed. Elena twisted round and propped herself on her elbows, turning her face towards Stefan’s. He could smell the wine, warm and sweet on her breath. “Do you think those other worlds are at war too?” she asked him “Do you think the struggle continues, even in the heavens?”
“I don’t know,” Stefan replied. “But somehow I imagine that it does. Not just here, but everywhere. A struggle that has always existed. And always will.”
“That sounds like a battle that can’t ever be won,” she said, quietly.
“I’d rather think of it as a battle which we must never lose,” Stefan replied.
Elena sighed. “I suppose that’s why we’re here,” she said. “Why we’ve all risked our lives to get me to a wedding with a man I’ve never even met, let alone loved.” She paused, letting her thoughts run on. “But what if,” she continued, “what if Castelguerre secures Erengrad for the alliance, drives the forces of Chaos out? Doesn’t that mean that there would be no need for this marriage?”
Stefan didn’t know what reply he could make. For all that he knew, it was a question without answer. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “What is it you want me to say?”
Elena moved closer to him. “I’m not made of stone,” she said. “You could try sweeping me off my feet.”
Stefan hesitated, then reached out and laid his fingers lightly against the nape of Elena’s neck. Her skin felt like cool silk under his touch. He cupped his hand, gently. As he pulled her towards him, he knew that she would not resist.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Battle for Erengrad
Petr Kuragin bent low over the body of Martin Lensky, trying to staunch the blood flowing from the arrow wound to his chest. It was useless. The ostler was dying. There was nothing more Kuragin could do to save him, nor to stem the tide of blood washing down through the city.
Lensky’s breath had been coming in swift, tight spasms as he fought for oxygen, fought for life. Now his breathing suddenly slowed. His eyes opened again, staring up at Petr Kuragin.
“Erengrad is lost,” he said, weakly. “The city will fall.” He started to cough, hollow and dry, the rattle of death already in his throat. Kuragin lifted a beaker of water to the wounded man’s mouth and dribbled a little liquid between his lips.
“The bricks and the mortar may crumble and fall,” he told him. “But that is just a shell. Erengrad is more than that. Erengrad exists as a place in our hearts, and in our souls. Whilst there are men with spirit such as yours, Martin Lensky, then Erengrad can never die.” He looked down at the ostler, took his hand and felt for the vital pulse. Somewhere deep inside him, life held on by the slenderest of threads. Kuragin lifted the bloodstained blanket and drew it up around Martin Lensky’s shoulders. Gradually his shivering subsided a little.
“May the gods watch over you,” Kuragin whispered.
Footsteps drummed hard on the stone steps of the cellar. Two of his men appeared at the foot of the stair, their buckled and bloodied armour testament to the fierceness of the fighting raging above.
“Time to pull back, sire,” the first said. “The rebels have all but overrun the quarter.” Kuragin raised his eyes and regarded the man quietly. He could see the agitation in the guards’ eyes, the urgency of escape written into their weary faces.
“Pull back?” he said at last. “Pull back to where?”
The second guard took a step forward. “There’s rumoured to be a pocket of militia, well-fed and well-armed, holding out in the south of the city,” he said. “If we can break though the cordon of scum that have blocked off the quarter, there’s a fair chance we can make it through.”
“We have to leave, sire,” the first man repeated. “Now.”
Kuragin thought about it. His own wounds had left him feeling light-headed, dizzy. The words tumbled around his numb, aching head. Rumours. Pockets of militia holding out. He suddenly felt very, very tired. He didn’t feel like running anymore. And of one thing he was sure. He would not fail Martin Lensky again, not whilst he yet lived.
“Go with my blessing,�
�� he told them. “Take as many of the other men as you can muster.”
“What about you, your lordship?”
Kuragin stood up, with some difficulty, and drew his blade from its inlaid silver scabbard. He lifted the sword up, so that it glinted in the thin rays of sunlight penetrating from the street above. “I still have this,” he told them. “And I still have Erengrad in my heart.” He beat his fist twice upon his chest. “I’m not done yet. Go on, leave me,” he insisted, seeing the two men hesitate. “Something tells me I have business to finish here.”
Stefan drifted out of sleep into the waking day, roused by the sounds of life around him and the bitter chill bite of the morning air. He stretched one arm out behind him. The grass at his side was smoothed flat, but empty. The events of the night before were still fresh in all his senses, but of Elena there was now no sign.
He got up, dressed, and breakfasted off what he could find, mostly nuts and scraps of overripe fruit. There was food enough stowed within the camp, but it was mostly destined for Erengrad, should they ever reach their destination. Provisions for the men on the ground were adequate, but spartan.
Once he had eaten, Stefan picked his way amongst the canvas awnings of the makeshift camp, searching for his companions. The day had dawned cold and bright, but now dark clouds had drawn a curtain across the sun and the sky hung heavy with the promise of rain. Stefan shivered, drawing his cloak tighter as he went on his way. He came upon Tomas, buckling on armour that Schiller had given him. Stefan called out a greeting, which Tomas returned with a familiar nod of the head. He seemed to have sloughed off years in a few short weeks, and now, standing tall in his hauberk of fine-meshed mail, he looked far removed from the stumbling drunk they had dismissed in Altdorf. Stefan had been wrong about Tomas, and was happy to acknowledge it.
Alexei Zucharov had eschewed all offers of armour from their hosts. When Stefan found him he was standing in a clearing on his own, stripped down to his shirt despite the cold, practising his sword strokes yet again. But this time there was no joking, no horseplay. Battle might have been a game to Alexei, but if so then it was an all-consuming one, a game to the death. Stefan watched Zucharov’s blade scything the air in fast, almost impossibly powerful sweeps. At moments like this, it was difficult to imagine any foe, mortal or otherwise, standing against him.
Stefan repressed a sudden, inexplicable shudder and hailed his comrade. Alexei looked up and acknowledged him without pausing from his work.
“You’ll at least carry a shield with you into battle?” Stefan asked. Alexei stopped and shrugged, sweat soaking through the thin cotton of his shirt. “I don’t know,” he said. “Will you? What you gain in protection you lose in speed. A shield adds unnecessary weight.”
“Maybe so,” Stefan agreed. “But this isn’t a street brawl we’re going into. Axes and spears can make short work of flesh and bone.” He lifted one of the shields, running his hands over its irregular, leaf-shaped edge. “I’ll take some protection, I think,” he said. Zucharov shrugged again, and tossed his sword casually from one hand to the other. “That depends,” he said. “Depends whether you’re there to defend, or to attack.” He grinned at Stefan. “I know what I intend to do.”
Stefan felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Bruno at his side. If Tomas had grown in stature on their journey, then Bruno, since the Forest of Shadows, had shed a burden. He looked stronger and healthier than he had for months.
“No need to ask you where you stand on armour,” Stefan commented, noting the burnished breast plate strapped to Bruno’s chest. Bruno laughed. “Sharpened steel doesn’t agree with me,” he said. “I was reminded of that by our beastman friends.”
Stefan looked down at Bruno’s left arm. The bandage had gone, but he still carried it stiffly. “Will it be all right?” Stefan asked.
“Good enough,” Bruno affirmed. “As long as I remember my limits.”
Somewhere towards the heart of the camp, a bugle sounded.
“What’s that?” Zucharov asked.
“Summoning the men-at-arms,” Bruno said. “Castelguerre is about to make his address.”
“We should hear this too,” Stefan said. “Come on.”
They joined the mass of men crowding towards one end of the field, jostling each other for a better view of their commander. Stefan worked his way towards the front with Bruno and Alexei at his side. Once they had found their vantage point, he scanned the faces standing round them. There, not far from where Castelguerre was due to speak, he finally saw Elena, standing by Schiller’s side. It took Stefan a moment to recognise her, strapped into light armour and with her hair pulled up beneath the cusp of a steel helm. Elena looked around and their eyes met. They exchanged a silent greeting, warm, but with a distance that seemed to come from both of them. Something had changed since last night, even if neither of them were yet ready to acknowledge it.
“Here’s Castelguerre,” said Bruno, nudging Stefan in the ribs. Stefan pulled his gaze away from Elena as the bulky figure of the commander mounted the steps of the platform. A loud cheer rippled across the mass of men as Gastez Castelguerre climbed into view. Castelguerre stood in silence for a few moments, allowing the applause. Then he raised one arm aloft, calling the gathering to silence. He scanned the massed ranks, as though making contact with each and every individual, and forging an unspoken bond. Battle-hardened though he was, Stefan felt his pulse begin to race.
Castelguerre’s voice rang out across the shimmering field of armour and steel.
“Today we stand at the precipice,” he told them, “Today we defend not just Erengrad, but all that is good, proper and just. If we triumph on the field of battle today, we shall have inflicted a wound upon our enemy such as he will not easily forget. But if we fail—” He paused, looking across the ranks again, letting the moment sink in. “If we fail, then the curtain of darkness may start to fall across all of the Old World.”
Stefan watched the faces of the men standing nearby in the crowd; comrades known and unknown. He saw the expressions on their faces: excitement, elation, fear and foreboding as the burden of duty began to bear down upon them. Their faces reflected what was in his own heart. Those were his emotions, too.
“Some of you will return victorious from the field of battle today,” Castelguerre continued. “You’ll return with heroes’ tales, and a valour which will long outlive the span of your mortal lives.” He bowed his head, as though in prayer, then looked up once more. “Some of you will never return. For you, the gods have decreed that this shall be your last dawn. If so, then meet the Fates with equanimity. For yours shall be a glorious end, long remembered in the histories of the Old World.”
Stefan glanced at his comrades. Bruno, impassive but resolute. Tomas, staring down in quiet contemplation of the hours to come. Zucharov, his eyes ablaze, already anticipating the taste of victory. And as for him, what fates awaited? Stefan closed his eyes briefly, and the Forest of Shadows closed in around him once more, whispering of things he had not yet seen. Somewhere ahead, the road forked. He opened his eyes, and nodded an affirmation to his friends. The future was waiting for him.
“For the victorious amongst you I have one final word.” Castelguerre continued. “Drink from the cup of victory, but do not drink too deeply. Ranged against you on the field of battle you will find all manner of men and beasts. Some will be horrible to the eye, some, perhaps, may appear wonderful.
“Do not be tempted to plunder the bodies of the dead. No swords, no shields, helms or bows. Not the smallest ring or trinket. The poison that has shaped your foe exists in every fragment of his being. Let it lie. Let it rot with them in the cold earth.” Castelguerre raised himself up. His piercing stare seemed to reach into the soul of every man standing before him. “Do not, I beg of you, let Chaos claim you by stealth.”
A fat drop of rain fell from the darkening skies, striking Stefan upon the face. A second followed it quickly, then a third and a fourth. Bruno gazed up to the heavens th
en turned towards his comrade.
“The gods are weeping, Stefan,” he said.
“Aye,” Stefan agreed, quietly. “Let us hope it is for joy.”
The thunder of hooves and metal upon the shaking earth built steadily towards a crescendo inside his head. Varik leant back in the saddle, drunk on the sounds and smells filling his senses. He watched the mighty army driving forward, clouds of ochre dust rising in their wake. For the moment he was Varik no longer: he was Nargrun, Nargrun the mighty, Nargrun the invincible. The primeval lust for blood coursed through his body, and he was relishing every delicious moment of it.
Looking down upon his army—strong, mighty, unyielding in purpose—it seemed inconceivable that any force of man could stand against them. They would reach Erengrad before noon. Then, at last, the tide of blood would surely flow.
His scouts had already brought back news of the mercenary horde gathering at Mirov. The alliance was pinning its hopes upon preventing the might of Kyros from breaching the walls of Erengrad, rather than trying to defend the city from within. So be it. Let them add their blood in tribute to the tide. He did not fear battle, and he did not countenance defeat. It would be as it was the last time he, Nargrun, joined battle on Kislevite soil. The soldiers gathered at Mirov would have no more chance of stopping them than the villagers of Odensk, those many years ago.
Varik reined in and turned his horse to look back at the army spilling across the barren plains of Kislev behind him. Most wore clear allegiance to Kyros and his master, the Great Lord of Change himself. But the other gods—Khorne, Nurgle, and Slaanesh—had paid their tribute as well, their servants swelling the ranks of the great army of death. They might serve different masters, but, for this day at least, all were joined in one common cause: to strike at the sickly body of the Old World where it was weakest, here, on the western edge of Kislev.
He had already decided to kill Rosporov and those loyal to him at the first opportunity, regardless of whether the count kept his promise to deliver Erengrad. One way or another, he would be redundant by the time they had breached the city gates. Worse than redundant; whilst he lived he would remain a threat, a schemer with claims upon the patronage of their Dark Lord. Rosporov’s death would leave only one pretender to Kyros’ throne.
[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad Page 28
