CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Holding On

 

 

From amidst the endless wastes of grey eternity, Lord Kyros looked down upon the narrow span of light that marked the mortal world. A part of Kyros, too, had once been mortal; one human life fused in the myriad soul of the mighty being that Tzeentch had created as his champion.

Kyros had no feeling for humankind. No feeling for those, like the Scarandar, who served his purpose, nor for those who would oppose it. All of them were but pawns, flesh figurines on the chequered board upon which the struggle between light and dark raged, a war without end.

Kyros had no doubt that victory would finally be his. But, for now, he tasted disappointment. Varik had disappointed him; his promise to destroy the Kislevite and secure the icons had proved hollow. While the Star remained outside his grasp, Erengrad might yet hold out. Kyros savoured the stirring of anger for an instant, then cast it from him, a disposable and unnecessary weakness.

He had watched Varik through the throes of his death, an unexpected transformation for the servant who had believed himself as immortal as his master.

Death would be a just reward for his emissary’s failure. Kyros could let him die, or he could yet free his spirit to serve him anew. The seconds of Varik’s death agonies spanned hours or days in Kyros’ universe. All in good time, he would decide upon his disciple’s fate.

Like a blind man, the Chaos Lord sensed rather than saw the events unfolding in the corporeal universe; smelt the ebb and flow of the energies as the struggle turned first one way and then the other. He knew that the girl had escaped him for the moment. Varik had underestimated the Kislevite. Underestimated, too, the pack of mercenaries, and the proud defiance of their leader.

Kyros peered deep into the fabric of the mortal void, trying to pluck a face or name from the clamour below. Somewhere, the paths of their destinies had crossed before. An image swam into focus: a village in flames, a boy fighting with unexpected savagery. Kislev, the sea crashing against its coastline. And a name: Odensk.

Odensk. Memory flowered inside the being that was Kyros. With it came a cruel pleasure. So the Kislevite was on her way to Erengrad in the company of the boy from Odensk. That would be the right place for them to die. As for the others that rode with them—Kyros savoured a deepening sense of pleasure, and knew that his god was smiling upon him. Yes, for the others, many futures lay in wait. And, upon one of them at least, the Lord of Change would bestow a special gift. A special gift indeed.

 

Petr Illyich Kuragin had walked until his body and soul had wearied of walking. All morning he had traversed the streets and alleyways of Erengrad, surveying the great edifices and monuments of a city rich with glorious memories. Those memories only mocked him now. The walls of Erengrad, like the hopes he still clung to, were crumbling. Its foundations were rotting away. And its people—sick, hungry and divided in despair—were dying.

Kuragin recalled the day, so many years ago, when he had toured the grand avenues of the city in an open carriage, flanked by his brothers in their finery. Three brothers, barely more than boys, fearless guardians of a dynasty that would last forever. He could still hear the cheering of the crowds that lined the streets, smell the sweet perfume in the blooms strewn along their path.

Now his brothers would lie forever beneath the cold fields of Praag, and he skulked amongst thieves and starving waifs, anonymous in his dung-coloured robes. He hid his face away behind a heavy cowl, avoiding their gaze like a fugitive. The people would not cheer for him now.

At Praag the dark ones had launched attack after murderous attack upon the unyielding walls until the dead were piled high both sides of the divide, and the Lynsk was gorged with blood. Petr Kuragin remembered the time only as a shadow, indelible, upon his childhood. His brothers, Yuri and Alexander, had been barely more than children themselves. But they had been old enough to fight, and old enough to die. The forces of Chaos had paid their price there, too, but they had learnt the lessons of Praag.

In Erengrad the assault had taken a different form. Chaos had laid its siege not with arms, but by sowing the seeds of malevolent change across the city, slowly choking off its lifeblood until its heart would surely fail.

Beyond the city walls to the south, the fields of wheat and barley stretched out to the horizon. Summer would soon approach its peak; the fields, the bountiful larders of western Kislev, should have been brim-full. Instead they had been laid bare, filled only with blight and pestilence. The few crops that had survived lay rotting in the ground.

Inside the walls, the extent of the blight was scarcely less devastating. With a bitterness that bordered on self-disgust, Kuragin acknowledged the guilt that he and his kinsmen must bear. For it was not only the meddlings of Chaos that had brought the city to this forsaken pass. His own family had contributed to the fall. Pride, greed, and simple vanity had brought them down—that and a simmering feud with a family with a shared but opposing thirst for the trappings of power. His family had learnt their humility, just as the Yevschenkos had learnt theirs. But, like all lessons, it had come at a cost. And this time the cost had fallen on the head of every soul within the city.

Every day that passed brought fresh rumours that Erengrad would be saved. Wheresoever Chaos blighted the land, so there came those who would oppose it. Stories were rife of convoys travelling from Praag and Kislev, of wagons groaning beneath the weight of food they carried west. But Praag and Kislev were still weak from the ravages of war, and any promise of help from the Empire seemed distant and weak. The Old Alliance, Kuragin feared, was at risk of falling apart. And even if they came, there was no guarantee that Erengrad would be able to hold together for long enough.

Even time, perhaps, was now on the side of Chaos. How often had it been said that Father Winter would come to Kislev’s aid in times of peril? No creature, it was said, not even the foulest incarnation of the Dark Lords themselves, could survive that bitter season. But, this time, it was different. The people might survive the months of summer, only for cruel winter to finally destroy them. Sick and malnourished, they would die in their thousands.

Could there really still be a chance that the wounds of Erengrad could be healed? Walking the stinking streets of the lower city, listening to the weeping of the people, Kuragin found it hard to believe. Harder still to believe in the healing power of three broken pieces of beaten silver, and a girl who might even now be lying dead, far away from the borders of Kislev.

In the last week alone, more than a dozen city militia had perished protecting the city from rioters. It was a sign that the enemy within was becoming as much a force to be reckoned with as any that might threaten from without. Or perhaps, he reflected darkly, those enemies were now one and the same.

Kuragin moved on, trying to lift his sombre spirits. A crowd had gathered around some spectacle or other at the foot of the hill. Petr Illyich Kuragin quickened his pace, resolved to determine what it might be.

 

Stefan extended the spyglass and scanned the length of the tree-lined valley they had recently crossed. Elena watched him in silence for a few moments, then reached for the spyglass and pulled it away.

“You’ve been checking the path behind us every day since we left Middenheim,” she said, not unkindly. “And in all that time you haven’t seen another soul—man nor beast. Perhaps there really is no one following us.”

They sat side by side on the hilltop. The high path they had been following for the last few days had brought them temporary relief from the endless span of forest. From up here they could see for miles: to the granite-toothed peaks of the Middle Mountains, the dark green expanse of the Forest of Shadows, and beyond, towards the borders of Kislev itself. The land was a patchwork of undulating greens and browns, lit by the gentle hues of the rising sun. From afar the Old World looked very much at peace. Stefan knew it was not so, but, for a few moments at least, he allowed himself to take refuge within that comforting illusion.

He sat back, savouring for a moment the warmth of the sun against his body. The season was changing; the fresh chill of spring had ebbed, and summer would soon be in full bloom. Time was passing: weeks now since they had left Erengrad, and close on two months since their journey had begun, a lifetime away in Altdorf.

How much time had they left to complete that journey? Stefan had no way of knowing. All he knew was that their own resources were growing thin. They had survived the battles, and had endured the deprivations that the gods had cast in their path. But they were tired, and had little money remaining. The purchase of new horses had not left them with much money for fresh provisions.

He retrieved the glass and raised it to his eye a second time. “They won’t need to follow us,” he said at last. There’ll be plenty more of their kind to pick up where the others left off. “Remember Otto’s map?” he asked her. “The map of darkness? Evil is everywhere. Behind us, ahead of us, all around. It knows no borders.”

“You make it sound as though all we are doing is clinging to faint hope,” Elena said. “Clinging to the rock of hope against the black tide. Holding on until we are all swept away.”

“Maybe so,” Stefan replied. “But I know there is as much light in this world as there is darkness. That tide can still be turned. But we have to believe it. Believe it with all of our hearts.”

Elena stretched out her legs on the grass in front of her, turning her bare ankles in the warming sun. “What do you think Bruno believes?” she asked, suddenly.

Stefan turned to look at the figure of his comrade, sitting in solitary contemplation on the hilltop fifty paces away. “I don’t know what he thinks,” he said, and realised he was admitting to himself a truth that he had been trying to deny. A year ago, before Stahlbergen, he and Bruno had been as close as brothers. Together they had carried their swords in battle wherever the gods had decreed. They owed each other several lives; they had shared the joys and sorrows of the soldier’s life on the road.

Now, Stefan realised, Bruno had become a stranger. The man who had come back from the Grey Mountains had filled his comrade’s frame, but was his comrade no longer. In battle, since joining the expedition, Bruno had plied his sword when needed with the indifference of a hardened mercenary. There was no joy in their travels now, but Stefan sensed plenty of sorrow. And something worse.

“Back in the tombs,” he said to Elena, “when those creatures were upon you. I saw what happened. I don’t know why it happened. But I saw it, right enough.”

“You mean with Bruno?” Elena asked. She shrugged. “It’s in the past now.”

“Not for me,” Stefan said. “You could have died because of Bruno. It was as though he had become paralysed by—what? Fear? I don’t know. But the friend I used to know wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Are you saying he’s become a coward?”

“I don’t know what he’s become,” Stefan replied. “But he’s not the same man I once knew, I’m certain of that.”

“You should talk to him,” Elena said. “Find out what’s changed.”

“I’ve tried,” Stefan said. “He treats me like a stranger. Whatever it is that happened to him, he’s built a wall around himself to keep the world out. But I will know what this is about,” he declared. “And before we quit the borders of this land.”

“Perhaps all he needs is more time,” Elena commented.

Stefan sat for a while, watching the man who had been his friend. “You know,” he said at last. “There was a moment back there, in the tombs, when I thought it was him. Thought it was Bruno who had somehow betrayed us to the Scarandar. And I started thinking of what it would be like to have to hunt Bruno down with my own sword. What it would be like to kill him.”

“But it wasn’t him,” Elena replied. “It was Lisette.” In that moment the veil of sadness passed from Stefan to the young woman at his side. Elena’s voice became heavy; her head dropped. For a few minutes they sat in silence, watching Tomas practise his sword-strokes with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy.

“Your judgment was right there, at least,” Stefan observed.

“It was your judgment, too,” Elena reminded him.

They watched as Tomas finished his practice and went to sit by Bruno. To their left, Alexei Zucharov prowled the hilltop like a caged bear. Of all them, he seemed the most anxious to be underway once more.

“What about him?” Stefan asked her.

“What about him?” Elena said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stefan said, “you seemed mighty pleased to see Alexei when he showed up in the tombs.”

Elena turned and stared at Stefan, a puzzled expression on her face. “Of course I was pleased to see him,” she said. “Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Stefan replied. “In a way. But I didn’t feel the need to kiss him.”

“I was trying to put an end to your stupid fight,” she retorted, irritably. “That seemed to be the most direct way to break it up.” She paused, head on one side, looking at Stefan. A slow, knowing smile crept over her face. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Stefan snapped. To his dismay he felt his face reddening under her stare. “I just wondered whether you feel something deeper for him, that’s all. I need to know about these things,” he added, regaining some composure.

Elena smiled at him kindly this time, then turned away to gaze towards the land beyond the mountains. Sitting on the hilltop, her arms hugging her knees, she reminded Stefan of a child at a carnival, eagerly waiting.

“Do you know,” she said at last, “this is the first time I’ve really thought about going home.”

Home. The word sounded in Stefan’s ears. Home. Was that where he was going, too?

“What part of Kislev did you say you were from?” she asked him. Stefan hesitated. “I didn’t,” he eventually replied. “It was called Odensk. At the mouth of the Lynsk.”

Elena looked blank. “What happened?”

“Our village was destroyed,” Stefan said. “It was Norscans, men and mutants amongst them. They might have been headed for Erengrad, I suppose. But they found us first. They slaughtered every living thing they could find. Even the animals in the fields.” He paused, deep in recollection. “That was my first taste of Chaos,” he said. “I suppose you could say my life began anew there.”

He looked up, into her eyes. “What about you?” he asked. “The rest of your family, I mean?”

Elena laughed, but with little warmth or humour. “My family? Let’s not start on that again now.” She closed her eyes. “Let’s just enjoy the sun while we can.”

She let her head fall back until it came to rest, gently, upon Stefan’s shoulder. Stefan felt himself stiffen instinctively and then relax, aware of the softness of Elena’s hair against the cotton of his shirt. Aware, too, of a softening inside him, for a moment at least. It was not a feeling he had allowed himself very often on the long ride from childhood through to his life in Altdorf. A journey he was perhaps now retracing.

He looked up as a shadow fell across them where they sat. The tall figure of Alexei Zucharov loomed over them, blocking off the sun. “Sorry to break up this tender scene,” he said, “but I think we need to get moving now.”

 

He was clever, Kuragin had to give him that. He was working the crowd gathered in Katarina Square with the practiced skill of the street-trader and the piety of the priest. The clothes had changed—just a little shabbier and down at heel than when they had last met. And even the voice had changed; he had somehow managed to make it sound both humbler and yet more strident. And yet there was no mistaking who it was up on the platform, whipping the huddled mass into something approaching a pious frenzy. It had taken Kuragin only a few moments to recognise the sinewy figure of Count Vladimir Rosporov.

The carefully crafted transformation from wealthy noble to man of the people was all but complete. Certainly none amongst the crowd of starving wretches surrounding Kuragin seemed to think for a moment that Rosporov was anything other than one of their own. Petr Kuragin tugged the hood of his garment a little further over his face and pushed his way towards the front of the crowd until he was little more than an arm’s length from his enemy. Then he stood to listen, careful not to get so close that Rosporov might spot him amongst the throng. He suspected that this would be a bad time for his true identity to be made known.

“Brothers!” Rosporov extolled them. “Are we hungry? Are we sickening, are we weak?” At each question the crowd offered up an answering roar that belied the apparent frailty of many of the men and women standing beside Kuragin. Whatever their state of body and mind, he realised, they were angry.

Rosporov raised his hands to the crowd to quieten them. He prolonged the gesture, letting the sunlight play upon the shriveled, pock-marked flesh of his right arm.

He parades his infirmity before them like a badge, Kuragin thought. A badge that says, “I too have known pain. I too am a child of suffering.” Clever indeed.

“Truly, we are dying of hunger,” Rosporov went on. “But who should we blame for the empty ache in our children’s bellies?”

Most of the assembled crowd were silent. Rosporov let the question hang in the air, playing his audience with a showman’s guile.

“Could it be,” he continued, “that the real enemy of Erengrad lies not with some imaginary power lurking out there, but here, right within the city?” A murmur rumbled through the square, gaining momentum as the idea found favour with the crowd.

“Where are our leaders?” Rosporov demanded “What have they done for us? Who are our leaders supposed to be? Two crumbling dynasties, too bloated on the fat of our land to give a thought to the needs of their starving people?” A cheer went up now, ragged but heartfelt, and edged with a thirst for vengeance. Kuragin shuddered.

“Two ancient families, too busy squabbling amongst themselves to care a fig for the city whose honest citizens have sweated blood to earn them their wealth?”

The cheering doubled in intensity. An urge rose up in Petr Kuragin to speak out, whatever the consequences in the midst of the volatile mob. To announce himself to his people; to deny the heresy that Rosporov spun so smoothly. To his shame, he found himself unable to speak, his tongue seemingly locked tight in his mouth. But others—a few—did raise their voices against the tide. One man in particular strode to the front and stood before the platform with his back to the count and his men. Kuragin recognised him. It was Martin Lensky, an ostler from the north quarter, a coarse but steadfastly honest man who would have no truck with double dealing or duplicity. Kuragin was pained to see that he had looked as though he’d lost almost half his weight, and his voice, once lusty, now sounded reedy and thin.

“It’s the meddling of Chaos that’s brought us to this!” Lensky called out, struggling against the barrage of voices rising up around him. At the word Chaos, much of the sound seemed to die down, and a more sober mood fell across the crowd.

“Believe me, friends,” Lensky shouted at them, “if we let Chaos gain a foothold in Erengrad, then before long the living amongst us will envy the dead.”

For a moment there was almost total silence. All eyes, Kuragin’s included, fell upon Count Rosporov, awaiting his response. Again he held the silence until the tension seemed near breaking point.

“Then you have encountered Chaos?” he asked of Martin Lensky, mildly. The ostler shook his head, understandably nonplussed by such a question. The count arched his finely drawn brows, feigning surprise at Lensky’s response. A low muttering spread across the ranks of people in the square.

“But you seem to have such deep knowledge of the so-called Dark Powers,” Rosporov continued. “Or could it just be your empty belly giving you hallucinations?”

He raised one arm to cut off the ripple of laughter that, incongruously, greeted his reply. “Who amongst you has encountered them?” Rosporov demanded of the crowd. “Who can speak the truth of it?”

“I can.”

All eyes now swiveled towards a figure standing towards the middle of the crowd. Kuragin, too, found himself completely drawn to the spectacle. His searching gaze found a small, wiry man dressed in dung covered artisan’s robes. He stood uneasily amidst the crowd, as if waiting an allotted turn to speak. Rosporov, like a kindly teacher, encouraged the man to continue. “Tell us,” he urged, “in your own words.”

The man spoke quickly, glancing around him as he delivered his words. “I was starving hungry,” he said. “I couldn’t stand it no more. One night I sneaked out over the east wall, where the ramparts is lowest, just at the time when the guard was changing. I didn’t know what I might find, nor what I hoped for. Only knew I couldn’t stand the hunger any longer.”

“And?” Rosporov prompted. The silence in the crowd was absolute now.

“I was feverish, mad from hunger,” the wiry man continued. “I don’t know how far I strayed, or what would have become of me, if they hadn’t have found me.”

“They?” the count enquired.

“A body of men. Travelers, I was reckoning. But there were tall swordsmen in black amongst ’em. Men with armour, shields covered in strange runes and the like. I’m an ignorant man, your worship, but I knew what those runes signified, all right.”

“Go on,” Rosporov urged him, softly.

“They had the mark of the Changer upon them,” the man said. Gasps of astonishment broke out around him. “But they didn’t do me no harm.” The man looked around, nervously. “Fed me a meal, then sent me on my way, so they did. First hot food I’d eaten in a week!”

A confusion of voices broke out, some raised in disbelief, some in hope. Petr Kuragin felt a sick chill running through him. Surely they could see that Rosporov had contrived all of this? Surely they could not believe a single word?

But that was just it, the chill told him. We have fallen that low. They want to believe.

Vaguely, he heard Rosporov’s voice running on, teasing out the sham that he was passing off as interrogation, and then the wiry man replying:

“They knew we was starving,” he went on. “Told me they would come to the aid of the city, but the guardians of Erengrad wouldn’t allow it.” Shouts of outrage from the mass. Some voices—Lensky and others—were raised against them, but they were drowned out.

“And, these so-called ‘monsters’—have they launched great assaults against our walls?” Count Rosporov demanded. His eyes were ablaze now, and white spittle flecked his dark beard. “No! I ask you again—who are our enemies here?”

Kuragin turned and pushed his way back through the crowd. Once clear, it was all he could do to stop himself from running. He had stood and listened to it all—every lie and manufactured word of it—and had not spoken a single word in response. Guilt burnt in his chest, but his lips were fastened shut.

 

As the sun began to set, the path started to track down, along the side of the valley, back below the tree-line. Stefan and Elena rode at the rear, Tomas ahead of them trying to converse with Bruno. Alexei Zucharov had taken the lead, impatient to make progress. His thirst for conflict was rarely slaked for long, Stefan reflected. After another hour or so they had reached the point where the road forked. To their right, the clearer, beaten track led away towards the highway linking the Empire with its eastern border. To the left, a lesser trail marked the way up towards the cloud-wrapped peaks of the Middle Mountains.

This was the point the priest had spoken of. Their way lay between these two, a path so overgrown as to be barely visible. This was the way that would lead them to the Forest of Shadows, and beyond, to Kislev.

Alexei, out front, checked his horse momentarily at the fork and then turned briskly onto the road for the mountains. Stefan caught sight of what he was doing and pulled up short. “Wait—stay back with the others,” he instructed Elena. “He’s taken the wrong road.” He tightened his grip upon the reins and spurred his horse into a gallop. Riding at full pace he overhauled Alexei, pulling ahead of his horse then waving the other man down.

“What’s the matter?” Alexei demanded, irritably.

“I wanted to stop you before you went too far,” Stefan told him. “You’re on the wrong road.”

Alexei looked back towards the crossroads he had just passed. “But the other way leads to the border road,” he said. “We agreed that even if the border was still open, the road through would be too conspicuous for us.”

“So we did,” Stefan concurred. “We also agreed that we would avoid the mountains, and take the path through the forest. This is the mountain road.”

By this time Elena and the others had caught up. “What’s wrong?” she asked them.

“Nothing,” Stefan said. “Just a misunderstanding.” Now he was the one anxious to be getting on. He turned his horse around.

“Just a minute,” Alexei said, shaking his head. “There’s no misunderstanding. Or maybe I misunderstood you when you spun us that fool’s yarn about creeping through the Forest of Shadows.”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Stefan said, his hackles now rising. Alexei pulled a face that was half-derision, half-disbelief. “Gods’ breath!” he exclaimed “Haven’t you had enough yet of this infernal tangle of trees?”

Stefan took a deep breath. He would keep his temper under control. “Andreas gave us clear advice,” he said. “He was no fool, no more than Otto. I’m going to stand by his judgment.”

“Oh, come on!” Alexei looked to the others, seeking support for his cause. “Through the mountains we can save two, three days’ travel—maybe more. Who knows how long it would take us to pick our way through yet another vast, impenetrable wood!”

Stefan looked away, his eyes kept fastened upon the path to the east. Bruno and Tomas hung back, but Elena started to move towards Alexei.

“Maybe Stefan’s right,” she told him. “The priest must have had good reason.”

“I know the mountains,” Alexei countered. “Know them as well as any. What’s the problem, anyway?” he asked of Stefan. “Afraid of a few bandits?”

“I’m afraid of no man,” Stefan replied, evenly.

“Have it as you will then,” Alexei said, contemptuously. He gathered up his reins. “You can do what you want. I’m headed for the mountains.”

“No,” Stefan said quietly but firmly, his tolerance exhausted. “No, you’re not.”

As Alexei turned and headed on, Stefan spurred his horse to the gallop, pulling round in front of Zucharov and blocking his path. The adrenalin was pumping through him, his heart hammering in his chest. He was not going to take this.

“I made a decision,” he told Alexei. “If it proves the wrong one, then that’s my responsibility. But it’s my decision and I’m staying with it.”

“Suit yourself,” Alexei replied, his lip curling in a half-sneer. “I’ll see you at the gates of Erengrad. If you ever make it.”

“Turn your horse about,” Stefan ordered. “We ride together, through the forest.”

Alexei seemed to beckon with his hand, a gesture that might have signaled either compliance or disregard. Stefan drew his horse in closer. As he came within arm’s length of the other man, Alexei struck him, hard, on the side of the face.

The blow knocked Stefan clean from the saddle and sent him sprawling upon the flint-strewn ground. He lay there dazed for a moment, blood running from his mouth. As he looked up he saw Alexei upon his horse, towering, imperious, above him.

“I made a few decisions, too,” Alexei said. “One of them was not to put up with any more half-baked nonsense from anyone, including you. You call yourself a leader, and you think that gives you the right to treat me like some errand boy, running at your beck and call.”

Without waiting for any reply, Zucharov tugged back on the reins and turned his horse about. As Stefan regained his feet, Alexei was already pulling away from him, heading for the mountain road. In a few seconds he would be out of reach. Stefan launched himself forward and caught hold of a buckle trailing loose from the saddle. The horse bucked but did not slow as Alexei Zucharov kicked in with his spurs, urging the animal on.

Stefan gripped hold of the leather strap with both hands but it was going to be impossible to hold the powerful hunter. For a second time he was on the ground, now being dragged along behind the horse. Somewhere in the background he could see Elena running towards them, but it was too late. The horse was gathering speed.

The stony ground was punishing Stefan, bruising him and cutting into his flesh. He wouldn’t be able to hold on for much longer. He put all his energy into one final lunge, taking one hand from the harness and grabbing a hold on Alexei’s booted foot. Alexei turned and looked down, and pulled his foot free of the stirrup to kick himself free of Stefan, much as he might shoo off a chasing dog. For a moment he was off balance in the saddle; Stefan gripped his flailing leg with both arms and bore down with all his weight. Alexei Zucharov rocked sideways, then toppled out of the saddle and onto the ground beside Stefan.

Now it was Stefan’s turn to make a point with his fists. As Zucharov got up, Stefan punched him hard upon the jaw, the blow connecting with a satisfying crack. Alexei flinched under the unexpected force of the blow, but managed to stay on his feet. Stefan hit him again, knocking him back, but by the time he’d closed in on his opponent, Alexei had recovered. Stefan felt a heavy blow to his stomach, then more blows raining down on his face and shoulders. Within moments Zucharov had worked himself into a fighting frenzy, not far removed from the killing machine that had destroyed the orc in the arena.

Stefan knew his greater speed was his best weapon, and he had to use it. He darted around Alexei, dodging and parrying the other man’s assaults so that at least half his punches met only empty air.

At last the opportunity came. Frustrated, Alexei lashed out carelessly, leaving his guard open. Stefan avoided the blow easily and kicked out at Alexei, knocking his legs from under him. As he fell, Stefan was on top of him. Running on pure instinct, he pulled the short knife from his belt as he dropped to the ground.

Alexei’s stare widened as he saw the knife. Time missed a heartbeat as the blade flashed in the air, then bit into the hard ground inches from Alexei Zucharov’s face.

Someone pulled him back. Elena pushed her way between the two men.

“Enough!” she shouted. “In Taal’s name, end this now!”

Stefan stood for a moment, his breath coming fast and short. “It’s all right,” he said at last. “It’s all right.”

Alexei looked from the knife to Stefan, standing over him, sweat pouring off his face.

“You make your point well, Stefan Kumansky,” he said, smiling now. His rage seemed entirely spent, forgotten. Alexei clambered to his feet, taking hold of his opponent’s arm for support. He gave Stefan a wry smile.

“You win, this time,” he said.

Stefan was in no mood to make a joke of what had happened. “Nurgle’s breath!” he spat, half at Zucharov and half at himself. “I could have killed you.”

Alexei gazed at Stefan and grinned, slowly. “No,” he said, confidently. “You’d never do that.”