[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  The crowd parted in front of Elena as she moved towards the platform. “It’s true,” she replied. “We are guilty. Guilty of allowing Erengrad to run to ruin. Guilty of allowing scum like you to gain a foothold. Both our families are guilty of devoting themselves to a petty family feud, whilst the city fell apart around them. But I am here today to put an end to that feud. To reunite our city.” She paused. “The blood, Vladimir Rosporov, is on your hands alone.”

  A murmur spread through the crowd as they listened to Elena’s words. Reason began to prevail over the madness.

  Petr Kuragin looked upon Elena’s face for the first time as she reached the front of the crowd. As their eyes met, Elena nodded towards him just once.

  Stefan fingered the knife in his pocket. There would be little chance of aiming a clean throw at the count before he could move against Kuragin.

  Rosporov turned to address Elena. “The people have no love of you, Elena Yevshenko,” he called out. “What do you have to offer Erengrad except for your excuses?”

  Elena slipped the chain carrying the silver icon from around her neck and held it aloft. “I have this,” she said. A gasp went up in parts of the crowd as the Star of Erengrad was recognised. “With it I pledge my life towards healing the wounds that have scarred our city.”

  “Empty words,” Rosporov scoffed. “On its own the icon is useless.”

  “But it’s not on its own,” Stefan said, now raising the second piece above his head for all to see. “We have two parts of the Star, and soon we will have the third.”

  Rosporov gazed out across the sea of faces, seeking out Stefan. Stefan met his gaze. “Surrender yourself to our mercy, Rosporov,” he called out. “Erengrad will never yield to you now.”

  For a moment all was silent. Smoke curled from the brazier of burning coals, an emblem of the fire-ravaged city. Vladimir Rosporov took a step back, and took stock of the world taking shape around him. The tide of feeling turning against him in the crowd. The black-sashed soldiers of his Scarandar, there to die at his command. The beaten but still unbowed face of Petr Kuragin that stared at him with unremitting defiance. And Elena Yevschenko and her champion in the heart of Katarina Square. The would-be conquerors of Erengrad.

  His own journey of conquest had all but run its course. Soon he must wake from his dream. But, in this last moment, he still held the dreams of thousands within his hands. All eyes in Katarina Square were fixed upon Count Vladimir Rosporov. He reached to his neck and lifted the third segment of the Star of Erengrad high into the air.

  “This is what you have travelled so far to claim?” Rosporov turned the piece in the sunlight. He walked towards the brazier, then turned to face the crowds. “This? It’s just a worthless fragment.” He smiled, and let the icon fall into the flames. With his other hand, he pulled an iron from the fire and lifted the circlet of steel, already glowing red-hot, into the air.

  “Now,” he said. “It’s time for our coronation.”

  The ache in his arm where the bracelet pressed tight against his flesh had not lessened. Indeed, a pulsing pain now ran through Alexei Zucharov’s body, rising through his arm to end in a steady hammer beat inside his head. And yet his entire being seemed to have been energised, filled with an all-empowering life, the like of which he had never experienced before. This was life, pure and undiluted. Everything else, he now realised, had been mere facsimile.

  The tattoo upon his wrist was still growing. No longer contained by the narrow band of gold, it had begun to extend, upwards towards his shoulder, down towards his wrist. Alexei stared at it from time to time as he approached the distant city. Gradually, dimly at first, he was coming to know it for what it was. A mirror upon his soul, and the source of his power. The living pictures growing upon his flesh celebrated his past. Every deed, every life harvested by his sword was there. Over time, as the tattoo came to map his body, it would describe his future, too. His future, and the countless other deaths that that future held.

  There might once have been a time when such a prospect would have appalled him, but Zucharov was struggling to remember it now.

  So much seemed different. So much of his old life being sloughed off, like a snake shedding its old, desiccated skin. There were voices inside his head, talking to him. Some he recognised, others he did not. At times he thought he heard a woman’s voice, calling him, calling him back. He struggled to find the name that would connect with a recollection that now seemed so distant. Natalia, yes, that was her name. Natalia. The name had been important to him, he remembered that much. But there was so much more to think of now. Zucharov shrugged the voice off, and thoughts of his sister fell away, fading into the deep well of memory that was the past, the old life.

  Every so often Alexei looked up, towards the city. There, he knew, his purpose lay, even though its meaning had grown blurred and indistinct. But soon enough, his path would become clear. For there was another voice, sweet and insistent, rising and falling with the hammer beat inside his head now. He did not know it yet, but this was the voice he would learn to call his master.

  He came at last to the city walls. People passed by him on all sides. Alexei regarded them coldly, without favour or pity. Most of them belonged amongst the weak, but it was weakness without importance or significance. They did not interest him. Most met his stare only briefly, then turned away. Those few foolish enough to stand in his path, he dealt with.

  His head was beginning to clear. The cacophony of conflicts unresolved was slowly being sieved away. Purpose; clarity of vision; all was moving into focus.

  Zucharov stopped, looked around him. He was inside the city walls but he did not know why. But the world was changing, that much he did know. It might take time, but like time itself, it could not be resisted.

  In the distance, a bell tolled, faint but insistent. Alexei Zucharov located the direction of the sound and turned towards it. Progress was measured and steady; nothing in the bedlam unraveling in the streets around interested or distracted him. He paused only once, to glance at the tattoo spreading across his skin. He looked down, and watched the future being rewritten.

  Stefan hurled himself towards the rostrum as Rosporov’s men dragged Kuragin to the middle of the stage. Kuragin was struggling for his life, but beaten and weighed down by the shackling irons; he was lost. Rosporov held the ring of glowing steel aloft, and bowed in mock servitude.

  “Behold the Prince of Erengrad,” he called out. “Long may you reign in the pits of Morr.”

  Stefan screamed out in fury, but his path was blocked by a cordon of Scarandar. Stefan set about them like a man possessed, scattering them with a flurry of blows from his sword. He knew he would not reach the platform in time. Rosporov knew it too, and the smile on his face was that of a final, bitter victory.

  “Stefan, get down!”

  Stefan had just a moment to turn and see Bruno behind him before his comrade aimed the knife over his head towards the stage. Rosporov was faster than either of them could have expected; he seemed to see the blade cut through the air, and pulled back from its path in time. The knife skimmed past Petr Kuragin and buried itself in the throat of one of his captors. As the Scarandar fell from the platform, Petr Kuragin dug deep for one final surge of strength. He brought his arms together and lashed out at the second guard, smashing the shackles into the man’s face. As the guard staggered back, Kuragin leapt from the rostrum to freedom.

  A roar went up from the watching crowd, and, in that moment, Rosporov’s spell upon the people was broken. The Scarandar in their midst were better armed, but they were heavily outnumbered. The retribution of the people was swift and bloody.

  Stefan now had just one point of focus. “Take care of the Scarandar,” he shouted to Bruno and Franz. “Rosporov’s mine.”

  The count was running towards the far edge of the platform. Whatever the mood of the people, there was no guarantee that he might not yet escape if he could lose himself within the crowds on the square. Stefan was determined t
hat would not happen. As Rosporov prepared to jump clear, Stefan flung himself onto the platform, bringing down the smaller man. For a moment he had Rosporov pinned down, seemingly at his mercy. The count looked up at Stefan, his blue eyes radiating a cold hatred.

  “I put a price upon everything,” he spat at Stefan. “And, I promise you, the taking of my life will cost you dear.” Stefan had no desire to swap words with Rosporov. But, as he reached for his knife, a blow from out of nowhere punched into his stomach, sending the weapon spinning away.

  Rosporov hit him again, hit him with a force that Stefan would scarcely have believed possible. Stefan reached for his sword, but Rosporov anticipated him. The blade was forced from his grasp. Stefan launched himself upon Rosporov before he could aim another blow. But this was no longer the slight, almost frail man of only moments before. Now Stefan found himself locked in a murderous dance with a fury who seemed to draw down fresh energy even as Stefan’s exhausted body weakened. Rosporov’s skewed, seemingly puny arm wound itself around Stefan’s throat, and began to lock tight.

  “Never trust your eyes to tell you the truth,” Rosporov taunted him. “The world is full of deceptions.”

  Stefan levered himself free of the choking embrace, only for the count to strike him a third time; a hammer-punch to the chest that knocked Stefan halfway across the platform. Now Rosporov had Stefan’s sword. Smiling, he closed in on his victim.

  Stefan twisted his body away as Rosporov scythed down with the sword, wielding the heavy blade as if it carried no weight at all. The steel bit into the wooden frame of the platform, an inch from Stefan’s face. He aimed a kick at Rosporov and caught him square in the gut, but it seemed only to feed his manic rage. Stefan regained his feet. Rosporov aimed the sword again, and this time made contact. Stefan felt the numb chill of the steel cut between his ribs. He staggered back, blood already flowing fast where his hand was clamped against the wound.

  Rosporov surveyed his work with satisfaction and positioned himself to strike one final blow. Stefan looked around him. The dagger was gone, Rosporov had his sword. He took a step back and fastened both hands upon the only weapon he had left.

  The hot metal of the brazier seared his skin at the very first touch, but, somehow, Stefan held on. As Rosporov swung the sword a final time, Stefan dragged the glowing brazier from the ground, and hurled the fiery mass of coals into the face of his opponent.

  For a moment there was silence. The air filled with smoke and the pungent odour of burning flesh. The smoke cleared to reveal Vladimir Rosporov still standing, his hands covering his face. When he lifted his hands away the flesh was raw and blistered, but the same evil light still shone, undimmed, through his eyes. The mutilated figure started to move, turning, slowly, towards the front of the stage. Stefan took up his sword from where it had fallen, and drove it up through the air into Rosporov’s body. The count toppled forward, into the crowd. The people of Erengrad fell upon the body, beating it with clubs, fists, anything that came to hand. Vladimir Rosporov would not rise again.

  The Scarandar had been put to the sword. Bodies of the cultists lay all across the square where the people had taken their revenge. Most of those that remained were upon their knees, begging the protection of Franz Schiller’s men. Most, but not quite all. Three of the black-clad figures, the strongest of Rosporov’s guard, had fought their way clear of the crowd, and were trying to escape. Stefan shouted a warning to his comrades, but knew it was almost certainly too late.

  The bid for freedom was short-lived. As the men reached the outer edge of the square they were confronted by a figure coming the other way. A figure with sword in hand, mounted upon a towering horse.

  “Sigmar’s toil!” Stefan exclaimed. “It’s Alexei.”

  Alexei Zucharov gazed down at the retreating Scarandar with disdain. Unable to get around him, the three men launched a last, desperate attack. Alexei brushed them aside like vermin, then brought his own blade to bear like a butcher cleaving a carcass. The Scarandar fought for their lives, fought like madmen against the towering figure upon the horse. But they were facing a greater madness; an impassive, chilling madness that cared only to destroy, or else be destroyed. Zucharov lashed the Scarandar with his blade, impervious to any blows they aimed in reply. The screams of the Scarandar filled the square, and then subsided. Three bloodied bodies lay motionless at Alexei Zucharov’s feet. The battle of Erengrad was at an end.

  Leaning on Bruno for support, Stefan made his way over to Zucharov. “By the gods, Alexei,” he declared. “You certainly pick your moments.” He grinned. “No complaints, this time.” He reached up his hand, offering his congratulations. Alexei did not take it.

  “Running to save their skins,” he said, as if by way of explanation. “They were weak.” His voice sounded distant and remote. He seemed barely to recognise either of them.

  “Are you wounded?” Bruno asked of him. “Do you need help?”

  Slowly, ponderously, Alexei looked around him. “I am strong,” he said.

  “Come on,” Stefan said. “Let’s get you down off that monstrous beast.” He reached up a hand once more. This time Zucharov backed away, and, as he did so, Stefan caught sight of the gold band upon his arm, and the rainbow bruise that lay beneath.

  “What in the name of—”

  Zucharov quickly drew back his arm, masking the disfigurement. With his other hand he lifted his sword, and seemed about to swing it at Stefan. At the last moment, he froze, the sword hanging suspended above his head. He looked down from the horse upon his comrades, and a glimmer of recognition animated his features.

  “Stefan,” he said, uncertainly. “Stefan?”

  “Come on,” said Stefan, urgency in his voice now. “We’re going to get you some help.” Alexei Zucharov looked down from the horse and shook his head slowly from one side to the other. “No,” he said at last. “I am strong.”

  Zucharov turned his horse about and looked down upon his comrades. The light of kinship seemed to flicker briefly again in his eyes, then died. He moved his head, slowly, from one side to the other, as though in sorrow or regret, and picked up the reins of his horse.

  “Stefan,” he repeated, and then: “Goodbye.”

  Stefan shouted out Alexei’s name, but Zucharov was gone, the crowds parting in panic before the great horse as it gathered pace across the square. Stefan turned back to Bruno. “We have to find him,” he said. “I don’t like what I saw at all.”

  “We stand no chance of catching him on foot,” Bruno pointed out. “Besides,” he glanced down at Stefan’s bloodied tunic. “There’s more important things for you to be worrying about. Don’t worry. He won’t go far.”

  Within the hour, Katarina Square had filled to overflowing. Word of Elena’s return had spread through the ravaged city like wildfire, kindling fresh hope amongst the people. For the moment at least, expectation, not fear, hung upon the air.

  Back upon the rostrum, Stefan turned towards Petr Kuragin. As he looked upon the bruised and bloodied face of his lover’s husband-to-be, Stefan suddenly found he was without words, drained equally of strength and emotion.

  “Are you all right?” he said at last.

  Kuragin shook Stefan’s hand as firmly as his own strength allowed. “I’ll live,” he said. “What about you?”

  Stefan touched one hand to his ribs where the wound had been freshly bandaged. “I’ve had easier days,” he conceded. He looked around the square. “What now?” he asked.

  “Now,” Kuragin said, “we must wake Erengrad from this nightmare.”

  Elena joined them on the platform. Her expression suggested there was little to celebrate.

  “After all this, they may have won,” she observed, bitterly. “If Rosporov succeeded in destroying the last part of the Star, then all may still be lost.”

  Petr Kuragin moved his head as far as he dared in a shake of dissent.

  “No,” he declared, stubbornly. “This must not have been for nothing.” Slowly, face contor
ted with pain, he climbed down upon his knees and began to sift through the charred debris scattered across the platform. At last he found what he was looking for. Petr Illyich Kuragin rose again to his feet, a smile beginning to light his battered features. In his hand he held the missing segment of the Star.

  He brushed away the last of the ashes from the battered icon and rubbed it gently between his hands. “Not destroyed,” he said, his voice still blurred and unsteady. He closed his hand around the silver fragment, the smile on his face broadening. “By the gods,” he said to Elena. “It’s not even hot from the fire.”

  He turned to face the crowds, holding the icon high above his head. Cheers, murmurs of astonishment and even applause began to ripple through the square.

  “Like Erengrad itself, the Star may be tarnished,” Kuragin declared, “but it will still endure!”

  “The three parts of the Star,” Stefan said. He held out his segment, matching it against those held by Elena and Petr. The silver pieces appeared to fuse together into a single, seamless whole. Stefan waited, perhaps expecting something dramatic to follow. When nothing did, he felt vaguely foolish and disappointed.

  “This good will cannot be trusted to last,” Franz Schiller warned, indicating the waiting crowds. “You must declare your alliance before the people soon, or the tide may turn again.”

  Stefan took a step back from Elena and Kuragin. This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. “Come on,” he said to Bruno. “We should leave the stage to them.”

  “Just a minute, please.”

  Stefan met Petr Kuragin’s gaze. “I want to thank you,” Petr said. “I understand it is mostly thanks to you that Elena has completed this great journey. All Erengrad is in your debt.”

  Stefan felt awkward in the other man’s presence, awkward and oddly aware that the Petr Kuragin of his imagination was much bigger than the man now stood before him. Although the stockier of the two, Petr was a full head shorter than he in height. Funny, Stefan reflected, how things are rarely as you expect them to be.