CHAPTER FOUR

Warriors

 

 

A sense of anticipation had infused the air since early evening, fuelling the intoxication of the crowds flowing through the streets. There was a smell that went with it, indescribable yet unmistakable: the smell of excitement, fear and hope all mingling into one. Tonight was the night of the festival games, the crowning point of Sigmarsfest, and it seemed that all of Altdorf had turned out to celebrate it.

Stefan reached the Imperial arena of Altdorf less than an hour before midnight. The games had been in progress for almost three hours: a procession of pageants and ritual battles re-enacting the heroic past of the Empire. The arena was all but full, close on ten thousand people packed together inside.

Stefan followed one of the tunnelled passageways that cut through into the interior of the vast stadium. He was surely anonymous amidst the countless spectators, yet, not for the first time that day, Stefan had the uncomfortable sense of being observed. He drew the hood of his cloak up over his head and hurried inside.

In view at the tunnel’s end lay the great open space of the arena. High, curved walls stretched skywards on all four sides of the vast square, topped by seated galleries above the tiered rows of terraces. The steep banks were a sea of blurred faces, and the air resonated with the sound of ten thousand souls in full voice. Stefan stepped out from the shadow of the tunnel into a cauldron of heat and adrenaline.

He climbed the steps to the upper tier of the gallery and found a seat amongst a gaggle of traders swilling wine and noisily arguing the details of a wager. They had been betting on who would survive the night on the field, Stefan surmised, and who would not.

One of the traders, much the worse for drink, turned to Stefan as he took a seat, and acknowledged him with a nod of the head. “You’ve missed the best of it, mate,” he slurred. “The Araby crusades, Vampire Counts, the lot.” He offered Stefan a drink from his flask, and belched expansively. “More dead than you could load on a barrow tonight.”

Stefan smiled, and declined the flask politely. He wasn’t here to lose himself in drink, or to watch history being re-enacted for that matter. “Don’t worry,” he assured the man. “I think the best is yet to come.”

The dense pall of smoke carpeting the base of the arena gradually cleared to reveal the field of combat, an expanse of bare white stone, unadorned save for iron grilles set at intervals across its face. Minutes before, the field would have been strewn with the bodies of the dead: adventurers wagering their lives or prisoners brought from the Palace of Retribution, hoping against hope to survive the night and win their freedom. The bare white stone had been cleansed of their blood, ready for the night’s final act.

A distant clock struck twelve as the last debris from the Battle of Hel Fen was cleared from the field of combat. The noise from the crowd, which had been rising steadily, now dropped away until something approaching a total, eerie calm hung over the entire arena.

Now the night would reach its climax. The games would close with a battle selected for its special significance. A drum roll echoed across the night. Armed soldiers of the Imperial Guard took up position all around the borders of the arena, forming a human shield between the crowd and the battleground. The drum pounded on, a doom-laden sound.

A gate on the east wall was suddenly flung wide and an enormous figure sprang out under the lights. Dark, heavily muscled, and at least seven feet tall, the figure bore aloft a shield and broadsword that most men would struggle even to lift from the ground. Its huge head was encased inside a horned steel helmet, covering all of its face except for a single, narrow slit for the eyes.

The warrior-figure moved fast, with little grace, but with a commanding sense of violent purpose that drew an awed response from the watching crowd. Stefan recognised the monster for what it was immediately: an orc, and a giant amongst its kind at that; a warboss at the very least. Only a madman or a hero would step inside the ring with such a creature loose.

The soldiers guarding the rim of the arena drew their swords, bracing themselves in case the orc tried to break through the cordon. The towering beast moved its iron-clad head from one side of the field to the other, seeking out any possible point of weakness. Even with the odds at thirty to one, it was an intimidating spectacle.

Now a corresponding gate on the west side was raised, and another figure emerged. The second warrior was tall and powerfully built, but unmistakably a man. He wore light armour of the sort designed for fast combat. It might deflect a blow, but it would not save his life. Against the bulk and weight of the heavily armed orc, it looked very, very fragile.

The armour rendered the human warrior unrecognisable, but Stefan had no doubt of who it was. This was the moment he had been waiting for. This was the man he had come to watch. If Bruno Hausmann was the ally that he would value above all others, then this was the man he would fear most as an enemy. Only a madman or a hero, Stefan reflected again. Or a man that had something of both.

Emblazoned upon his breastplate the warrior wore the insignia of the white eagle carrying a wolf between its talons. It was the livery of Magnus the Pious, and the battle they were about to watch would depict his fateful struggle with the forces of darkness at the gates of Kislev. It seemed to Stefan to be an ironic and fateful choice.

The orc bellowed rage and hatred at his opponent as it prepared to avenge a long captivity. The man bearing the colours of Kislev’s champion drew his sword, and stood firm upon his ground as the orc charged. Stefan knew that the soldiers had no role to intervene in the combat itself. The warrior would face the orc alone.

Man and beast met in the centre of the arena with a thunderous clash of steel. Fiery sparks showered the night sky as sword smashed against shield, blow following upon blow. Stefan remembered the orc chieftain he had fought and slain in the howling winds above Stahlbergen. Remembered how close he had come to losing his own life on that freezing day high in the Grey Mountains. This time the outcome would be no less uncertain.

The crowd in the arena screamed in unison as the orc launched its first savage attack. That his human opponent was brave was already beyond doubt, but it seemed far less certain that he could withstand the sheer power of the orc attack. It was as though the green-skinned beast was channeling all its ancient hatred of the human race into the thunderous blows it now rained down upon the one, lone figure. The man staggered back, desperately trying to remain on his feet. If he fell now, it would be over.

The man fell back, stabbing repeatedly at the orc’s left flank with short thrusts of his sword. Several of the blows must have found their mark, yet the orc seemed oblivious to any wound inflicted. The rage boiling inside the beast had dulled what little pain it might otherwise have felt.

Suddenly the orc found clear space for an attack and swung its heavy steel blade in a rapid arc. The sword caught the champion beneath his breastplate. The armour sprung free, clattering to the ground. The man fell, knocked off balance, and only narrowly avoided a second crushing stroke of the sword falling upon his prostrate body.

The orc was slower than his human opponent, but it showed no sign of tiring. The knight had regained his feet and was wielding his sword skillfully, but to little noticeable effect. Blood from the creature’s wounds ran in dark streams across the arena floor, but nothing seemed to hurt it or diminish the fury of its attack.

The orc seemed uninterested in defending itself, almost as if it was inviting the knight to attack, to burn up what little must be remaining of his strength. They may act stupidly, Stefan reminded himself. But that’s not the same as being stupid.

The champion stumbled, dropping down upon one knee. Exhaustion, as much as the orc’s relentless attacks, seemed to be about to overpower him. The orc threw aside its heavy shield and unfurled a length of mesh fastened at its belt. A cruel net to snare its prey, fashioned from coarse, barbed steel. The creature cast the net one-handed but with awesome power. The man rolled sideways out of its path, but the crowd cried out as one as the champion’s foot became entangled in the web. The orc bellowed a sound that was half triumph, half contempt for a defeated adversary. It started to haul the net back in, dragging its struggling foe across the floor of the arena like a captured animal.

The crowd fell silent, sensing the moment of horror approaching. For the first time, it struck home with Stefan that he may have come to watch a comrade’s death. Then, somehow, the champion worked his leg free. He caught hold of the mesh in both hands and pulled back, tugging the huge orc off balance. The orc let go the net and lifted high its sword, preparing to run its opponent through with a single killing stroke.

As the orc loomed over him, the knight lifted a foot up into the middle of the creature’s body. Not in a kick, Stefan suddenly realised, but as a lever. Digging deep into reserves of strength that Stefan could only marvel at, the man fastened a grip upon the creature’s arms and heaved it bodily through the air. In the same movement he pulled himself back to his feet. Within a few brief seconds the position of the protagonists had been reversed.

The orc stared up at its opponent in dumb confusion. The change had been executed too quickly for it to comprehend how it was no longer the victor.

The warrior offered the orc no opportunity to reflect, stabbing his sword down two-handed into the creature’s chest. As he pulled the weapon clear, the orc lifted its head, in agony or in final desperation. The warrior tugged hard upon the horned crest of the orc’s helmet, exposing a thick expanse of green-leathered neck. Then he swung his blade, two-handed, and in a single, scything movement, hewed the creature’s head clean from between its shoulders.

For a few unreal moments the head rolled, like a gore-spattered ball, across the floor of the silent arena. Then the sound often thousand voices exploded in celebration in the night air over Altdorf. The Feast of Sigmar had been brought to its conclusion.

Stefan’s neighbour turned towards him, his puffy face bleached white from shock. “Sweet mercy of Ulric,” he said, awe-struck. “You don’t see that every day.”

“Indeed,” Stefan replied. If he’d had any lingering doubts before, they had been dispelled. “Indeed you don’t.”

Now, he knew, this was the man who must ride with them.

Stefan hadn’t waited for the closing ceremonies to begin. He had left his seat at once and fought his way through the scenes of revelry until he reached the quiet recesses of the arena, a world well away from the crowds and the glare of the lights, a place where the players upon the stage would prepare themselves, ready to meet whatever fate the gods had ordained. Doubtless there would be many in the vast crowd who would dearly wish to be where he was now, to be able to see, perhaps even touch the man who had relived Magnus’ great victory over the greenskin hordes.

But it was business, not homage, that had brought Stefan here. The self-same business that had occupied his mind since his meeting with Otto and Elena.

After the maelstrom of the arena, the interior of the tent seemed very quiet, almost sombre. He pulled back the canvas flap and looked inside, waiting as his eyes attuned to the darkness. The tent was plain and unadorned, like that of a soldier. The only sign of the heroism that had gone before hung suspended on a chain beneath the wooden frame. It was the orc’s horned helmet. Stefan stepped past it, noting that the contents of the trophy had been removed.

The tent had one occupant. A man with his back to Stefan sat before a small square of mirrored glass, dabbing at the cuts upon his face with a camphor-gauze. The champion’s garb had been removed, leaving a simple cotton shift over tattered and bloody breeches. Without turning around, the man addressed Stefan.

“I hope you enjoyed the evening’s entertainment.”

“I don’t know if enjoy is the right word,” Stefan replied. “But I was certainly impressed.”

The man turned about, moving out of the shadow. Light illuminated the clean-shaven, strong-boned face of a man in his late twenties. His complexion was dark, his eyes the deep colour of storm-tossed seas. He wore an expression that radiated confidence, complete assurance. The look of a man who knew what he wanted, and how to get it.

“Stefan Kumansky,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

When he stood, he bettered Stefan’s six feet by all of half a head, his height and bulk making Stefan appear almost slight by comparison. He offered Stefan his hand in greeting. “I take it this isn’t a social call,” he said.

Stefan smiled. “I’m looking for swordsmen,” he replied. “Good ones—the best.” The other man lifted his weapon, the blade burnished bright once again after the night’s battle.

“How many swordsmen?” he asked.

“No more than two,” Stefan replied.

His companion’s deep, searching eyes registered no surprise. “Two only? Who else do you have in mind?”

“I wanted Bruno Hausmann,” Stefan said. “But I may as well be honest with you. He won’t join us.”

The other man nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I heard our brother-in-arms lost his appetite for adventure after our little escapade in the mountains.”

Stefan made no comment. Loyalty to Bruno outweighed any other thoughts he might have on his comrade’s decision. “Whether it’s two of us or three, what’s important is that I find the right men,” he said. “Men I can trust. Men who fear no adversary.”

The other man lifted his sword towards the helm suspended from the roof of the tent, turning it under the light. He stood for a moment, as though distracted by its brutal beauty.

“Tell me about the mission,” he said at last.

“It’s probably better I tell you nothing, not here,” Stefan said. “But if you’re interested to hear more, then I can take you now to meet a man who can tell you all you need to know.”

His companion prodded the helm with the point of his sword, setting it swaying like a pendulum. A shadow shaped like the head of some grotesque beast swooped across the canvas of the tent. “Tell me one thing, then,” he demanded. “Will it be dangerous?”

Stefan reflected for a moment. “Yes,” he replied. “As far as I can tell it will be very dangerous indeed.” The other man set his sword down and fixed Stefan with a wide smile. “In that case,” he said, “it’s time that your friend was introduced to Alexei Zucharov.”

The black carriage sat waiting for them on a road near the approach to the arena. The door swung open at their approach, and drove on as soon as Stefan and Zucharov were aboard. They were heading up the hill, away from the centre of Altdorf and the palace. Stefan shot a quizzical glance towards Otto. “Where are we headed?” he asked.

“A short ride only,” Otto replied. “Somewhere out of the way. Somewhere discreet.” He shook his head slowly and fanned his face with the brim of his hat. He looked tired tonight, tired and old. “Where we’re headed will be safest,” he added. “Well, safer, at least. I don’t know—” he looked around the carriage at his fellow passengers and smiled, almost apologetically. “Perhaps when you start seeing shadows even in the Palace of Retribution it’s about time to give it all up.”

Alexei Zucharov raised an eyebrow at mention of the dread Halls of Justice, but said nothing. Stefan turned his head towards the window of the carriage, trying to get a glimpse through the narrow-slatted shutter. He thought again about his sense of being watched, that evening, and earlier in the day.

“Anyway,” Brandauer continued, addressing Zucharov now. “I understand you enjoy taking risks, sir?”

Alexei fixed his gaze, steady and unblinking, upon Otto. Stefan sensed that the question amused him slightly. “I suppose that’s true,” he replied.

“Is that always such a good idea?” Brandauer continued.

“Why not?” Alexei responded. “I’m handsomely rewarded for my risk-taking.”

“Perhaps,” Brandauer agreed. “But somehow I doubt that you measure your reward in silver or gold.”

Alexei Zucharov smiled. “It’s true I don’t do what I do because it earns me money,” he said. “Though money I do undoubtedly earn.”

“Your father is one of the richest silver merchants in Altdorf,” Brandauer stated. “You’ve no need to earn your keep through swordplay, or by any other means, for that matter.”

Zucharov turned toward Stefan. “You’ve briefed your patron well,” he said. “He seems to have the very essence of me.” Stefan shrugged, obliquely. There had been nothing he could tell Otto about Zucharov that he did not know already.

“I know what I need to,” Otto replied. “That’s my job.”

Alexei released the smile again. He seemed in no hurry to tease out the details of the assignment he was about to be offered. The promise of danger seemed enticement enough.

“Very well,” he replied, after some thought. “I live the way I live because I choose to do so; because I can. And if there are risks, well, then I choose those too. Anyway, is not all of life risk? None of us can say with certainty how the gods may play.”

Brandauer nodded, thoughtfully. He rapped lightly with his staff upon the glass partition separating them from the driver. The carriage slowed to a halt.

“I told you our journey would be brief,” he said. “We can all step down now.”

Stefan emerged from the carriage to find himself outside the Blue Feather, a small inn in a quiet district of the city. It was a place he rarely had occasion to visit.

He started making for the door of the inn. A fair-sized crowd of drinkers were still inside, most of them, as far as Stefan could make out, noblemen or the wealthier breed of tradesman.

“Not that way,” Brandauer told him, “in here.” He indicated a door off one side of the inn. He knocked once upon the panel and the door was opened. Brandauer led the way inside, past a maid dressed in a neat black and white smock, and up a short flight of carpeted stairs.

The upper floor of the inn was cramped, with a low ceiling that shelved towards one end. Stefan, and particularly Alexei, had to bow their heads to pass through. They entered a narrow corridor that led off from the room. As they walked down, one of the doors leading off opened and a young woman stepped out. The girl pulled a flimsy gown around her otherwise naked body and cast a cool, appraising eye over the three men as she snaked past them down the corridor. The girl arched one plucked and painted eyebrow as she registered Stefan.

There was a moment’s silence as she swept past, then a roar of laughter from Alexei Zucharov. “It’s a bawd-house!” he exclaimed. “A bordello!”

Still laughing, he clapped a hand upon Otto Brandauer’s shoulder. “What’s the idea?” he asked. “Some kind of prize or inducement? Thanks for the thought, old man,” he said. “But I can find my own sport, and I don’t need you or anyone else to pay for it.”

Otto Brandauer shrugged the hand off. He was in no mood for joking. “Astute observation,” he muttered, a faint sarcasm in his voice. “It is indeed a bordello. In other words, a place that looks after its clients without prying into their business.”

He opened a second door further down the corridor. “In here,” he said.

Inside, a table had been set with three glasses and a flask containing only water. Candles placed upon the table had been freshly lit.

Stefan had half expected Elena to meet with them, as she had done on that first night, but there was nobody else in the room. Looking around, he felt a brief flicker of relief, mixed, perhaps, with just a little disappointment.

Otto read the question in his mind. “She won’t be coming,” he said. “Until it’s time, I’m keeping Elena out of the way as far as possible. In any case,” he added, “it’s probably better if we aren’t seen together too much. People make connections.”

He bade the two of them sit. “I wasn’t at the games tonight,” he told Alexei. “I’m not so much interested in what you can do with your sword. I know that Stefan can vouch for that.” The older man laid a finger against his forehead.

“What really interests me,” Brandauer continued, “is what goes on in here.”

“So,” Alexei replied, a smile playing upon his lips. “Now you’re going to examine me, to make sure I’m absolutely sound, is that it?”

Otto smiled, too, but there was no humour in his words. “There are no absolutes in this world, my friend,” he said. “And there are no certainties.”

Alexei’s face darkened, momentarily. He looked at Stefan and Otto in turn, then laughed. “Well, anyway,” he said, “You’re rather assuming your offer will be to my liking.”

“Yes,” Brandauer agreed. “I rather am.”

 

It was past midnight before Brandauer left them, and when Stefan and Alexei made their way down to where the more routine business of the inn was still in full flow.

“By the gods!” Alexei declared. “All this talk of adventuring has worked on my thirst. I’d ransom my soul for a draught of decent beer!” He moved towards the door leading into the bar of the tavern, but Stefan pulled him back.

“Not here,” Stefan said. “I’m not so familiar with these parts. I’d be happier drinking somewhere where we know the lie of the land.” He turned in the direction of the back streets that led towards the hub of the city.

“Keeping company with a Kislevite noblewoman will be intriguing,” Alexei said. “Something of a beauty, is she?”

Stefan thought of Elena’s intense, questioning expression, her chiseled, almost severe features. “Not a beauty, maybe,” he said. “But she makes an impression right enough.”

“And what will you do about Bruno?” Alexei asked. Stefan shook his head.

“Nothing more,” he said. “Bruno has made his decision. He says it’s final.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Alexei commented. “So few things in this life are ever final.”

Stefan was about to reply when he caught the sound of footsteps on the cobbled street behind them. He put a finger to his lips, signaling to Zucharov. The steps quickened as whoever was behind them broke into a run. A voice called out: “Stefan! Stefan Kumansky!”

Stefan looked around to see a figure hard on their heels, a half-finished pot of beer still in one hand. It was a man probably ten years Stefan’s senior, with a loping gait and fighter’s physique that was now fast running to seed. The man pulled up just short of Stefan and Alexei, and scraped a plume of greasy hair back from his face.

Stefan recognised Tomas Murer at once. He’d ridden with him on several occasions in the past, and there’d once been a time when Tomas had held a sound reputation amongst the swordsmen of Altdorf. That time, however, was long past. It was clear Tomas had come from the bar of the Blue Feather, and from the look and sound of him, it seemed likely he’d been there for quite some time.

Murer raised an arm in greeting, spilling yet more of the beer.

“Stefan!” he shouted again. “Stefan, old friend!”

Stefan forced a smile, though he was far from delighted to meet Tomas. This, at best, was bad luck.

Murer looked around at his new companions, beaming at them. He fixed Alexei with a stare and stabbed a finger towards him.

“Alexei Zucharov, am I right?”

“Absolutely right,” Alexei concurred. He shot Tomas a look of ill-disguised disgust. Tomas continued to look pleased with himself.

“By the gods, Stefan, I’m glad to find you here,” he said.

“Why have you been following us?” Stefan demanded.

“I haven’t, Stefan, I swear.” He pointed back towards the lights of the Blue Feather. “I was drinking in the tavern with some mates from the old days. Saw you come out. What luck! I’d been hoping to run across you.”

Stefan regarded the newcomer in silence for a few moments. Murer was amiable enough company when he was sober, but that was all too rare of late. Stefan decided to get shot of him as quickly as possible.

“We’ve business to discuss here, Tom,” he said. “What is it you want?”

Tomas spread his hands wide. “Business!” he exclaimed. “Exactly that. That’s what I wanted to talk about too. Business.” He drained what was left of his beer and slammed the empty mug down to smash on the cobblestones.

“Won’t beat about it, Stefan,” he said. “Need some work, find a gang to ride with.” He pulled a grimy-looking blade from his pocket. “Time to give the old girl some exercise again. What do you say?”

Stefan exchanged glances with Alexei. “I’d say, what makes you think anyone is riding anywhere?” he replied.

Tomas turned from Stefan to Alexei and rolled his eyes in a look of exaggerated incredulity.

“What do you take me for?”

“A drunk,” Alexei replied, sourly. Tomas either ignored or failed to hear the remark.

“Two of Altdorf’s finest swords,” he said. “What else do you do but ride? Swords for hire—” Tomas clutched at Stefan’s hand, his watery eyes shining. “Let me ride with you, Stefan. Today, tomorrow, next week. Whenever you go. You need a tracker, a scout, whatever. I’ve still got what it takes.”

Alexei Zucharov sighed, and turned Tomas about to face him. “Show me that knife again,” he said.

Tomas shot him a quizzical look. “Show it to me,” Zucharov demanded again.

“Steady, Alexei,” Stefan cautioned. He was conscious that Tomas had done them no harm, at least as far as they knew. Tomas hesitated. Reluctantly, he reached inside his jerkin and retrieved the knife. The weapon was battered, but lethal enough in its way. Alexei examined it, then handed it back.

“Very well,” he said. “You reckon you’ve still got what it takes. So show me.” He stood back, arms at his side, leaving his body unprotected. Tomas looked around, unsure whether this was a joke.

“Come on,” Alexei instructed him. He pointed to his chest. “Prove it.”

Stefan looked on in silence. He was worried about what Tomas, drunk, might try. And more worried what Alexei would do to him if he did.

Tomas took a step back. Suddenly he looked very sober. “Look,” he said to both of them. “We’re friends, right?”

Zucharov hadn’t moved a muscle. “This isn’t about friendship,” he said, coldly. Tomas glanced around nervously. He had realised he had left it too late to back out. He fumbled with the knife, trying to steady his shaking grip upon the blade.

“I’ve killed more men than I can remember,” Tomas shouted. “Don’t push me, Alexei.” He looked down at Zucharov’s hands hanging, motionless, at his sides. They were nowhere near his sword. A ghost of a smile flitted across Tomas’ face. For a second he made as though to put the knife back inside his pocket.

Then he attacked. Lamplight shone off the steel blade as he plunged it towards Alexei’s body. The knife never reached its target. In an instant Zucharov had grabbed hold of Tomas’ arm and twisted, slamming him down face first upon the ground. With his other hand he snatched the knife from Tomas’ grip and brought the point of the blade against his throat. Tomas looked up at him, dazed.

“Tracker?” Alexei sneered. “You couldn’t track a three-legged dog in your state.” He let go of Tomas, and threw the knife down on the ground by his side. “Go home and sleep it off.”

Tomas stared at up first at Alexei, then at Stefan, his face red with shame and anger. “Go home, Tom,” Stefan counseled, softly. “This is no place for you.”

Tomas glared back at him, then snatched up the knife. He clambered to his feet and stumbled away down the street without another word.

“There was no need for that, Alexei,” Stefan said at last. “He was a fair soldier in his day, and a good scout, too.”

“His day is long over,” Zucharov snapped. “Anyway, what was he doing lurking around back there? Maybe I should have finished the job—just killed him outright and be done with it.”

“You’re over-reacting,” Stefan told him. “Tom Murer props up the bar in half the taverns in Altdorf. It was just coincidence, that’s all.”

“Coincidence?” Alexei muttered. “There’s no such thing.”

“I wouldn’t have let you kill him, Alexei,” Stefan said. “I wouldn’t have let you do that.”

The two stood staring at each other in silence. The comforting warmth of the tavern seemed suddenly far behind them. Then Alexei’s mood seemed to lift. He clapped Stefan upon the shoulder and grinned. “Ah, you’re probably right,” he laughed. “He won’t even remember where he’s been in the morning. Now, let’s find us that ale house.”

Stefan hesitated for a moment, his mind still mulling over the incident that had just passed. He decided to let it go. “The Cutlass might be open,” he said at last. “They’ve enough strong beer to blunt even a thirst like yours.”

Zucharov laughed again. “I doubt that’s possible,” he said. “But I’m willing to give it a try.”

The two men walked on, seeking some warmth in the cold hours of early morning.