CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Battle for Erengrad

Petr Kuragin bent low over the body of Martin Lensky, trying to staunch the blood flowing from the arrow wound to his chest. It was useless. The ostler was dying. There was nothing more Kuragin could do to save him, nor to stem the tide of blood washing down through the city.

Lensky’s breath had been coming in swift, tight spasms as he fought for oxygen, fought for life. Now his breathing suddenly slowed. His eyes opened again, staring up at Petr Kuragin.

“Erengrad is lost,” he said, weakly. “The city will fall.” He started to cough, hollow and dry, the rattle of death already in his throat. Kuragin lifted a beaker of water to the wounded man’s mouth and dribbled a little liquid between his lips.

“The bricks and the mortar may crumble and fall,” he told him. “But that is just a shell. Erengrad is more than that. Erengrad exists as a place in our hearts, and in our souls. Whilst there are men with spirit such as yours, Martin Lensky, then Erengrad can never die.” He looked down at the ostler, took his hand and felt for the vital pulse. Somewhere deep inside him, life held on by the slenderest of threads. Kuragin lifted the bloodstained blanket and drew it up around Martin Lensky’s shoulders. Gradually his shivering subsided a little.

“May the gods watch over you,” Kuragin whispered.

Footsteps drummed hard on the stone steps of the cellar. Two of his men appeared at the foot of the stair, their buckled and bloodied armour testament to the fierceness of the fighting raging above.

“Time to pull back, sire,” the first said. “The rebels have all but overrun the quarter.” Kuragin raised his eyes and regarded the man quietly. He could see the agitation in the guards’ eyes, the urgency of escape written into their weary faces.

“Pull back?” he said at last. “Pull back to where?”

The second guard took a step forward. “There’s rumoured to be a pocket of militia, well-fed and well-armed, holding out in the south of the city,” he said. “If we can break though the cordon of scum that have blocked off the quarter, there’s a fair chance we can make it through.”

“We have to leave, sire,” the first man repeated. “Now.”

Kuragin thought about it. His own wounds had left him feeling light-headed, dizzy. The words tumbled around his numb, aching head. Rumours. Pockets of militia holding out. He suddenly felt very, very tired. He didn’t feel like running anymore. And of one thing he was sure. He would not fail Martin Lensky again, not whilst he yet lived.

“Go with my blessing,” he told them. “Take as many of the other men as you can muster.”

“What about you, your lordship?”

Kuragin stood up, with some difficulty, and drew his blade from its inlaid silver scabbard. He lifted the sword up, so that it glinted in the thin rays of sunlight penetrating from the street above. “I still have this,” he told them. “And I still have Erengrad in my heart.” He beat his fist twice upon his chest. “I’m not done yet. Go on, leave me,” he insisted, seeing the two men hesitate. “Something tells me I have business to finish here.”

Stefan drifted out of sleep into the waking day, roused by the sounds of life around him and the bitter chill bite of the morning air. He stretched one arm out behind him. The grass at his side was smoothed flat, but empty. The events of the night before were still fresh in all his senses, but of Elena there was now no sign.

He got up, dressed, and breakfasted off what he could find, mostly nuts and scraps of overripe fruit. There was food enough stowed within the camp, but it was mostly destined for Erengrad, should they ever reach their destination. Provisions for the men on the ground were adequate, but spartan.

Once he had eaten, Stefan picked his way amongst the canvas awnings of the makeshift camp, searching for his companions. The day had dawned cold and bright, but now dark clouds had drawn a curtain across the sun and the sky hung heavy with the promise of rain. Stefan shivered, drawing his cloak tighter as he went on his way. He came upon Tomas, buckling on armour that Schiller had given him. Stefan called out a greeting, which Tomas returned with a familiar nod of the head. He seemed to have sloughed off years in a few short weeks, and now, standing tall in his hauberk of fine-meshed mail, he looked far removed from the stumbling drunk they had dismissed in Altdorf. Stefan had been wrong about Tomas, and was happy to acknowledge it.

Alexei Zucharov had eschewed all offers of armour from their hosts. When Stefan found him he was standing in a clearing on his own, stripped down to his shirt despite the cold, practising his sword strokes yet again. But this time there was no joking, no horseplay. Battle might have been a game to Alexei, but if so then it was an all-consuming one, a game to the death. Stefan watched Zucharov’s blade scything the air in fast, almost impossibly powerful sweeps. At moments like this, it was difficult to imagine any foe, mortal or otherwise, standing against him.

Stefan repressed a sudden, inexplicable shudder and hailed his comrade. Alexei looked up and acknowledged him without pausing from his work.

“You’ll at least carry a shield with you into battle?” Stefan asked. Alexei stopped and shrugged, sweat soaking through the thin cotton of his shirt. “I don’t know,” he said. “Will you? What you gain in protection you lose in speed. A shield adds unnecessary weight.”

“Maybe so,” Stefan agreed. “But this isn’t a street brawl we’re going into. Axes and spears can make short work of flesh and bone.” He lifted one of the shields, running his hands over its irregular, leaf-shaped edge. “I’ll take some protection, I think,” he said. Zucharov shrugged again, and tossed his sword casually from one hand to the other. “That depends,” he said. “Depends whether you’re there to defend, or to attack.” He grinned at Stefan. “I know what I intend to do.”

Stefan felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Bruno at his side. If Tomas had grown in stature on their journey, then Bruno, since the Forest of Shadows, had shed a burden. He looked stronger and healthier than he had for months.

“No need to ask you where you stand on armour,” Stefan commented, noting the burnished breast plate strapped to Bruno’s chest. Bruno laughed. “Sharpened steel doesn’t agree with me,” he said. “I was reminded of that by our beastman friends.”

Stefan looked down at Bruno’s left arm. The bandage had gone, but he still carried it stiffly. “Will it be all right?” Stefan asked.

“Good enough,” Bruno affirmed. “As long as I remember my limits.”

Somewhere towards the heart of the camp, a bugle sounded.

“What’s that?” Zucharov asked.

“Summoning the men-at-arms,” Bruno said. “Castelguerre is about to make his address.”

“We should hear this too,” Stefan said. “Come on.”

They joined the mass of men crowding towards one end of the field, jostling each other for a better view of their commander. Stefan worked his way towards the front with Bruno and Alexei at his side. Once they had found their vantage point, he scanned the faces standing round them. There, not far from where Castelguerre was due to speak, he finally saw Elena, standing by Schiller’s side. It took Stefan a moment to recognise her, strapped into light armour and with her hair pulled up beneath the cusp of a steel helm. Elena looked around and their eyes met. They exchanged a silent greeting, warm, but with a distance that seemed to come from both of them. Something had changed since last night, even if neither of them were yet ready to acknowledge it.

“Here’s Castelguerre,” said Bruno, nudging Stefan in the ribs. Stefan pulled his gaze away from Elena as the bulky figure of the commander mounted the steps of the platform. A loud cheer rippled across the mass of men as Gastez Castelguerre climbed into view. Castelguerre stood in silence for a few moments, allowing the applause. Then he raised one arm aloft, calling the gathering to silence. He scanned the massed ranks, as though making contact with each and every individual, and forging an unspoken bond. Battle-hardened though he was, Stefan felt his pulse begin to race.

Castelguerre’s voice rang out across the shimmering field of armour and steel.

“Today we stand at the precipice,” he told them, “Today we defend not just Erengrad, but all that is good, proper and just. If we triumph on the field of battle today, we shall have inflicted a wound upon our enemy such as he will not easily forget. But if we fail—” He paused, looking across the ranks again, letting the moment sink in. “If we fail, then the curtain of darkness may start to fall across all of the Old World.”

Stefan watched the faces of the men standing nearby in the crowd; comrades known and unknown. He saw the expressions on their faces: excitement, elation, fear and foreboding as the burden of duty began to bear down upon them. Their faces reflected what was in his own heart. Those were his emotions, too.

“Some of you will return victorious from the field of battle today,” Castelguerre continued. “You’ll return with heroes’ tales, and a valour which will long outlive the span of your mortal lives.” He bowed his head, as though in prayer, then looked up once more. “Some of you will never return. For you, the gods have decreed that this shall be your last dawn. If so, then meet the Fates with equanimity. For yours shall be a glorious end, long remembered in the histories of the Old World.”

Stefan glanced at his comrades. Bruno, impassive but resolute. Tomas, staring down in quiet contemplation of the hours to come. Zucharov, his eyes ablaze, already anticipating the taste of victory. And as for him, what fates awaited? Stefan closed his eyes briefly, and the Forest of Shadows closed in around him once more, whispering of things he had not yet seen. Somewhere ahead, the road forked. He opened his eyes, and nodded an affirmation to his friends. The future was waiting for him.

“For the victorious amongst you I have one final word.” Castelguerre continued. “Drink from the cup of victory, but do not drink too deeply. Ranged against you on the field of battle you will find all manner of men and beasts. Some will be horrible to the eye, some, perhaps, may appear wonderful.

“Do not be tempted to plunder the bodies of the dead. No swords, no shields, helms or bows. Not the smallest ring or trinket. The poison that has shaped your foe exists in every fragment of his being. Let it lie. Let it rot with them in the cold earth.” Castelguerre raised himself up. His piercing stare seemed to reach into the soul of every man standing before him. “Do not, I beg of you, let Chaos claim you by stealth.”

A fat drop of rain fell from the darkening skies, striking Stefan upon the face. A second followed it quickly, then a third and a fourth. Bruno gazed up to the heavens then turned towards his comrade.

“The gods are weeping, Stefan,” he said.

“Aye,” Stefan agreed, quietly. “Let us hope it is for joy.”

The thunder of hooves and metal upon the shaking earth built steadily towards a crescendo inside his head. Varik leant back in the saddle, drunk on the sounds and smells filling his senses. He watched the mighty army driving forward, clouds of ochre dust rising in their wake. For the moment he was Varik no longer: he was Nargrun, Nargrun the mighty, Nargrun the invincible. The primeval lust for blood coursed through his body, and he was relishing every delicious moment of it.

Looking down upon his army—strong, mighty, unyielding in purpose—it seemed inconceivable that any force of man could stand against them. They would reach Erengrad before noon. Then, at last, the tide of blood would surely flow.

His scouts had already brought back news of the mercenary horde gathering at Mirov. The alliance was pinning its hopes upon preventing the might of Kyros from breaching the walls of Erengrad, rather than trying to defend the city from within. So be it. Let them add their blood in tribute to the tide. He did not fear battle, and he did not countenance defeat. It would be as it was the last time he, Nargrun, joined battle on Kislevite soil. The soldiers gathered at Mirov would have no more chance of stopping them than the villagers of Odensk, those many years ago.

Varik reined in and turned his horse to look back at the army spilling across the barren plains of Kislev behind him. Most wore clear allegiance to Kyros and his master, the Great Lord of Change himself. But the other gods—Khorne, Nurgle, and Slaanesh—had paid their tribute as well, their servants swelling the ranks of the great army of death. They might serve different masters, but, for this day at least, all were joined in one common cause: to strike at the sickly body of the Old World where it was weakest, here, on the western edge of Kislev.

He had already decided to kill Rosporov and those loyal to him at the first opportunity, regardless of whether the count kept his promise to deliver Erengrad. One way or another, he would be redundant by the time they had breached the city gates. Worse than redundant; whilst he lived he would remain a threat, a schemer with claims upon the patronage of their Dark Lord. Rosporov’s death would leave only one pretender to Kyros’ throne.

Besides, Varik reasoned, if Rosporov had succeeded in taking the city from within, might he not be tempted to claim the prize for his own? How could he be sure that the crippled nobleman would hold to his side of the bargain, and not attempt to bar the gates of Erengrad when the conquering force arrived?

He could not be sure. And so he had planned for this contingency also.

Behind the massing ranks of mounted knights and foot-soldiers, a line of covered wagons carried the provisions of war: food, weapons, and armour. Three of the wagons were loaded with barrels packed with the most precious commodity of all, silver fire-dust from the merchant traders of Cathay. Enough to blow the gates of Erengrad apart, and reduce the surrounding walls to rubble. Rosporov might betray him, but the purging fire would surely not. And if the count was as good as his word, well then, Varik still saw no harm in stamping his mark upon the city.

But, before that, there was another death that he—they—would take pleasure in above all others. Somewhere amongst the stinking horde that would lay their puny might against his, Kumansky waited for him. Images from a near and distant past flickered in his mind: the wretched peasant-boy in Odensk, the knife hidden in his hand, and the arrogant swordsman in the tombs of Middenheim, the mercenary who had taken him to the very Gates of Morr.

Stefan Kumansky. Nargrun might not recognise him now, but Varik surely would. Two burning insults would be avenged as one. And, before he died, Kumansky would know who it was he had dared to defy.

Petr Kuragin waited until there was nothing more he could do for Lensky. Then he covered the face of the dead man with the bloodstained blanket and went from the cellar out towards the street above. He emerged into a city that he barely knew. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of burning: wood, molten tar and the sickening sweet smell of charred flesh. People picked their way through the smoke-filled streets, their cries of anguish and rage filling the air. It was no longer a matter of friend versus foe; there were no sides now. The wretched survivors of the rioting fell upon each other indiscriminately, lunging at each other with clubs fashioned from twisted iron bars, fragments of wood, or anything else that came to hand. Many of those left without opponents turned upon themselves, tearing at their hair and clothes with their bare hands. One such man, his eyes blown wide with madness, saw Kuragin and rushed at him, wielding a lethal axe. Kuragin sidestepped the madman’s blow, then cut him down with a single stroke of his sword.

He knelt at the fallen man’s side. He had been old; old enough almost to have been Petr’s own father. Kuragin laid a hand upon the body and said a silent prayer. To think that Rosporov, casting the seeds of insanity throughout the city, could have brought Erengrad to this. To think that he, Petr Kuragin, could have been brought to this. To be able to strike down his own kind, almost without thought or feeling. Petr Kuragin tried to find his sense of shock and shame, but his emotions, like his bruised and battered body, were all but exhausted.

He was shaken from his gloomy reverie by the sounds of marching feet: a company of men approaching from the far end of the street. Kuragin stood and peered, bleary-eyed, into the smoke-hazed gloom. They numbered twenty or more, all wearing identical black sashes tied across their bodies. At their head a man in military garb, a plumed and crested silver helm set upon his head. For a moment, Kuragin wondered whether the militia had not indeed broken through from the south of the city. For a moment, the hope that had stubbornly refused to die burned in his chest once more. Then, as the troops got closer and the smoke from the fires briefly thinned, he recognised the leader. It was Count Vladimir Rosporov.

Kuragin looked into the face of the man who had driven the city over the brink of madness. He was heavily outnumbered by Rosporov’s men. In a few moments he was going to die, but, by the wrathful gods, he would extract a price first. Somewhere from deep inside himself, Petr Illyich found a last reserve of strength to draw upon. A last, deep-buried well of adrenalin to fuel his dying deeds. He stepped into the middle of the street and stood, feet set square and apart so that his presence could not be missed. Then, sword raised aloft, he hailed his nemesis.

“So, the fake citizen would now be a fake warlord, would he?” he bellowed. “Come on then, Rosporov! Test your mettle against this steel!”

Rosporov clearly hadn’t seen Kuragin before he stepped from the shadowed side of the street. Kuragin had the pleasure of seeing his opponent’s face momentarily register fear and surprise, as the Lord of Erengrad reared up before him, sword in hand. But within a moment Rosporov had composed himself; the mask of noble hauteur settling upon his features once more. He drew out his own sword but fell back, allowing the men around him to take the lead.

“You see the true enemy of Erengrad before you,” the count shouted at them. “He has the blood of the people on his hands. Bring him to my justice!”

The armed men surged forward. Kuragin scanned their faces. One or two he thought he recognised, but these were not simple townsfolk whose ideas had been twisted by Rosporov’s serpent tongue. Their faces, sepulchral and hungry for yet more slaughter, belonged to creatures long since lost to Chaos. There would be no reasoning with them.

Petr Kuragin charged at Rosporov and his men. His blood was fired with the righteous fury of every good soul that had perished since that long night had begun. He screamed out his rage, and the rage of Martin Lensky and countless others like him. He fell upon the black guard, reaping a furious harvest with his sword; soon the street was running with blood.

But they were too many. Gradually their swords found their mark as the blows rained down upon the Kislevite noble. Kuragin urged himself to fight on, but his strength was fading. A blade sliced across his face, narrowly missing his eye. Another blow knocked the sword from his hands. Suddenly he was on his knees, struggling to stay upright, the cobblestones beneath him now slick with blood. Another blow, then another and another. Kuragin heard a voice cry out in pain and desperation: his voice. The smoke and figures above his head seemed to darken and dissolve, then he toppled forward, face down in the street.

He was unconscious for only a few moments. A flask or bucket of water thrown across his face brought him back to the terrible reality. The Scarandar clustered around him, looking down upon his body, slavering like animals. Their breath reeked with the stench of the charnel-house. Then the crowd parted and Rosporov appeared amongst them. His face was blank, inscrutable, seemingly untouched by the horror that had consumed the city. He reached down and ripped open Kuragin’s tunic at the collar. Petr tried to lift an arm to fight him away, but found that his arms no longer moved. Rosporov fastened his fingers upon the chain around Kuragin’s neck, and tugged. He pulled the silver icon free and held it up to the light, inspecting it with quiet satisfaction.

“You should have listened to me when I was prepared to be reasonable,” he said at last. “Your futile gesturing has only delayed the inevitable.”

“Go rot in the Pit of Morr,” Kuragin spat at him.

Rosporov laughed. “I’m sure I will,” he said. “But not just yet. You, I think, will be first to make that journey.”

Kuragin struggled to lift himself up, to find some way yet of striking back at his adversary, but he was pinned down by at least half a dozen swords, and his body was beaten and broken. He coughed, a painful, wracking cough, and blood filled his mouth.

“Kill me if that’s your intent,” he said. “I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

Rosporov stepped closer to Petr, close enough for him to smell the lavender-scented polish upon the leather of his boots. Rosporov lifted one foot and brought it down upon the side of Kuragin’s face, crushing it against the ground as the black-sashed soldiers of the Scarandar looked on.

“Oh, that’s my intent all right,” Rosporov affirmed. “But I think such an event deserves a better audience. Don’t you?”

It was not until they had saddled up and were riding from camp that Stefan finally caught up again with Elena. She was riding alone for now, no sign of Schiller. Both she and Stefan were buckled into their armour and carrying shields bearing the crest of the double-headed eagle. Riding side by side into the gathering storm they could have been comrades-in-arms or lovers. Stefan was no longer sure which was true.

“This is the first time we’ve spoken since last night,” he began. Elena smiled and laughed, but her laugh sounded brittle and anxious. “Let’s hope it’s not the last time as well,” she said. Stefan looked across at her, trying to measure her mood.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Elena nodded, but her expression was more ambiguous. “I think so,” she said. “You tell me. Am I all right?”

Stefan took her hand briefly as they rode. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “By the end of the day you’ll be home.”

Elena laughed again, this time with some bitterness. “Home? Erengrad? I suppose that’s what I shall have to call it.” She pulled back from Stefan’s grasp and wiped her hand across her face. “What about us, Stefan?”

“I don’t know,” Stefan replied. “You’ve been avoiding me all morning. There hasn’t been a chance to talk.”

Elena cast her eyes down. “It isn’t you I’ve been avoiding,” she said. “It’s me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, supposed to feel any more. But what happened last night was very real for me, Stefan. You must believe that.”

“I do believe it.”

“But this is real too,” Elena said, indicating the sea of riders around them. “Last night was about me and you. But this is about me and Erengrad, and Kislev and—”

“I know,” Stefan said. “I understand.” Yet in truth, he did not fully understand. He felt as though he had at last stepped beyond a line he had never before allowed himself to cross. In his heart he knew that to be with Elena was one world. A world that part of him yearned to taste again, and perhaps remain a part of forever. But being here, amongst the army riding to save Erengrad, belonged to another world. And he did not know whether those two worlds could ever truly meet. Somewhere up ahead, he reminded himself, the paths must divide.

“We are in the care of the gods,” he told her, raising his voice against the growing clamour. “If we offer our prayers they will deliver judgments. But I believe in my heart that, whatever their judgment, the gods will look kindly upon Elena Yevschenko.”

Elena smiled, this time without taint of bitterness or sorrow. “And upon you, Stefan Kumansky,” she said.

Franz Schiller rode up abreast of them, flanked on each side by Bruno and Tomas. He hailed Stefan and bowed his helmed head in deference to Elena.

“I suggested to your comrades that we might ride together,” he said. “I hope you’ve no objection.”

“None at all,” Stefan replied. “Indeed, you honour us.”

Franz nodded. “The honour’s mine,” he said. He looked to Elena. “Your ladyship,” he said, “I’ve assigned a dozen of my best men to escort you. Once we near the battle—”

“I know,” Elena interrupted. “Once we near the battle, they’ll try and keep me out of harm’s way.” She smiled at Franz and the others. “I am beginning to understand,” she said. “I’m important.”

“That you are,” Franz affirmed. “Very important indeed.”

All five spurred up their horses, picking up the quickening pace of those around them. Stefan cast his gaze about for Zucharov. Although one of the tallest men on the field, there was still no sign of him. “Have you seen Alexei?” he asked of Franz. Schiller nodded in affirmation.

“He wants to be first to the kill. He insisted upon riding with the spearhead,” he said, and laughed, incredulously. “Almost as if he’s worried he might miss out!”

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty to go round,” Bruno observed, coolly.

“That there will,” Schiller agreed. “But he’s a fearsome man, your Zucharov, no?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Stefan said, “I’d rather be with him than against.”

The massed ranks of horsemen rode north-east, across thin scrubland mottling the earth beneath them a pale, malnourished green. After a while the bushes gave out and they were left upon the open plain, the barren land stretching out flat before them. In the far distance Erengrad was visible now, a jagged line of smoking towers against the horizon. And there, upon that same horizon, a blurred smudge of charcoal grey, indistinct but visibly moving, like a low cloud of insects converging upon the city. With every moment that passed, the mass ahead of them seemed to grow larger, more numerous. Fanfares rang out across the ranks, raising the alarm.

“It’s them,” Schiller called out. “The Chaos army.”

This is it, Stefan thought. He drew a deep draught of Kislev air, cold and deceptively pure, down into his lungs, and prepared to ride towards the future.