CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

On the Precipice

 

 

Kuragin and his men, and seemed to look right through them. It was as though hope was no longer even a possibility. The thirty men ploughed on, against the human tide.

Soon the air was thick with the sounds of carnage and plunder. Now the rage of the fires could be felt, as well as seen. A broiling heat was turning the streets into a furnace. At its epicentre, the merchants’ hall; a tall wooden structure in the heart of the district. Smoke billowed through the windows and gaping holes in the timbers as fire took a grip on the upper storey. Men were running from the hall through the doors at either end, many of them bearing all the stolen wares they could carry. Most looked indistinguishable from the peasants and tradesmen that had been fleeing the flames, but their faces bore expressions of blank-eyed madness.

Kuragin saw figures dressed in black moving amongst the crowd, directing them with shouted commands and blows from their staves, as though they were herding cattle. Of Rosporov there was no sign, but Kuragin had no doubt that these were his acolytes. He turned to face his men riding three abreast behind him.

“Spare the townsfolk if you can,” he commanded.

“Sire, there are looters amongst them,” his sergeant reminded him.

“They are possessed by some madness,” Lensky said.

“They no longer know their own minds. The ones in black are our target,” Kuragin yelled. “Destroy them and the mob will be ours.” He drew his sword, and stepped into the inferno.

 

The emissary had quit Erengrad much as he had entered it; with the magician’s art and the assassin’s knife. When next he returned, it would be as conqueror. All would bow to him then, Rosporov included. For a short while the count might well have the run of the city. Varik pictured the Kislevite as a scurrying rat, king of his festering sewer. Let him enjoy his triumph while he might. When Erengrad finally fell, there would be but one champion to lay tribute at Kyros’ throne. He, Varik, would see to that.

Until then the verminous little nobleman was more use to him alive than dead. Even Varik had to concede that Rosporov was carrying out his task with a poisonous efficiency. Erengrad was tearing itself asunder. Like a ripe—rotten—fruit it was hanging, ready to fall. Whether it would fall before he returned to the city gates was another matter. If Rosporov’s rebellion had won control, so much the better. Victory would be swift and easy. If not, then more blood would flow. But what did that matter, set against the great tide of blood soon to break across the plains of western Kislev?

He looked down from his vantage point upon the hilltop and surveyed the army of Kyros massing below. Already they were too many to number: hundreds, thousands of them massing beneath the black flags that were blooming like dark flowers across the fields, obliterating the blighted land of Kislev. Their numbers were swelling with each hour that passed; every day more ships were arriving on the northern coasts, spilling their murderous cargo upon the shore. Men and beasts, ready for the march on Erengrad, ready for war. The very air rang with the clamour of coming battle.

The emissary looked down upon these, his creatures, and felt a surge of power run though his body as countless eyes turned upon him, waiting upon his word. These were violent men who lived to feast off terror and destruction. And he knew them, knew them all. They were his to command, and he was one with them. He gazed down at the scarred, leathery hands that had fought so many battles, ended so many lives. How many souls had this human form dispatched to Morr? And how many more would he, Varik, now savour, melded as he was with this new warrior self? Many, many more. He would see to that, too.

The beastmen had failed him. That did not surprise him much. He had been promised a full company, an alliance of tribes ready to march on Erengrad. None had arrived at the muster point. He imagined the loathsome half-breeds tearing each other apart over some petty squabble, or abandoning their pledge for some other, worthless trophy. Their evil brutality would be missed, but their low, animal minds were notoriously difficult to mould and shape. Ultimately he would only have had to destroy them.

There were others, too, drawn towards this dark army of conquest. Men and mutants, mercenaries and fortune seekers. The bitter misfits of the Old World seeking riches and revenge, swelling the ranks of the Norscan horde come to reclaim what was theirs by ancient right. The mark of Chaos was strong in the blood of many, but not all. Kislev had more enemies than it knew.

He stood, drawing himself up to his full height, and the warriors below saluted him. A mass of voices chanted his other name: Nargrun, destroyer of cities. His greatest, most powerful incarnation yet. The army massing below were ready to die for him, and they were ready to kill for him. He would let them kill, but there was one death that belonged to him alone. He touched his fingers against the leather patch stretched across the empty socket of his left eye. Two memories, two private shames met, burning in a single flame of hatred. Soon, he promised, we shall gain our retribution.

 

Petr Illyich Kuragin sat amongst the smoking ruins of what had previously been an inn, and wept without shame. His tears were born of exhaustion, relief, and bitter sorrow. White Barrow had been held. The rebels would doubtless come again, but for now had been pushed back. The defenders had won a few hours of respite, maybe a day or so.

But that respite had only been won at a cost. Around him, scattered upon the ground or buried beneath the cracked and charred timbers of the fallen houses, nearly twenty of his men lay dead or dying. Amongst them was Dimitri, his loyal servant since boyhood, cut down by a rebel arrow in the first assault. Kuragin wept for him, and for all the other sons of Erengrad who had died that day, and for those who were yet to die. For this was a battle that had barely begun. That much he now understood.

Today he had reaped a harvest of death with his sword, scything the fields of flesh until the blade ran red. He had tried to single out the ringleaders, the black-clad engineers of anarchy whose name, he had learnt, was the Scarandar. He had dispatched several of them to Morr, but the killing had not ended there. His mind ran back again to the moment when he had killed the first of his townsfolk. The man had charged at him along the street, a shard of jagged glass in place of a sword in one hand, screaming like a madman. Kuragin had looked deep into this man’s eyes, and realised with a jolt that he knew him. He was a craftsman, a tailor or milliner. His name had vanished from memory, but Petr remembered his face from another, better time. Remembered, too, a wife and a son. Kuragin had helped their family buy an apprenticeship for the boy at the military academy.

As the man had rushed forward to kill him. Kuragin had held his hand out and shouted at his attacker to stop. “In the name of Ulric, man!” he had screamed. “Don’t you remember me? I helped your son!”

The man’s eyes stared ahead, but seemed to look right through him, as though he were staring into another, monstrous world where only madness prevailed.

“My son is dead, dead with all the rest of them.”

Kuragin had raised his sword, but the wild-eyed man came on, slashing indiscriminately with the jagged shard. He had lashed out at Kuragin, and Petr had struck back, instinctively. His blade cut the man open from his breastbone to the top of his throat. Blood sprayed from the wound, a slick mist of red befouling Kuragin and his assailant. Petr had pushed the man away, then watched him die. He knew he would not be the last that must fall beneath his sword.

And there was one more cost that he now had to bear. The fires that had begun in White Barrow were now spreading across Erengrad. Kuragin looked up, following the path they had taken through the city. Sat high upon the hill was the Kuragin House, his undefended fortress. Smoke was pouring from the towers and turrets, a choking cloud of black rising against the amber glow of the morning sun.

Petr Illyich Kuragin sat and watched his home burn, watched as the fire consumed his childhood and his youth, memories of his parents and his dead brothers charring into ash.

“You were right, Dimitri,” he whispered. “May the great gods grant this sacrifice was not all in vain.”

 

In times of peace Mirov would have been a small village, barely more than a hamlet in the shadow of Erengrad less than twenty miles to the north. But the time for peace was now in the past, and, perhaps, the future. Mirov had been transformed into a vast transit camp, almost a town in its own right. A sprawling carnival of tents, equipment and fighting men greeted Stefan as he rode down the valley. He rode at an easy pace towards the encampment, keeping his horse close abreast of Schiller’s, watching the bustling life of the camp unfolding before him. The sound of metal upon metal rang in Stefan’s ears: soldiers honing their craft, smiths crafting fresh blades upon the forge. The camp was a sea of constant movement, long lines of men passing to and fro along the paths between the tents; teams of horses hauling long, heavily loaded wagons towards a marshalling point, the earth below the wheels churned to an ochre slurry. From afar the bustle of the camp looked chaotic, like a nest of restless termites. But Stefan saw the pattern and the purpose of an army preparing for war. It felt very much as though he was coming home.

“Sounds like between us we’ve more or less wiped out the beastmen,” Schiller commented. “Our commander will be well pleased with the day’s work.”

“Commander? Who would that be?” Stefan asked.

“Gastez Castelguerre,” his companion replied. “The best soldier I’ve ever had the privilege to serve under.”

“Sounds almost Bretonnian,” Stefan said.

Schiller turned to look at Stefan, then laughed. “You sound surprised,” he said. “I told you. We’re a rag-bag, mongrel army if ever there was one. Castelguerre is a Bretonnian, as are most of his men. I’m from the Kislevite borderland, despite my name. But we’ve men from all over the Old World here. Even from the Empire, you’ll be relieved to hear.”

Now it was Stefan’s turn to laugh. “Actually,” he said, “I’m from Kislev too.”

“Really? Where from?”

Stefan hesitated, then spoke the name of the village that had been obliterated from the map.

He expected Schiller’s reaction to be as blank as Elena’s, but the young man’s eyes widened momentarily in recognition. He repeated the name.

“Odensk. I know of that place.”

“Knew of it,” Stefan corrected. “I don’t think anything much is left now.”

Franz Schiller nodded, gravely. “That was the last time they got anywhere near Erengrad.” Stefan felt his body suddenly tense, muscles tightening in his stomach. “What do you mean,” he said, slowly. “What do you mean by ‘they’?”

Schiller reined his horse in and reached across and laid a hand upon Stefan’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I assumed you already knew this. The murdering scum who destroyed your village are back on the soil of our motherland. A battalion of mutant Norscans is leading the dark army’s march on Erengrad.”

Stefan shook his head. “No,” he said, “I didn’t know that.” Fragmented memories of his home tumbled through his mind. He said a silent prayer, and hoped that somewhere his father was looking down upon him.

They rode on, and soon came into the camp itself. The air rang with the sounds of voices, of swords in practice for combat, and of smiths and armourers at their work. Franz Schiller led the way through the ordered rows of the canvas city, towards an enclosure roped off from the rest of the field. Once they had tethered their horses, Schiller left them and walked off alone towards an unmarked tent that had been pitched at its centre. He returned a few minutes later.

“There’ll be food and drink ready for you soon,” he promised Stefan. “But the chief wants to speak to you first. Her highness as well.”

“Her highness?” Stefan asked.

“I think he means me.” Elena grinned shyly at Stefan as she followed Schiller towards the tent. Her cheeks flushed with a hint of what could have been pride, embarrassment, or a little of both. “I’m known differently in these parts,” she said.

Gastez Castelguerre sat at a low table inside his tent, studying a map of Erengrad. The shields and battle standards surrounding him gave some clue as to rank, but otherwise the tent was plain and unadorned. A steady drip of condensation fell from the canvas roof, forming a puddle by his right arm. The battle commander looked up briefly from the map as the entrance flap was lifted back and Franz stepped in, Stefan and Elena at his side.

“These are the travelers,” Schiller announced. Castelguerre glanced up, and appraised his visitors with a measured stare. “I can’t exactly say that you were expected,” he began. “When the merchant train crossed the border without you we feared for the worst.” He frowned. “But you are no less welcome for that. Nor less needed.”

Stefan took the Bretonnian’s offered hand and shook it firmly. He reckoned Castelguerre for a man of about forty, his muscled frame just beginning to thicken with age. His dark hair was starting to grey, but his eyes still shone with the vigour and the hunger of youth. It was a look that Stefan had seen in the eyes of the priest, and Otto Brandauer before him. He knew this was a man he could follow into battle.

Castelguerre turned to Elena and bowed, slightly stiffly. “And by what title shall we know you, your ladyship?” he asked.

“Elena will do fine,” she replied. “It’s served me well enough thus far.”

Castelguerre coughed, awkwardly. “That’s fine by me, too,” he said. “You’ll find we don’t have much time for airs and graces around here. But I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. You see,” he explained, “you have a reputation that rides before you, Elena Yevschenko.”

“A good one, I trust,” Elena responded, amiably.

“An important one,” Castelguerre replied, his tone contrastingly sober now. “A very important one indeed. And you,” he said to Stefan, “you must be the Stefan Kumansky that Otto told me of.”

“I am,” Stefan said. “But I have to tell you Otto is dead. Andreas Kornfeld too.” He watched the commander’s face cloud with sorrow. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such tidings,” he added.

Castelguerre ran a hand across his brow, then pounded the table once with his heavy fist. “Gods be watchful, their deaths shall be atoned!” he thundered. He drew down a deep breath. “They were valiant comrades, both. Loyal soldiers for our cause.” Castelguerre paused, struggling with his grief. “Otto thought highly of both of you,” he continued. “Highly enough to let the hopes of countless peoples rest upon your shoulders. He would be glad indeed to see you safely here.”

“The journey to Erengrad has yet to be completed,” Elena observed. “I have achieved nothing as yet.”

Castelguerre nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “Come, sit down,” he told them. “There is business to attend to. Business that brings us together here.”

He beckoned Stefan and Elena forward, towards the scroll spread out in front of him.

Stefan looked down upon a map of Erengrad.

“From what we have been able to observe, the city is still holding out,” Castelguerre said, reading Stefan’s thoughts. “Or at least parts of it. Until we reach Erengrad itself we cannot be sure how bad things have become. But this much we know: the hand of Chaos is strong there.”

“Franz talked of enemy hordes marching on the city as well,” Elena said, anxiously. “What of that?”

“We cannot be sure of their numbers,” Castelguerre told her. “But they are many.”

“Invaders from Norsca and beyond,” Stefan said.

“Yes, they are the vanguard. But there are others, too, risen up as if from thin air. It is as if Chaos has nurtured an army of mutant souls, sleeping unnoticed in our midst, waiting for this, the moment of their calling.”

“We witnessed something like it in Middenheim,” Stefan said. “Ordinary men, turned suddenly into mindless murderers. Their leaders were known as the Scarandar. It was they who killed Otto.”

“The Scarandar, apostles of the transformation,” Castelguerre said. “Servants of the Dark Lord of Change, and of his chosen one, Kyros. Chaos has learned from its failures of the past. Learnt the lessons of Praag, for sure. The Scarandar are the invisible enemy. They can appear and disappear seemingly at will. Kyros knows a city like Erengrad will not succumb easily. Solid walls and an iron will are enough to defeat most attackers. But if he can get inside the city, eat away at it from within, then eventually the outer shell will weaken and crack.”

He paused, his expression thoughtful and solemn. “Well,” he went on. “At least that’s his plan. We know the situation in the city is perilous, to say the least. The Norscan-led army is intended as the hammer that wields the final blow.”

“But—” he gazed up at them, and smiled. “There is another, opposing force, equally resolute. A brotherhood of men such as Otto, Andreas and myself. A brotherhood pledged to defend with our lives the alliance that still binds the Old World. We have been waiting for Kyros to strike. And this time we’ll be ready.”

Castelguerre lowered his eyes. “I must make certain my comrades’ sacrifice was not in vain. I must ensure that you reach your birthplace together with the Star, Elena. Otherwise we may all be lost.”

“I’m ready,” Elena replied. “Ready for whatever the day of battle may bring.”

Castelguerre frowned. “I would be happier if you were nowhere near the battle at all,” he said. “But we cannot delay your journey home by even another day. That means you must cross the battle lines. I’ll have to give some thought to that.”

He paused, deep in contemplation. “I’m sorry,” Castelguerre said at length. “I am forgetting that you are also our guests. You must be hungry, and weary after your travels. I’ve talked enough.” He stood up, and pulled back the opening to the tent. Franz Schiller stood waiting outside.

“See that our comrades are given all they need,” he said. “Tomorrow,” he told Elena, “you will return to Erengrad. The time for talking is all but done.”

 

Stefan walked the length and breadth of the camp after he had eaten. His body ached for sleep, but he knew his mind was not ready for rest, not yet. Every inch of space was filled with fighting men and their trappings of war. The smells that greeted him were the familiar smells of the battle eve. Smoke and burning meat; leather, gunpowder and fresh polished steel. Grease and sweat; smells of fear and of hope.

He walked through groups of cavalry and infantry, men skilled with the bow and those, like himself, who would stand or fall by their sword. Men finishing what might be their final meal, immersed deep in conversation or, some, already asleep. Most of them were strangers to him, but a few he recognised from other battles, other wars. These he met with a nod of recognition, in each greeting the silent acknowledgement that it might be the last time in this life that their eyes would meet. He exchanged few words with any of them. Gastez Castelguerre had been right. The time for talking was almost over.

Almost, but not quite. Retracing his steps, he came upon Bruno sitting alone outside his tent, drinking wine from a stone flask. There may never be a better time for this conversation, Stefan reflected. He walked quickly towards Bruno and, without further word, sat down beside him.

Bruno looked round and handed Stefan the earthen flask. “Present from Franz Schiller,” he said. “Good stuff.”

Stefan drank, a long draught of cooling liquor. He took a second mouthful of wine, then handed the flask back.

“Do you think we’ll see battle tomorrow?” he asked.

“I’ve been talking to Schiller,” Bruno said. “He’s sure of it. Their scouts report the enemy army converging on Erengrad from the north-east. Castelguerre’s plan is for us to try and cut them off before they have a chance to breach the city walls.” He paused and took another drink. “It won’t be easy, though. Schiller’s guess is that the numbers favour them by at least two to one.”

“We’ve come through worse,” Stefan observed. “You and I.” Both men turned at the sound of voices raised and steel biting on steel. Tomas Murer and Alexei Zucharov stood face to face, swords in their hands, squared up as though for combat. Every few seconds Alexei would strike out and Tomas would attempt to parry the blow, all the while running a good-natured commentary between them on the swordplay.

Bruno laughed, “The perfect teacher and pupil,” he said.

“Indeed,” Stefan concurred. “I’m not sure which is which, either.”

“Well, at any rate,” Bruno went on, “they seem to have buried their differences.”

Stefan looked at Bruno. “Perhaps it’s time that we buried ours,” he said.

Bruno met Stefan’s gaze, and forced a smile. “Long past time in fact, I think,” he agreed.

“You know,” Stefan said, “I’ve been watching a different man since we came through the forest. Unless I’m mistaken, there’s more than one wound you’ve seen healed.”

Bruno sat quietly, deep in thought. “There’s something—something I’ve been blaming myself for,” he began. “Blaming myself for a long time.”

“Since Stahlbergen?” Stefan asked.

“Yes,” Bruno said. His voice was cracked, heavy with emotion. “And there’s something I need to tell you about. Something I need to put straight.”

Stefan thought back to the time in the Grey Mountains, to the moment when the glory soured and heroism turned to tragedy.

“The woman,” he said. “You did what you could do to save her. You were just too late, that’s all. It would have been the same for me. The orc killed her.”

“No,” Bruno said, so softly his voice was barely audible. He closed his eyes, and let his head fall. “No, that’s not how it was. I killed her, Stefan. The knife was meant for the creature, but as soon as it had left my hand, I knew.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I knew I had killed that woman.”

Stefan sat letting the words sink in. The silence between them seemed suddenly to swell and fill the space around them. “The thing is,” Bruno went on, “I know now that it truly wasn’t my fault. I killed her, and I can never undo that.”

“But you can lift the guilt you’ve been carrying,” Stefan said.

“I did my very best for that woman, inside that cave. I did my best, but I made a mistake. I made a mistake and she died,” Bruno said. “Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” said Stefan. “I made a mistake too. I could have come to your aid. I chose not to. That’s the guilt I have to live with.”

Bruno gazed up again at the figure of Alexei Zucharov. He smiled, but the smile held some bitterness. “It’s ironic,” he said to Stefan. “I suppose it’s thanks to Alexei Zucharov that I’m here at all.”

“What are you saying?”

“He saw what happened at Stahlbergen, Stefan. He knew all along I caused that woman’s death.”

“You’re saying he used that against you—forced you to ride with us on this journey?”

Bruno shrugged. “If he did, then it’s turned out for the good in the end. There were daemons of my own that I needed to face.”

Stefan sat quietly for a moment. Something in the revelation about Zucharov troubled him deeply. “Just when you think you know a man, he can surprise you,” he observed at last. “And not always pleasantly.”

Bruno shrugged. “He’s a driven man,” he said. “You told him you needed me for the mission. Alexei did whatever he thought he needed to achieve that end. It’s in the past now.” He ran his hands through his hair and exhaled, deeply. “One way or another, it feels good to finally lift that weight off my shoulders,” he said. “It’s like a part of me that was dead, coming back to life again.”

Stefan squeezed his comrade’s shoulder. “It gives me joy to hear that, old friend,” he said. “We’re going to need every last ounce of your fortitude and bravery on the morrow.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have two good hands to lend!” Bruno declared.

“A very good thing.”

Bruno reached again for the wine flask, then paused. “We can’t promise ourselves never to make mistakes, can we?” he said.

“No,” Stefan agreed. “We can only promise ourselves that we will learn from them.”

“And that learning never stops, does it?” Bruno smiled, picked up the flask, and put it in his pocket. “This is good wine,” he said. “I ought to find Franz, and share a little of it with him.”

Stefan nodded affirmation. “That’s a good idea.” He waved away Bruno’s offer of a last drink. “Go, find Franz,” he said. “And the gods go with you, Bruno Hausmann.”

He watched Bruno go, picking his path through the forest of canvas. It seemed that he had grown taller, and his footsteps become lighter, all in the space of those few minutes. An old friend had returned.

He sat for a while, watching Alexei and Tomas at their sparring. More than once, the older swordsman got the better of his opponent, even managing to knock the blade from Zucharov’s grip. The bigger man simply roared his approval, more than happy to be outdone. And Stefan was happy enough with his solitude. But he was not alone for long.

“Mind if I join you?” He looked up, and saw Elena standing nearby. Without waiting for a reply, she wriggled down onto the grass by his side, another flagon in one hand.

“More wine?” Stefan laughed. “I’ve just told Bruno I’ve had my fill.”

“Well, you haven’t,” Elena said, emphatically. “I never drink alone—except when I am alone, of course.”

“Of course,” Stefan agreed. He took the offered flagon and drank. A mouthful of pungent Brandtwein stung the back of his throat. “Good stuff,” he volunteered, hoarsely.

Elena drank a long draught of the Brandtwein straight down. “What about him?” she asked, pointing in the direction that Bruno had gone in. “Have you made your peace?”

“Yes,” Stefan said “Or maybe it’s more that Bruno has found his peace. Either way, we’ve said what needed to be said.”

“That’s good.” Elena took another draw from the flask. “Well,” she said, defensively, “why not? Isn’t it drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die?”

“I hope not,” Stefan said. “But there’s little doubt that many of the men in this field are seeing the stars for the last time.”

Elena thought for a moment. “Ah. So this is the bit where you say to me something like, ‘Elena, I know you want to be brave, but for your own sake we must keep you away from the fighting tomorrow.’ Yes?”

“No. I’ve done what I can to get us this far. As for tomorrow, well—” He stared across the massed ranks of Castelguerre’s army. That’s up to you. Your decisions have proved to be as good as mine.”

“Oh.” It was hard for him to tell if Elena was surprised or disappointed. “Well,” she went on at last, “if you’re interested, Castelguerre has arranged for me to ride under the protection of Franz and his men.”

“I’m glad of that,” Stefan replied. “I’m saying I trust your decision. Of course I’m interested in what happens to you. You are very valuable. Valuable to Erengrad and—who knows? Maybe valuable to the whole of the Old World.”

“Valuable… to you?” she asked him.

“Yes,” Stefan said at last. “To me, too.”

She spread her arms out by her side and lay back on the lush grass, staring up at the sky. The last wisps of cloud had been blown away. It was a clear, cool evening and the stars shone out from the heavens like iced crystals floating upon the night air.

“This is wrong, isn’t it?” she said wistfully. “The skies on the eve of battle should be full of storms and torment. This is too—too perfect.”

Stefan sat in thought for a few moments longer, then stretched out beside her to share the view. “Let’s enjoy it while we can,” he said. “Try to savour the sight as though it were our last.”

They lay side by side, tracking the slow, steady motion of the heavens in silence. Eventually Stefan pointed to the sky in the east and said: “Do you know what that one is?”

“The constellation? No. Tell me.”

“That’s the Sword of Jewels,” Stefan said. “Legend says it was worn by Taal when he slew the Hounds of Chaos and freed the world from captivity. And there,” he said, “to the left, you see? That’s Ulric’s Staff.”

“Sometimes I dream of the stars,” Elena told him. “And of the other worlds far away, beyond the sky. Do you believe there are such places?”

“Yes,” Stefan said. “Maybe other worlds just like this one.”

“Strange thought,” Elena murmured. “I mean, that there might be two other people, just like us, at this moment looking down upon our world from somewhere up there!”

“Strange indeed,” Stefan agreed. Elena twisted round and propped herself on her elbows, turning her face towards Stefan’s. He could smell the wine, warm and sweet on her breath. “Do you think those other worlds are at war too?” she asked him “Do you think the struggle continues, even in the heavens?”

“I don’t know,” Stefan replied. “But somehow I imagine that it does. Not just here, but everywhere. A struggle that has always existed. And always will.”

“That sounds like a battle that can’t ever be won,” she said, quietly.

“I’d rather think of it as a battle which we must never lose,” Stefan replied.

Elena sighed. “I suppose that’s why we’re here,” she said. “Why we’ve all risked our lives to get me to a wedding with a man I’ve never even met, let alone loved.” She paused, letting her thoughts run on. “But what if,” she continued, “what if Castelguerre secures Erengrad for the alliance, drives the forces of Chaos out? Doesn’t that mean that there would be no need for this marriage?”

Stefan didn’t know what reply he could make. For all that he knew, it was a question without answer. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “What is it you want me to say?”

Elena moved closer to him. “I’m not made of stone,” she said. “You could try sweeping me off my feet.”

Stefan hesitated, then reached out and laid his fingers lightly against the nape of Elena’s neck. Her skin felt like cool silk under his touch. He cupped his hand, gently. As he pulled her towards him, he knew that she would not resist.