CHAPTER SIX

Sigmarsgeist

 

 

For two full days and nights, Stefan and his companions had ridden south with the soldiers of the Red Guard. Finally, at the dawn of the third day, they approached their destination.

Through most of the hours of darkness, they had been climbing. A steady, gentle ascent had led along a wooded mountain trail, the way twisting and snaking like a path through a maze. As the first glimmerings of light began to streak the night sky the riders crested a hill and emerged from the cover of trees into open land. They were on top of a high hill on the edge of a mountain range, the ridge curving away to either side of them, drawing into a circle on the far side of the valley, forming a vast cradle. As if on cue, the sun rose from behind the crest of rock, suddenly and dramatically bathing the valley in a flood of warm, amber light.

The land below was swaddled in early morning fog. Through the haze, the scattered spires and towers of a town or city were just visible, rising up out of the mists like ships riding a golden ocean.

“Behold,” Baecker announced. “Sigmarsgeist.”

From on high it was impossible to guess the exact size of the citadel, but it was undoubtedly big. Stefan’s travels had taken him from Altdorf, at the heart of the Empire, to the mighty city of Middenheim, and to Erengrad, at the western edge of the lands of Kislev. Sigmarsgeist might not yet rival them, but this was no mountain village.

Stefan cast his eyes across a complex pattern of roads and streets, a dense forest of buildings of all shapes and sizes, built from flint and stone. A cluster of tall, domed structures set high upon the northern face of Sigmarsgeist dominated the view of citadel. Beyond the domes the streets were laid out in tiers, shelving down towards the southern end of the citadel. It seemed all of Sigmarsgeist was built upon sloping ground, with the domed buildings—which Stefan took to be a temple or a palace of some kind—at its uppermost point. The sun began to burn away the early mist, cutting through the chilly shroud to glint off the slate roofs of hundreds of separate dwellings, halls and workshops.

There had to be a thousand souls living within those walls, maybe many more, Stefan estimated. And it was clear that Sigmarsgeist was still growing. At least a third of the citadel was still being built, with row upon row of new dwellings standing in various states of construction.

Stefan was puzzled that he had had no previous knowledge of such a place. The day before he had checked upon his map; there had been no mention of Sigmarsgeist, nor of any other place of comparable size. The map that they were using was undoubtedly crude, but Stefan was still surprised to find it missing such a detail.

“You are impressed?” Hans asked of him.

“Yes,” Stefan readily agreed. He was impressed. If nothing else, Sigmarsgeist bore ample testimony to the ambition and craft of man.

He shaded the sun from his eyes, peering down into the valley. He tried to compare Sigmarsgeist with the great cities of the Empire, cities such as Middenheim, a mighty, fortress sat high upon its plateau of rock. In many ways Sigmarsgeist was the mirror opposite of the city of the White Wolf. Where Middenheim sat high and impregnable, nestling amongst the clouds, Sigmarsgeist was buried at the very foot of the valley, hemmed in by towering walls of rock. It seemed—to Stefan’s eye at least—a strange choice.

“Why was the city built here?” he asked, “so deep within the valley?”

Baecker did not answer the question directly. “The site was carefully chosen,” he said. “There were many considerations.”

“Such as?”

“The Guides may wish to tell you more of that,” Baecker answered.

“The Guides?”

Baecker raised one hand. “Come. Save your questions for later. Sigmarsgeist is waiting.”

Bea glanced at him, an inquisitive look stealing over her features.

“Was there something else?” Baecker asked her.

“Yes,” Bea replied, uncertainly. “That is, no, not directly. I was just curious to hear more—more of how the citadel came to be built here.”

Baecker nodded, and smiled. “Later, perhaps.” He took up the reins and started his horse down the stony path that would lead them to the citadel below.

“Let’s move on,” he said. Baecker gestured again at the path that wound down the hillside ahead. “Sigmarsgeist waits to welcome you as its honoured guests.”

“Lead on,” Stefan told him. “For we are equally honoured to be invited amongst you.”

 

Sigmarsgeist took shape as they followed the path down the mountain. The descent became more shallow as, gradually, the land levelled out, opening on to a patchwork of fields, huge green and golden squares, ripe with crops. Bruno marvelled at the sight.

“There must be enough produce here to feed many hundreds,” he remarked. “You have done well to cultivate so much from such barren land.”

Baecker surveyed the expanse of fields, each with its neat lines of labourers all working the land. “Not nearly well enough,” he said at length. “As fast as we cultivate, Sigmarsgeist grows still larger. Try as we might, it is never enough. Sigmarsgeist is a belly which can never be filled.”

“How do you survive?” Stefan asked.

Baecker shrugged, as though the question had no real answer. “As best we can,” he said, and gave short laugh. “We do whatever we must.”

Beyond the fields, teams of workers were quarrying stone from the mountain side, men working hard and apparently ceaselessly, piling wagons with chunks of rough-hewn granite. A succession of wagons was filled then towed away on the network of roads that led towards the citadel, whilst, all the while, empty vehicles moved in the opposite direction, out towards the rock face. The men worked with an indefatigable zeal, prising rock from the hard earth, piling the wagons high.

“Building the future,” Baecker commented. “Heroes, to a man.”

Stefan didn’t doubt that for a moment. Even in the relative cool of the early morning, it must have been back-breaking work. Not for the first time, he gave silent thanks that he earned his living by the sword. Dangerous work it might be, but there were harder paths in life. Any man who could spend each day labouring like this was a hero indeed.

More than three hours after they had begun their descent from the mountain, they finally stood by the walls of the citadel. From above, the walls had looked impressive enough. Now, close to, they seemed truly daunting, built from heavy stone and taller than any fortification Stefan had encountered in the Empire. Clearly, this was a place built to withstand the most sustained onslaught, and outlast the lengthiest siege.

Massive iron gates set into the walls swung open to greet them. Hans Baecker waved his men on, and led Stefan and his companions into Sigmarsgeist.

 

Word of their arrival had spread fast within the city. People on the streets stopped and cheered to give thanks for the safe return of the captain and his men. The noise drew mothers and children from their houses, and craftsmen and artisans from their shops and workshops. As the procession of riders made their way into the city, more and more people poured onto the streets to add their voices to the commotion.

In amongst the townsfolk going about their business, Stefan noticed more soldiers dressed in the scarlet livery, as well as others—fewer in number—whose tunics were white rather than red. Each bore the same insignia: the image of the Imperial eagle, its wings spread wide over Sigmarsgeist. Bruno took note, approvingly.

“Feels like being back amongst our own, doesn’t it?”

“In many ways, yes,” Stefan agreed. But, he kept reminding himself, he was not amongst his own. He would keep an open mind—for the moment, at least.

One thing was beyond doubt. Everyone they encountered upon the streets—soldiers, craftsmen, women bearing baskets of fruit or bread—looked healthy and well-nourished. Every town in the Empire had its share of sickness and disease, but if it was present here, then it was well-hidden. The people looked healthy. And young.

“Curious,” Stefan commented. “I’ve not seen a single person above middle years since we set foot through the gates.”

“We are a young people,” Baecker replied. “Many of us travelled here together as pilgrims. We’ve not had the time to grow old yet.” He pulled up, leaning from the saddle to shake the hands of the townsfolk who rushed to greet him. “The Guides will explain how it came to pass.”

“I look forward to meeting them,” Stefan said.

“And they will be glad to welcome you.”

Bruno turned towards Bea, fighting to make himself heard above the bustle of the streets. “Not quite like Mielstadt, is it?”

Bea gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head, but didn’t respond.

“What is it?” Bruno asked, a note of concern in his voice. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing wrong,” she assured him. “But this place has an energy. A positive energy,” she added. “It is a force for good. But it’s so strong…” She paused, and took a gasp of breath. “I’ve not come across such a thing before.”

Stefan looked around at the neat, timber-framed houses, homes laid out in tightly-packed rows along the clean-swept streets. Everywhere the citadel had the look of a great labour that was still in progress. Many buildings were unfinished, none looked more than a few weeks or months old.

“These houses,” Bruno observed. “The whole place looks newly-built.”

Stefan agreed. That was how it seemed. Every street they passed down looked fresh and clean, with a sense of vigour and purpose he had rarely, if ever, noted in cities such as Altdorf or Middenheim, or indeed any other place he had visited. But, in parts—particularly at the edge of the citadel near the walls—Sigmarsgeist had a disordered look to it, with too many houses crammed into too short a space. That, Stefan supposed, explained Hans Baecker’s comment about feeding his people. The citadel was growing fast, almost too fast for its own good.

Nearer the centre of the citadel the streets resumed a more orderly look. The design of the streets appeared more structured and less cluttered, and the surrounding workshops and houses older, though hardly long-established. Here, as elsewhere, statues cast in marbled stone abounded. Many of them were in homage to the Emperor Sigmar, and showed him astride his horse, or standing triumphant in victory. But others—almost as many—depicted a second figure that Stefan did not recognise. The carvings showed an older man, standing proud and upright, with what looked like the citadel in miniature cupped within his outstretched hands. In the course of an hour moving through the streets of Sigmarsgeist, Stefan saw the image at least a dozen times, both in statues, and carved into the facade of buildings.

 

Finally, the streets opened out into a wide courtyard facing a high-walled building, fronted by iron gates. Stefan recognised the cluster of domes that he had picked out from above. The presence of much larger numbers of militia suggested that it was indeed a palace of some kind.

“We must remain here for just a moment.” Baecker waited with Stefan and the others whilst one of his men approached the sentries standing guard either side of the gates. After a brief conversation, they were waved through. They passed through a stone archway into an open courtyard, where their horses were collected by stablemen clad in the same red livery.

Baecker dismounted, then extended a hand to Bea.

“Time to get some rest,” he said. “Afterwards, we shall learn more of you, and you of us.”

Stefan had a hundred questions in his mind that he wanted answering, but they had been riding since dawn the previous day, and he was more than glad now to be offered some respite. The questions, on both sides, could wait a few hours yet.

 

Their quarters were on an upper floor of the great building—single rooms, sparse but clean. A bed, a basin with an attendant pail of freshly drawn water, and a window that looked out across the rooftops. Before Stefan finally lay his aching body down, he stood for a while gazing out of the slitted window, taking in the panorama of streets, houses and workshops that lay beyond. Standing there, at the heart of a place that, a day before, had not existed for him even in his imagination, it occurred to Stefan that he had put himself entirely at the hospitality of people he barely knew, and whose motives were at best uncertain.

Stefan Kumansky had grown up at odds with much of the world he had walked through. He had seen shadows where others had seen only light, and suspicion and doubts had walked with him as constant companions. But, as he finally lay his head down, he searched his heart for those doubts and found none. Instead he found rest, and a feeling that had been alien to him for much of that short life. The feeling known to the fortunate traveller at the end of a long and uncertain journey. A feeling of coming home.

He awoke feeling more refreshed than he had any right to hope for. When he finally opened his eyes Bruno was standing over him, a playful look of impatience resting on his face.

“Ulric’s toil!” Stefan exclaimed, sitting bolt upright upon the cot. “How long have I been asleep?”

“The best part of a day,” Bruno replied, keeping a straight face. “Actually,” he admitted, “little more than an hour, two at most.”

Stefan stretched and yawned. Certainly he felt as though he might have been asleep for the best part of the day. The air here clearly agreed with him.

“Is Bea awake yet?”

“Yes. We all are. They’re ready for us now, apparently.”

“They?”

Bruno shrugged. “Baecker and his men speak of them only as ‘the Guides’.”

Stefan sat up and pulled on his boots. He splashed cool water from the basin onto his face, rubbing away the last of his sleep from his eyes. “In that case,” he said, “let’s not keep them waiting.”

 

They were received in a spacious, low-ceilinged chamber somewhere near the core of the palace. The attendant who had escorted them from their rooms executed a brief, low bow as he entered into the room. Stefan repeated the gesture. As he looked up, he scanned the chamber to take stock of who or what they were about to be presented to.

The chamber had few concessions made to luxury. If this was the office of the high council, or whoever ruled Sigmarsgeist, then it was austere indeed. For all that, the room was airy and well lit, possessed of the same spartan health as the citadel itself. Stationed along the walls around the edge of the chamber were soldiers decked in the same red livery as Hans Baecker’s men. Each bore a brightly burnished sword, held upright and close to the chest, in the formal posture of vigilance. But where Stefan might otherwise have expected to see a table of high office, there was only open space and a stone floor bare except for a wide circle marked out in runes bearing pious homage to the gods. Seated within the circle was a group of about a dozen people, Baecker amongst them, some wearing the white livery that Stefan had noted earlier.

Hans Baecker got up, offered greeting, and bid them join the circle. Two officers wearing scarlet moved aside, making room for Stefan and his friends. Only as he sat did Stefan notice the man and woman who, although part of the wider circle, seemed by their presence to dominate. The man, Stefan saw at once, was the one he had seen depicted all through the citadel.

“AH honour to our Guides,” Baecker began, addressing the couple directly. “I beg to present Stefan Kumansky, Bruno Hausmann and Beatrice de Lucht, who joined arms with us in glorious battle. They have travelled far to this land, from beyond the borders of Kislev.”

“Not I,” Bea corrected him, hastily. “I hail from Mielstadt, a place not so very distant from here.”

The man that Baecker had addressed as Guide nodded, signalling familiarity with the lands to the east, or with Mielstadt, or both. He studied Stefan and his companions with the steady, unhurried ease of a man grown comfortable with holding power. His lean face and fine, almost aristocratic features, gave his face a look of power tempered with wisdom. Stefan put his age at about forty years, or possibly even more, his years betrayed by the flecks of grey in his hair and beard.

“Welcome to Sigmarsgeist,” he said. “Through the naming of our citadel, and through the works of all its people, we glorify the spirit and memory of our great emperor.” He turned to the woman next to him. “We extend the hand of friendship to these, our most honoured guests, do we not?”

The woman was some ten years or so younger, with dark hair swept back from an unblemished, olive-skinned face. Her heavy-lidded eyes would have given her an almost languid look but for the expression in the eyes themselves: bright and piercing. Like her companion, she exuded authority. She sat, hand-in-hand with her neighbour, yet some similarity in the delicately chiselled features of the two suggested they were not husband and wife. The woman inclined her head and favoured the newcomers with a smile.

“You are welcome indeed,” she concurred. “We have had reports of your valour in coming to the aid of our people—both with your swords, and—” her smile broadened as it fell upon Bea—“with your sacred powers of healing. We are thankful indeed, and indebted.”

“Your thanks are appreciated,” Stefan replied, “but you owe us no debt. Your enemies are ours, too.”

“Indeed they are,” her companion concurred. “I am Konstantin von Augen, the Father of Sigmarsgeist.” He indicated the woman seated beside him. “And this is Anaise, my beloved sister.”

Stefan bowed again. “You rule over a most remarkable city.”

Von Augen raised both hands as if to fend away the words.

“No, no,” he insisted. “We do not rule. Here in Sigmarsgeist we have moved beyond the crude rudiments of rule and servitude.” He looked to his sister. “The title of Guide is carefully chosen. We provide guidance to the people of this citadel: spiritual, moral, practical guidance. If the people follow that lead, then it is through choice.”

“Choice,” Anaise concurred, “and a shared view of the troubled world we walk upon.”

“I beg your pardon,” Stefan demurred. “I see there is much we have to learn about your city.”

“There is, and you shall,” Konstantin agreed. “But first, we would learn a little of you, if you have no objection.”

“Of course.” Stefan’s heart told him to be as open with his hosts as possible, yet his head told him there were aspects of their recent history that he should hold back yet a while. He would see; something told him that Konstantin and his sister had already guessed at much of their tale.

“You have been in Kislev,” Konstantin began. “Perhaps you were at Erengrad?”

“We were,” Stefan confirmed. “We fought with the army of men led by Gastez Castelguerre.” A ripple of conversation spread across the room in response to Stefan’s words. Remote the citadel might have been, but it was clear that news of the battle in the east had reached Sigmarsgeist.

“The army that denied the Dark Ones in their assault upon the city?”

“Yes.”

Konstantin nodded, approvingly. “And now Erengrad is made whole again,” he said. “A new alliance is forged between the great families that would rule that mighty city.”

“We had a part in that, too,” Bruno added, before Stefan could consider his response. “It was Stefan and I—amongst others—who returned the daughter of one family, safely home from exile.”

“Truly?” Konstantin’s eyebrows arched in surprise, his calm countenance broken for a moment. “Then you are due honour indeed.” He conferred briefly with his sister. Stefan heard the word “Altdorf” repeated, together with other cities within the Empire. “But tell me,” he went on, “if you are now on your way back to Altdorf, how did your journey bring you here? By my calculation, your road should have taken you due south from Kislev, along the trading route that runs to the city of the White Wolf?”

Stefan hesitated. This was the part that instinct would have had him hold back, the purpose behind their quest since quitting Erengrad. But, then again, he could think of no good reason why now he should not be candid. They shared a common cause, he reminded himself. More than that, it was surely not beyond possibility that the men of Sigmarsgeist would choose to aid them in their search for Zucharov.

“If we were bound for Altdorf our road would indeed have been for Middenheim,” he conceded. “But we cannot go home yet. We fear that one of our closest comrades may have been taken at Erengrad.”

“Taken?” Anaise queried. “You mean killed?”

“We believe he still lives,” Bruno said. “Lives, but only so far as a man can be said to live when tainted with the poison of Chaos.”

His words sparked further animated conversation around the circle. Konstantin called for silence, and cupped his head in his hands in contemplation. “Like you, I would be disquieted at such news,” he said. “But to come this far for one man? The world is large, and—as I’m sure you need no reminding—there is much evil to be found. Why this man?”

“This is—or was—no ordinary man,” Stefan told him. “Alexei Zucharov was a formidable fighter in his mortal life. A man seized with an unquenchable fire for battle, for struggle. We greatly fear that Chaos will only have added to that power, and have turned it way from light, towards the darkness.” He paused, deep in thoughts of his own. “Besides, Alexei was a comrade, a brother of the sword. I have a debt to discharge, a debt to the man I once knew.”

“So, your search can only end in ultimate resolution, for you or for the man who was once your friend.” Konstantin observed. His sister peered intently at Stefan.

“You are a driven man, Stefan Kumansky,” she concluded. “You see what others often will not see. You have decided you will not rest while there is evil upon the face of this world.”

Stefan said nothing for a moment. The feeling that Anaise von Augen had so easily captured the very essence of him was far from comfortable, but he could not disagree.

“It never seemed like a choice to me.”

Anaise rose to her feet. “A noble tale,” she exclaimed. Her face was flushed, her voice strident and enthusiastic. “Your cause is just and valiant, and it is your valour that has brought you here to us.”

“The same valour may take us from here before long,” Stefan observed, cautiously. “We cannot relinquish our search for more than a day or two.”

“Of course, of course,” Konstantin concurred. “But you must remain with us a while yet, draw strength and such provisions as we can offer. Then you can ride on with full belly and good heart. Will you consent to rest with us at least until the halving of the moons?”

“Enough talk for now, brother!” Anaise chided, resuming her place. “Time to tell our guests something of the history of our citadel. I assure you,” she added, turning to Stefan, “it is a history worth hearing.”

Konstantin von Augen smiled, and took his sister’s hand. He laughed, a soft, gentle sound. “As ever, you guide your errant brother back upon the just course,” he said. “Apologies, dear friends. I had not meant to cause offence, nor press you unduly concerning the length of your stay with us.”

“No offence taken,” Stefan assured him. The halving of the moons was little more than three nights distant. Whilst they had no trail to pursue, nor any lead remaining that they might follow, it hardly seemed like time wasted to stay that long in a place such as Sigmarsgeist.

He glanced at Bruno, and read the assent in his comrade’s eyes. “We would be honoured to accept your hospitality until the halving night,” he said.

Konstantin clapped his hands together, firmly. “Then let us all here break fast together,” he declared. “For there are few stories told that do not sit better upon a full stomach.”