CHAPTER EIGHT

Enemy Within

 

 

Petr Illyich Kuragin gazed down upon the map of the Old World spread before him, and sighed. The map was recent; two or three years old at most. As was customary, the map had the land of Kislev set at its centre, its borders drawn in strong black lines, solid and secure. The names of the great cities—Kislev, mighty Praag and Erengrad itself, stood out in rich, tooled script, proud and impregnable. He found himself wondering how much longer that the Kislev of the map would exist.

It would survive at least as a memory, as a place in his mind, so long as he survived, he supposed. How long would that be for? The Kuragin mansion, set high upon the hill overlooking the heart of Erengrad, was fortified and well guarded. For now, it seemed he was secure enough. Erengrad itself was another matter.

He stood up, and gazed for a moment at his reflection in the mirror. What he saw did not greatly comfort him. The face staring back at him had grown fat with good living over the years. Now deprivation was leeching it thin. His skin had begun to droop down in folds around his face, leaving it like a crumpled, empty sack. He grimaced, scraping his thinning hair back from his face. In a few weeks he’d have taken on the look of a cadaver.

“You’re getting old,” he said to himself, quietly. “Old and tired. Tired of this miserable struggle.”

Wearily, he returned to the map and located the foreign city that lay far to the west of Kislev. He stared at the name: Altdorf. He tried to visualise the place, struggled to fill the city of his imagining with colour and life. No images came. It hardly mattered. He doubted he would ever go there. Perhaps he would never set foot beyond Erengrad again, not in this life.

He placed a battered locket on the map next to the point where Altdorf was marked. He opened the locket, as he had done often in the last few weeks. The face of a young girl stared confidently out at him. What would she look like now? Try as he might, he could make no connection between the portrait and the living, breathing woman he had pledged union with.

Apparently they had been introduced once—he a young knight, Elena Yevschenko barely more than a child. Had he been able to see into the future, might he have said to her at that first meeting, “One day we shall be wed” She probably wouldn’t have believed it then. He wasn’t sure he believed it now. Altdorf was a lifetime away. Who knew if the first daughter of the House of Yevschenko was really on her way back to Erengrad? And, even if she was, what difference would it make? He feared that Erengrad was dying, that their efforts to save it would prove too little, too late. The alliance between their two once-great families—and the restoration of the city—had rarely seemed less probable.

“One day we shall be wed, and Erengrad will be saved.” He laughed, but with bitterness, as he spoke the words out loud. Now that time was running short, it seemed like clutching at a last desperate straw. A straw that had nonetheless come to stand for Erengrad’s last hope.

He walked out upon the walled ramparts of the Kuragin mansion and looked down upon the city. Like a nobleman brought low by ill luck, Erengrad retained its grandeur, but the scars of strife were unmistakable.

From high upon the battlements, Petr Illyich Kuragin could look out beyond the tall granite walls that encircled the city. Those walls still held firm. The forces of darkness had learned how difficult it was to break a city from without. Not even the might and sorcery of Chaos had been enough to breach the fortress at Praag. The dark ones knew that force alone would not suffice. They had suffered the wounds of Praag, and learned from them.

This time, it had been different. Instead of battering against its walls, Chaos had curled itself around the very heart of Erengrad, tightening around it like an invisible serpent. A blight had taken hold of the city, within and without. Crops had failed; food had rotted and decayed where it lay in store. Strife and discord had displaced unity and peace. While the rulers of Erengrad set against each other in their petty squabble, the people had begun to sicken, and to die.

Petr Kuragin looked down into the sprawling mass of city streets below. Dotted here and there, he saw several grey bundles of rags that had not been there the night before. The sight was becoming so commonplace that it was an effort to remember that these were once people, men and women with homes and families, lives cut short by famine, sickness or bitter feud. This was where the real battle of Erengrad was being fought. The people were starving for food and starved of leadership, pitted against each other like dogs as, day by day, the life of the city leaked away. All the time the serpent lay in wait, tightening its coiled grip, whispering lies into the ears of the weak and the needy, words that would turn brother against brother, family against family. This was a hidden war of attrition, and it was a war that his city was losing.

He tugged the chain around his neck free of his tunic and gazed at the dull silver icon. At times like this it seemed laughable to believe that this—this and some giggling schoolgirl he could barely remember—could possibly turn the tide of darkness threatening to engulf his city, his land. But he had to hope, and he had to believe, for without that belief, there would be nothing left. He bent his head and placed a kiss upon the Star in a moment of silent prayer.

He felt a touch, light upon his shoulder. He turned to find his manservant standing before him. He shook himself out of his reverie.

“I’m sorry, Dimitri, have you been there long?”

The old man bowed his head in deference. “I didn’t want to disturb your thoughts, highness, but there’s someone here to see you.”

“Someone?” Petr felt his heart take an absurd leap of hope for a few moments before he realised, from the look upon Dimitri’s face, that this visitor was not the bearer of good tidings.

“A visitor,” he said, more soberly. Dimitri inclined his head. “It is Count Vladimir Rosporov,” he went on, without emotion. “He begs that you might spare him a few minutes for an audience.”

Count Rosporov. Kuragin had no doubt that he had come bearing the fruits of temptation as his offering. If that was so, then he would get the same short answer he had received on each of his previous visits. Petr Illyich would gladly have thrown Rosporov bodily from the ramparts and let the wild dogs feed on his carcass. Such was the parlous state of politics in Erengrad now, however, that he knew he had little choice but to receive him.

“Show him in,” he said, curtly. Dimitri nodded and turned to go.

“Oh, and Dimitri—” the old man paused in mid-step, waiting. “I was just noticing—” Petr Illyich went on. “You’re looking so thin these days. Are you still managing to get enough to eat? Surely we have enough food in store?”

Dimitri smiled, sadly, at his master. “I wasn’t going to mention it, sir,” he said. “But you’ve grown more than a little thin yourself these past few weeks.”

His master nodded. “It’ll do none of us any harm,” he said. “No doubt we’ve all been allowing ourselves to grow too fat in the good years, eh?”

“No doubt, highness,” Dimitri replied. The old man looked kindly upon his master, but the same sad look still burned in his eyes. “Shall I show the gentleman in now?”

Petr Illyich Kuragin swallowed hard upon his pride and his hope. “Yes,” he said. “Show him in.”

 

Deep within the cold, dead realm of Kyros, Varik bowed his head in the familiar posture of submission.

At length, his master chose to address him.

“Erengrad has still not fallen. The Star is still not in our possession. What news do you bring me that offers better tidings?”

The emissary took a deep breath. Familiarity with his position had not lessened the terror he still felt each time he submitted to the mercy of the Dark Lord. Kyros was known for many things, but pity was not one of them. On a whim he could inflict pain upon a disciple every bit as cruel and excruciating as the punishment meted out to his enemies. Pain that, though it lasted but a few seconds, would be experienced by the sufferer as an eternity of torture. The emissary prayed that his master was not in one such mood this day.

“We do not have the Star, yet,” he conceded, weighting his words carefully. “But each day draws us closer to the place where it may be found.”

The blackness enfolding him deepened. The temperature in the chamber crept down further. The emissary shivered involuntarily as he sensed the presence of Kyros move closer. “The Kislevite woman continues to travel east,” he said, “towards the cursed citadel of Middenheim. There a priest waits for her. He is the second guardian of the Star. But my servant will ensure that the icon is delivered to us.”

“Is this your strategy, then?” the Chaos lord asked. “To let this woman and her followers roam freely until a time of your choosing?”

Varik paused. He knew the importance of the answer his master sought of him. “I do not presume to make such choices,” he replied. “My strategy is to honour the divine majesty of the greater god. As for freedom, that is only illusion. The Kislevite and her people are mere puppets. Puppets that may dance only so long as your pleasure allows. They may be crushed at your will, like insects.”

“That is as it should be,” Kyros affirmed. “Almighty Tzeentch shall decree when the icon shall be given over. Until then you must be certain that the Kislevite and her mercenaries have no knowledge of the identity of your servant amongst them.”

“They are masked from the eyes of the Kislevite,” Varik said. “Not even our minion itself fully glimpses what lies within its soul.”

He hesitated. “However, all things are transitory. We may not be able to rely upon them for much longer.”

“Once the segment is secure that will not matter,” Kyros replied. “Once we have the two parts of the Star your servant may be destroyed. We will have no further use of him, nor of the Kislevite and her familiars.”

The emissary bowed lower. “It will be done, magnificence,” he promised.

Kyros’ voice took on a harsher tone. “This in itself is not the end,” he reminded Varik. “Until we have all three parts in our possession the Star is worthless metal. What of the third and final part?” he demanded.

“It still rests with the Warlord of Erengrad,” the Emissary assured him. “Petr Illyich Kuragin is a proud, stubborn man. But he is only mortal. He has neither the strength nor the will to resist us indefinitely. Soon, either by persuasion or by force, he will capitulate.”

The emissary looked up, cautiously. He hoped his words had found favour. He could still see nothing of Kyros in the darkness, but the cold prickling running the length of his spine told him that the presence of the Dark Lord was very close indeed.

“Varik,” Kyros said. The emissary sat bolt upright in shock, so rare was it for his lord to address him directly by that name.

“Magnificence?” he asked, unable to suppress the tremor in his voice.

“Winning Erengrad is all to me,” Kyros told him. “If you are the instrument of that conquest you shall be richly rewarded.”

The emissary bowed until his forehead touched the cold ground. “You are all-bountiful, magnificence,” he whispered. He tried to move his head and found it weighed down by an irresistible force, as though a shield carved from lead had been laid across it.

“But fail me in this,” Kyros continued, “and you will beg Morr in vain to free your soul from torment.”

The force bearing down on him intensified until, suddenly, it was gone. The emissary raised his head, and a pale light infused the surroundings of the chamber.

The emissary clambered to his feet, and retreated, backwards, from the room. “I devote my soul to your service,” he muttered, humbly. “I shall never fail you.”

 

* * *

 

They had travelled on, deep into the dark interior of the Drakwald, hope and despair riding with them as equal companions. Since leaving the site of the well there had been no further sign of the mutants; they had been able to progress unhindered by anything other than the now-familiar obstacles of the forest. But, as what daylight remained began to give way to dusk, Stefan began to question whether they would ever come across the settlement hidden within the woods.

Otto’s map referred to it only as “Jaegersfort”—a small, well-fortified encampment where hunters could take refuge from the perils of the forest. A hand-written note confirmed the position of the settlement upon the map was no more than approximate—it was a place that featured on no known trading route, one that few outside the forest would ever visit. There was no way of telling for sure what kind of reception they would find at Jaegersfort, or whether there would be food and water there. More to the point, there was no way of telling whether they were going to locate their destination before night fell. In fact, there was nothing to tell Stefan whether it truly existed at all.

As the hours had worn on through the day, spirits amongst the travelers had begun to ebb. Surviving the ambush would count for little if they were now to perish from cold and hunger in the unforgiving, dark heart of the forest.

Now, suddenly, where before there had only been the steadily deepening hues of the dying day, there were lights. No more than half a dozen in number, barely enough to penetrate through the gloom, but it was undoubtedly the glow of lanterns that they could see.

“Jaegersfort?” Bruno asked.

“I don’t see what else it could be,” Stefan replied. “Let’s get a bit closer. Take it steady.”

The travelers dismounted and walked their horses toward the source of the light, careful to keep sound of their approach to a minimum. The settlement was indeed small—little bigger than a trading post—and bounded on all sides by a stockade built from the trunks of trees. As far as they could see, there was just a single point of entry—a door cut into the timber wall, with a narrow slit through which to observe the outside world. A wide trench had been dug around the outer edge of the wall, presumably to deter intruders. And, atop of the wall, mounted on iron spikes driven into the wood, a further reminder for those still inclined to try their luck.

Alexei stared up at the line of severed heads, most of them rotted beyond all recognition, and smiled.

“Fond of their privacy, I reckon,” he murmured.

“So would you be, if you had to survive out here,” Stefan replied.

“Either way,” Bruno said, “It doesn’t look as if they’ll be extending much of a welcome to the likes of us.”

Alexei turned to Stefan. “What do you think?” he asked. He drew out his sword. “Shall we talk our way in with this?”

“I doubt that’s going to work,” Stefan said, appraising the size of the task facing them. “The place is built to keep worse than us out. We’ll need to try and convince them we mean no ill.” He looked around at the faces grouped behind him. All of them looked tired, hungry—and desperate.

“There’s no guarantee that they won’t try and cut us down as soon as we get within range,” he said. “Any volunteers?”

The reply, when it came, was softly voiced, and from the least likely quarter.

“Yes,” Lisette said, quietly, “I’ll go.”

 

Petr Kuragin heard the door to the room open. A face appeared, reflected in the mirror in front of him. Kuragin slowly turned to confront his visitor.

Count Vladimir Rosporov held out a hand in greeting, exposing his right arm, withered and leeched pale by past disease. Rosporov smiled. It was a smile equally without warmth or malice, but it spoke of the confidence of one who knows his victory is close at hand.

“My dear Kuragin,” Rosporov began. “I do declare you’ve been starving yourself. A man in your position really should set a better example to his people.”

“The city’s starving,” Kuragin replied. “The crops have all failed. What’s left in the storerooms is blighted or rotting. Or perhaps you hadn’t noticed.”

Rosporov bowed deferentially. “You should have said before,” he murmured. “If I’d known you were in difficulties I would have arranged for provisions to be sent over.” He flexed the smile again. “You know, even in these times of hardship, little luxuries can be found.”

“Don’t bother,” Kuragin replied, curtly. “I’d rather we just got to the nub of your business, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Please,” the count insisted. “Let us call it our business.” He indicated a chair. “May I?”

Count Vladimir Rosporov took a seat and settled himself upon it. He was dressed carefully, as befitted a champion of the people. His clothes were clean and tolerably well cut, but drab in colour and shorn of frills. He wore his hair cropped short and his beard neatly trimmed. His appearance suggested a modest man possessed of a sober soul. A man who had shrugged off his noble birth to take up the common cause. It was, Petr Illyich had to admit, a good disguise. Good enough for the people to have started following the self-styled “Preacher of Reconciliation” in ever-growing numbers. Good enough for the head of the House of Kuragin to be obliged to grant him audience, however distasteful that felt. Good enough for Petr Illyich Kuragin to have grown increasingly fearful for the future of his city.

“Tell me, Petr Illyich, what is it you hope for the people of Erengrad?”

“I hope that they may yet prosper and prevail,” Kuragin replied, his voice unwavering. “And that they find common cause against the pestilence that afflicts us all.”

Rosporov smiled, as though amused by Kuragin’s response. “Quite so,” he said. “But what if the common cause turns out not to be that which you champion?” he asked. “What if the plague you speak of is, in fact, none other than the crippling alliance with an Empire which has leeched Kislev dry for generations?”

Petr Illyich laughed, sardonically. “Don’t waste your seditious speeches on me, Rosporov. Your words may play well with the confused, with the weak. With those brought so low that they begin to lose their reason. But not here, not now, not ever!”

Rosporov rose from his chair and went to the window. The streets were quiet for the moment, the loudest noise from below the howling of the wild dogs, a sound that had become almost incessant over the past days. “Do you know,” he said, “I heard it said the other day that people in Erengrad will soon be dying faster than they can be buried. Do you think that can possibly be right?”

“And whose fault would that be?” Kuragin demanded. Politics or not, he would have this wretch thrown out.

“You live in the past,” Rosporov snapped, his mask of civility slipping momentarily. “You and your family, wedded to your wealth and your cosy alliance with your parasitic ‘protector’.” He glared at Kuragin. “You talk of those weak of mind. You talk of the goodness of the alliance, and the ‘evil’ of Chaos.” The count paused, and took a breath. His voice regained its measured, reasoning tone.

“Do you know how some speak of Chaos, my friend? They say that, far from being evil, Chaos is the eternal, the life-force of the universe. It is the force of change and renewal, the hub upon which the wheel of all existence turns. Resisting it is like the twig in the river resisting the force of the tides.”

“You could be burned alive for that heresy!” Kuragin thundered.

Count Rosporov resumed his seat and smiled deferentially towards his host. “These are not my words,” he countered, mildly. “I only report what I hear. I presume to represent no one but the good people of Erengrad,” he said, humbly. “And I ask only that you consider the whole picture, without prejudice, before you condemn them to a continuation of this slow death.”

Kuragin swore under his breath. How far had the serpent spread its honeyed venom through the city? How many good men, brought low by hunger and fatigue, had had their minds turned against the truth? And how would the tide be turned?

“You didn’t come here to talk politics,” he snapped. “And you’re wasting your time if you have. What do you want?”

“I come to make you an offer,” the count said simply. “Or rather, to repeat an offer already made. You have something I am interested in acquiring.”

“The Star of Erengrad is not for sale,” Kuragin told him. “Even if it were, do you think I’d be insane enough to sell it to you?”

“Why not?” the count replied, sanguinely. “After all, the single piece you own is worthless in its own right.”

“And equally worthless to you,” Kuragin retorted, angrily. “So why the continued interest?”

“I have friends,” Rosporov continued. “Connoisseurs, if you like: collectors. They are confident of acquiring the first and second segments. They will need only your single piece for the Star to be complete.”

“Get out,” Kuragin spat, his patience finally exhausted.

The count stood, and gathered his cloak around him. “I am able to offer you enough gold to make you a very rich man,” he said matter-of-factly. “With it you could escape the city and make for yourself whatever life you wanted in the world beyond Erengrad.” He paused and stared coldly at Kuragin. “Or you can choose to sit here and wait until the walls of the Kuragin mansion are reduced to rubble, and your miserable icon is plundered from your rotting corpse. I thought you were a man capable of making an intelligent choice. Perhaps I was wrong.”

Petr Kuragin drew his sword. “I granted you free entry to this house,” he declared. “That invitation has just expired. Get out, and don’t return on pain of your life. You will never have the Star of Erengrad, neither whole nor in part.”

Count Rosporov bowed in mock servility and walked towards the door. “A shame,” he said. “You’ll probably not live to see yourself proved wrong.”

He paused in the doorway and turned to face Kuragin a last time. “My friends are already sure of the first two pieces of the Star,” he said.

“And, I promise you, they will not be kept waiting for the third.”

 

It was only with the greatest difficulty that Elena Yevschenko could be persuaded to let Lisette venture on her own towards the fortified stronghold that was Jaegersfort. As for Stefan, it was a duty that he had been prepared to take on alone, but in the end he, too, was persuaded. If anyone could appear to offer no threat to the people within the stockade, then it was surely Lisette.

The tiny Bretonnian maid looked very small indeed as she walked towards Jaegersfort. As Lisette reached the edge of the ditch that encircled the fort, Stefan felt Elena’s hand in his own, her nails biting into his flesh. She turned, her face flushed and met Stefan’s gaze. “She’s precious to me,” Elena said, by way of explanation.

“It’ll be all right,” Stefan told her, realising at once that he had no idea if it would. After what seemed like an age, the door in the wall opened. Still no one emerged, but a battered length of wood was pushed out across the ditch, forming a bridge. After only a moment’s hesitation, Lisette stepped across it and disappeared behind the door.

What must have been another eternity for Elena passed before Lisette re-emerged, smiling and beckoning towards her companions.

“Praise the goddess,” Elena said, expelling a sigh of relief. “We’re safe.”

They led their horses inside the walls of the stockade, towards a bare, sparsely lit space with a cluster of low buildings at its centre and what looked like sheds or stables nestling around the sides.

A single figure dressed in a tattered green shift beckoned them forward, towards the nearest of the three structures in front of them.

“We come in seek of food and shelter,” Stefan began to explain. “Once we have those—”

The man gestured towards the building with one hand and pulled open the single door with the other. “In there,” he muttered. “You can tether the horses outside.”

Stefan stepped across the threshold of the wooden building, and into another world. His senses were immediately assailed by the babble of what sounded like dozens of voices raised in conversation, and through the thick, smoky haze that permeated the room, an equal number of faces. The place was full to bursting with men eating, drinking, smoking, and talking.

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.”