CHAPTER SEVEN

Against the Dark Tide

 

 

They breakfasted on bread, fruit and cheese, and drank from flagons of water. Whilst they ate, Konstantin and Anaise recounted their history to Stefan and his two companions.

“We know your lands well enough,” Konstantin informed them. “Though it is—how long?”

“Ten full years,” his sister supplied.

“Ten years,” Konstantin continued, “since we began our pilgrimage from those lands.”

“Where in the Empire are you from?” Stefan asked them.

“Middenheim, Nuln, Altdorf, we have known most of the great cities,” Anaise replied. “And many other places in between. But none of them could we call home.”

“You see,” Konstantin went on, “we became refugees in our own land. My sister and I, and others like us. There were few enough of us at first, but, over time we grew steadily in number.”

“We grew in number until we decided the time had come to go in search of a place where we could build ourselves a home,” Anaise explained. “A place where we could live in peace, free of persecution.”

“A place where we could devote all our energies to our greater purpose,” Konstantin added, eyeing the newcomers carefully.

“And what was that purpose?” Bea asked. “What cause could sustain you across all those hundreds of miles, then make you to build a city like this?”

“Knowledge,” Anaise replied. “Knowledge, and our fears for the dark times to come.”

“Understand this,” Konstantin interjected. “Sigmarsgeist is a place of purity, of devotion to the ideals enshrined by our ancestor and emperor. But it is also a fortress ready to stand against all the dark might of Chaos.”

Stefan sat, absorbing the words. It was not often that he heard the name of the dark powers spoken so openly. Nor had he known a people whose whole purpose seemed so defined by the existence of evil. The revelation thrilled and troubled him in equal measure. In the end it was Bruno who voiced the doubts in Stefan’s mind.

“But, surely,” he insisted, “the threat from Chaos has been overcome? You cannot tell me the battle for Erengrad was for nothing.”

“It was not,” Konstantin agreed. “And yet Chaos is far from overcome.” He picked a piece of fruit from the bowl at his feet and began to eat slowly, methodically. “Erengrad was an important victory, and your part in that victory will surely stand amongst the great deeds of history. But the war in Kislev was a beginning, not an end, and Erengrad but a single piece in the larger design yet to unfold.”

“The larger design?” Stefan asked. He much feared he would not like the answer he would hear. The Guide looked up, scrutinising each of their faces in turn.

“The larger design is absolute, all-engulfing war,” he said solemnly. “War that will sweep like a black tide across the face of the known world. At its centre will be the Empire, the prize coveted above all prizes by the Dark Gods. It will be a conflagration set against which the wars in Kislev will seem like nothing but a minor skirmish. A rehearsal for a tragedy the like of which mankind has only imagined in its worst nightmares.” He paused, letting the heavy silence settle upon the chamber. “Unless we art now, it will be the final enactment of our existence.”

Bruno reached for his cup, then set it to the ground without drinking. “Then victory in Erengrad-”

“Bought us time, no more, no less. But the powers of Chaos will have learned lessons from their grievous wounds. When they return, they will be stronger, more cunning, and more cruel than ever before.”

Stefan reflected upon the Guides’ words. The vision that they conjured appalled him. But in truth, it only accorded with what in his heart he knew to be true. That all life would become struggle; that the battle between light and dark would only intensify, not diminish. He had been born to sustain that struggle, to ensure that there would be another dawn to fight for, and another after that.

Even this did not fully explain the existence of Sigmarsgeist. He looked from Konstantin to his sister Anaise.

“I share your fears for the world. But would not your cause—and the cause of all mankind—be better served by bringing the swords of your men to bear in the service of Middenheim, or Talabheim, or any of the great cities you have named? If what you say is true, then they will have grave need before long.”

“We would do so gladly,” Anaise replied, “were the rulers of those cities not blind to all reason.”

“The Empire has seen clear warning of the dark flood to come,” Konstantin said, gravely. “Seen the warning, and chosen to ignore it. When I look upon my former homeland, I see a land that has become lazy and corrupt. Too busy with its own conceits to see the mortal danger now facing it. We here are pledged to defend the inheritance of our mighty Sigmar. To defend it, if necessary, by building the world anew after the dark tide has finally ebbed.”

“But surely,” Bruno protested, “all true men are loyal to the memory of our great Emperor?”

“No!” Konstantin thundered. “Not all, not by any means. Look anywhere, and you will see decadence, indifference and self-obsession. Mark my words, the Empire will not waken to the threat until it is too late.” He paused, his face reddened with anger. “I take no pleasure in this,” he declared, “but I must speak what I know to be true. You are honest men. Can you say otherwise?”

Stefan hesitated. Dearly as he might want to contradict this bleak vision, in all honesty, he could not. He himself had grown used to being branded a madman or a fool, a zealot who saw evil lurking where others saw none. He understood exactly what the Guides meant, and he feared for the peril that the world might face.

“Do not misunderstand,” Anaise continued, her soft tone a contrast to her brother’s. “When the time comes, we will help our brothers and sisters in the Empire in any way we can. But we will not trust our survival to complacent, bloated leaders who might choose to look the other way. In building Sigmarsgeist, we have taken our destiny into our own hands.”

“Not completely, surely,” Stefan interjected, thinking of a comment Bea had made. “Don’t you still trade with the world outside?”

“True, for the moment,” Konstantin conceded. “Sigmarsgeist is growing faster than we have capacity to feed ourselves. So, yes, we trade with the nearer villages.”

“We take whatever we cannot produce ourselves,” Anaise added. “Water, particularly, is scarce here.”

“But take against what?” Bruno asked. “What do you offer in return?”

“Our strength,” Anaise replied, matter-of-factly. “We can protect them from the dark hordes that prey upon them. At least,” she added, “as far as they will allow us to protect them.”

“Remember, not all see the struggle between dark and light as starkly as we,” Konstantin reminded them. “I regret we are not welcome everywhere, however good our intentions.”

His voice trailed away, lost in contemplation. Anaise continued the story. “In time Sigmarsgeist will become our fortress,” she told them. “Our great ship, upon which we shall ride out the turbulent seas of change soon to afflict us all. We are the True Faith of Sigmar.” She spread her arms wide, towards the sentries standing guard upon the chamber.

“These are his soldiers. Their tunics are the red of Sigmar’s blood.”

Anaise indicated the smaller group of men sitting with them in the circle. “Those gathered around you are from our elite inner guard,” she explained. “The white that they wear signifies the purity of their faith.”

The dozen or so white-clad men had so far sat silent, but one now turned towards Stefan and addressed him directly “Our purpose is to protect the Guides,” he said. “Protect them from all danger.”

Stefan bowed politely in the man’s direction. The answering look he received was cold, and far from friendly. Stefan had grown used to the welcome they had received in Sigmarsgeist. It came of something of a shock when he realised that the comment had been meant as a warning. Before he could reply, Hans Baecker spoke up, the emotion apparent in his voice.

“They are here as our guests,” he proclaimed. “And, lest we forget, they have already proven themselves on the field of battle.” He looked around the room before fastening his gaze upon the man who had spoken. “I see no mischief in any one of them, only good.”

“That is why you wear the red of Sigmar,” the other said, coldly. “And I wear the white.”

Stefan stood up, determined that they should not be the cause of any ill-blood. “It is right and proper to remain vigilant,” he said, in deference to the first man. “And in truth you know no more of us, than we do of you. But I swear by almighty Sigmar, we come in friendship, and wish no harm upon any of your people.”

“You will do no harm,” the man replied, offering Stefan a brief, humourless smile. “We will see to that.”

Konstantin brought the exchange to a halt with a single, abrupt gesture. “Enough,” he commanded. “All of us here speak from the heart. Doubtless, what we hold in our hearts for us is true.”

Anaise apologised to Stefan and his companions. “Rilke means you no ill,” she said. “He was chosen for his diligence, not for his manners.”

There was a moment of tense silence which was broken by a gentle laughter, begun by Konstantin, then spreading through the circle as others took their cue from their Guide. Finally, and with some reluctance, Rilke himself joined in.

“No offence was intended,” he said gruffly. “I speak my mind, that’s all.”

“No offence is taken,” Stefan assured him. “Candour is a virtue to be valued like all others.”

Anaise von Augen clapped her hands. “We have spent too long talking,” she declared. “Sigmarsgeist must be experienced. Words alone cannot do justice to its glories.” She stood up. “Now that you are fed and rested, you must look upon our works at first hand.”

“Gladly,” Stefan affirmed.

Konstantin looked to his sister. “Shall I be their guide, sister?”

“Or I?” Baecker asked. “I would be happy to show our friends the glories of our citadel.”

“No,” Anaise said, firmly. “I’ll take them myself She turned towards Stefan and the others and smiled, knowingly. That way, I get to have our friends all to myself for a while.”

 

For all that, they were not to be entirely alone with Anaise. Two escorts were assigned to them, one wearing the white of the elite guard, the other the red of the regular militia. They went to a courtyard facing the palace, where a carriage and horses waited. “You will want to see what lies within the palace itself,” Anaise told them. “We’ll finish our tour with that. First, let me show you our citadel.” She ushered them inside the cabin. The guards joined the footman up above, and within moments they were away on their journey.

For the next hour or so the carriage took them through the maze of streets that was Sigmarsgeist. Close up, what from a distance had appeared as a unified design looked anything but. Some streets were made wide, and ran straight as an arrow, whilst others were narrow lanes that would suddenly wind back upon themselves in twisting curves. Similarly the buildings. Many were plain to the eye, clean but austere, built surely with only function in mind. But more than a few had been built from stone that had been carved with elaborate, often beautiful shapes or inscribed with tableaux depicting the gods of the Empire, or Konstantin himself. Stefan didn’t quite know what to make of it. It was as though the plans for several cities had come together in one. The results were fascinating, but confusing as well.

But whatever the purpose that lay behind its design, Sigmarsgeist exuded an undeniable vitality. Every corner of every street, and every building, was occupied, busy with activity of a particular and purposeful kind. Stefan had grown used to viewing city life as at best a happy accident—a muddled confluence of hundreds, sometimes thousands of individuals, with their own business to follow, their own battles to be won. Life was untidy, wasteful and noisy, and conflict was inevitable. Sigmarsgeist had no lack of bustle, but the populace seemed wedded to a single purpose, their labours orchestrated and meshed together like a well-drilled army. An army of builders.

All across the city, they found teams of men and women labouring amongst the shells and wooden frames of new buildings. A fine dust hung about the air, and hardly ever seemed to settle. On the streets, carts and wagons loaded with timber struts, flint and steel rolled past in an endless procession.

“When will all this work be finished?” Bruno asked. Anaise made a non-committal gesture, as though the question were one without precise answer. “Each day brings new converts to the True Faith,” she said. “At the moment it may only be a few pilgrims, a mere trickle. But when the great conflagration comes, that trickle may become a flood. We must build now for the future.”

Nowhere was the work more intense than upon the city walls. Already substantial, the walkways and ramparts were being reinforced and strengthened and, in places, extended, widening the stout belt around the city. It looked, Stefan reflected, like a place preparing for a long and difficult siege.

As they travelled through the streets, rows of houses alternating with shining new foundries and workshops, other differences also became apparent. Bruno, perhaps still mulling over the plain water they had been given to wash down their breakfast, was the first to comment on an odd deficiency.

“Do you know,” he said after a while. “We’ve been on the move all this time, past every manner of dwelling and building, but I don’t think I’ve seen a single inn or tavern. Are they somehow disguised?”

“Not disguised,” Anaise told him. A look of almost playful reproach crossed her face. “There are no taverns. The drinking of liquor isn’t encouraged in Sigmarsgeist. It makes man weak, leaves him open to corruption, and opens doors to the soul that are better left closed.”

Bruno sat back, aghast at the idea of a world without ale. Stefan looked at his friend and raised an eyebrow. Anaise leaned forward across the seats of the carriage, her voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s Konstantin’s thing, really,” she explained. “His heart is so pure, but that purity brings strictness. He believes that all of us are vulnerable to the dark powers, and he has ruled against anything that might sow the seeds of weakness.”

“Even a mug of beer?” Bruno asked, incredulous.

“Even a mug of beer.”

“It’s not such a terrible thing,” Bea commented, slightly stiffly. “Remember what drink did for the kind burghers of Mielstadt.”

“That’s true,” Stefan said. He caught his friend’s eye and shrugged. “Things are indeed different here.”

He looked out from the carriage window as they rode past yet another work party, half a dozen loaded wagons being followed by a gang of workers, marching two abreast, shepherded on each side by a row of soldiers. Stefan found himself puzzled by the sight.

“Are those men prisoners?” he asked Anaise. “Why are there so many guards?”

“Prisoners?” she responded. “I wouldn’t have thought so. Perhaps they’re going to work outside the city walls.” The carriage steered left, bringing it back onto the main highway that led through the centre of the citadel. “We’ll be back at the palace in just a little while,” Anaise continued. “That’s where things get interesting.” She leant forward and pointed out of the carriage window. “Now, look out here,” she exclaimed. “Those are prisoners.”

She rapped upon the compartment wall, bringing the carriage to a sudden halt. On the opposite side of the road was a group of about half a dozen, tall, blond-haired men wearing the tattered remnants of dark armour, some bearing the insignia of a horned beast. The men shuffled forward slowly in a line, each one shackled to the next. They were being shepherded by a row of soldiers, swords drawn at the ready. The prisoners hurled curses at their guards and anyone else within earshot in a coarse, guttural tongue that was uncomfortably familiar to Stefan.

“Who are they?” Bea asked.

“Wait a moment,” Anaise replied. She opened the carriage window and leant out, exchanging a few words with the men seated above. The coachman descended and went to speak with the guard escorting the prisoners. After a brief conversation he returned to the carriage and reported to Anaise.

“Norscans,” she explained. “A party of marauders found wandering a day or so ago on the eastern plains. Doubtless they’ve come from Kislev—part of the Chaos army that you helped destroy. If so,” she concluded, “their days of mischief are now at an end.”

Bea watched the bruised and bloodied faces of the captives. A look of pity mixed with disgust passed across her face. “What will happen to them?”

“That depends,” Anaise said. “The strongest will be put to work upon the walls. Or the quarries or the mines beyond the walls, if we think they’re capable of it. Others—well…”

As Stefan looked from the window, one of the prisoners turned towards the carriage, and their eyes briefly met. The Norscan stared at Stefan with a disdainful loathing. The man’s lips moved in an inaudible curse, and he hawked a gobbet of blood-flecked phlegm upon the ground.

“There were certainly Norscans at Erengrad,” Stefan confirmed, turning away “Kin to the same marauders who plundered my village when I was a boy. I know only too well what they’re capable of.”

“Don’t worry,” Anaise assured him. These will make full atonement for their sins before we’re done with them. Now-' She rapped again upon the pane behind her. “Let’s away. There’s plenty yet that you must see.”

The carriage swung back into the square where their tour had begun, passing through the guarded outer wall that led to the palace. Without waiting for their escorts, Anaise climbed out and began walking towards a set of double doors set to one side of the main gate into the palace. Bruno helped Bea down, and with Stefan they followed their host across the courtyard, the two escorts a discreet distance behind. Anaise flung wide the door on one side to reveal a set of gates, locked and barred. The guard in white now stepped forward, bearing a set of keys, one of which he inserted in the lock. The other guard approached with a second key, and repeated the procedure. The heavy gate swung open and a gust of air wafted out, bearing with it a smell of antiquity reminiscent of an ancient place of worship.

“We’re about to enter the oldest part of the city,” Anaise told them. The only part which remains from the time-' She broke off, a look of concern clouding her features. She strode forward and caught hold of Bea just as the girl was about to topple.

“What’s the matter?” she asked Bea. “Are you sick?” she motioned to a guard. “Fetch her some water.”

“No, there’s no need,” Bea assured her. She steadied herself for a moment, leaning into Anaise for support. “Give me a moment. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Stefan asked. Bruno placed a protective arm upon Bea’s shoulder. “We’ve done too much travelling. You need more rest.”

“No, really,” Bea insisted. She took a deep breath, and wiped her brow. Anaise was studying her intently.

“What could have brought on such a thing?”

“It’s nothing, really,” Bea replied at last. “Or, rather, it’s not nothing. Just—”

“Go on.”

“I felt it even as we were standing on the hillside, looking down upon the citadel,” Bea explained. “An energy—a great, powerful energy.” She looked around at Stefan and the others. “More than that,” she went on, sounding faintly embarrassed now. “It felt like it was calling to me, as though I was meant to be here. I thought at first it was my imagination. But I felt it again here just now. Only this time it was much stronger—almost overwhelming.”

Anaise turned Bea gently, and led her towards the open gates. “I’m sure this was no imagining on your part,” she said, quietly. “I’m sure that you are, truly meant to be with us here. Come,” she said, ushering them on. “Come, all of you. See what lies at the very heart of Sigmarsgeist.”

 

Bruno helped Bea through the portal into the darkened interior of a small antechamber. There they waited whilst one of the guards brought a lamp, then followed in single file behind Anaise, down a spiral stairway that corkscrewed deep below ground. Something was different here: in the faint, musty odour that hung upon the air, in the very fabric of the building that they were inside. From the condition of the walls, and the stairway under their feet, it was clear that part of the building was newly made, and some of it was quite old. New brick and mortar were fused with older, mould-encrusted stone, in such a way that it was impossible to say where one became the other. Much of the walls was decorated with runes carved into the stone. Most were so worn away with age, they were impossible to read.

“It was important we kept some link with the age gone by,” Anaise commented. “Down here our bright future meets with the shadows of our past.”

“Then these are the remains of the city that was here before,” Bea said. “Before Sigmarsgeist?”

“A city, or perhaps cities,” Anaise replied. “There may have been many.”

“What was its name?” Stefan asked. “The place that stood here before.”

“No one knows—there have been settlements here since before the time of men.” She turned and smiled at Stefan. “There were only dead ruins here when we came to lay the foundations for Sigmarsgeist.”

“And when was that?” Stefan asked her. “When did that labour begin?”

“The first stone was laid at dawn,” Anaise replied, pausing briefly upon the step, “two years after our quest for a home had begun. Dawn on the morn of Geheimnisnacht, eight years ago.”

Geheimnisnacht, the day of mystery. It struck Stefan as somehow appropriate.

“You have toiled mightily hard,” Bruno commented, “to build such a place in so short a time.”

“Hard indeed,” Stefan echoed. To have constructed a city this size from nothing, and in only eight years, seemed almost beyond belief.

“We have worked hard,” Anaise agreed. “And our work is only still beginning.”

They had reached the foot of the stairs, which opened out onto an antechamber much like the one above. Before them lay another set of locked gates. Once again, the guards turned keys in each of two huge locks. Stefan was reminded of a brief but uncomfortable visit to the grim Imperial dungeons of Altdorf.

“This is a prison,” he said.

“In part,” Anaise replied. “And much more.”

They passed through the gates, the heavy steel clanging shut behind them. From somewhere deep within the subterranean expanse there came the faint sound of voices crying out in pain or in anguish. Stefan thought of the Norscan prisoners they had passed on the street, and of Anaise’s words: they’ll make full atonement for their sins. He knew there was no atonement that would purge the hatred for their kind from his heart. He could slake his thirst for vengeance, but he knew it would always return.

They followed Anaise along a wide passage, past other dark corridors that led off into the gloom beneath the city. The roof was just high enough for a man to pass through walking upright. It was dark, lit only by the faint glimmerings of daylight that penetrated from airshafts, and by lanterns posted at intervals along the passageway. “This would be our place of last resort, our final refuge,” Anaise explained. “A place of final defence in the face of the black tide. Of course,” she added, “we hope it will never come to that.”

“Pray to Sigmar himself it will not,” Bruno concurred.

Anaise came to a door set in the left wall of the passage and waited whilst they gathered round. “By the way,” she said, “there’s said to be water somewhere down here too. A hidden spring. What do you make of that?” The last words seemed to be addressed to Bea in particular. The healer made no reply, but her face betrayed a sudden flicker of emotion.

“I’d say, let’s hope it stays hidden,” Bruno declared. “At least until we’re safely above ground.”

Anaise smiled. “I’m sure it will,” she said, and eased the door open.

Beyond was a chamber, lit by the thin, jaundiced light of the lamps. A rush of air escaped as the door was levered open, air pungent with the sour tang of death and putrefaction.

“Merciful gods,” Bruno exclaimed, quickly covering his nose and mouth with his hand. “What abomination is this?”

Anaise stepped inside, wrapping a portion of her gown about her face to form a mask. “It is evil,” she said. “In here we confront our darkest fears.”

She disappeared into the gloom of the inner chamber. Stefan took a deep breath, and followed, steeling himself for whatever might be inside.

Standing in the twilit gloom were three figures, men dad in dark robes, their faces obliterated by masks. They carried instruments of shining steel in their hands, and Stefan thought momentarily of surgeons, their blades blessed in the hope of curing, not killing.

But this was no house of healing. The room stank of the charnel house. This was surely a place of death, not life. The three men stood stock still, their eyes betraying surprise at the entrance of the strangers. One, whose mask had slipped, quickly pulled it up to cover his face once more.

“It’s all right,” Anaise called to them. “These are friends, come to see our great works at first hand.” The men eyed Stefan and his companions with continuing suspicion. They stood with their backs to some kind of raised table or galley, shielding it from view.

“These are men of science,” Anaise said, in a measured aside. “Forgive their lack of social graces. Come, Joachim, do not hide your art from us.”

The three robed men stood back, and, in a frozen moment Stefan took in the scene laid out before him. On either side of the men there were tables, some filled with knives and instruments, others with bottles and vials. Beneath the long galley table was a tray that brimmed with a viscous liquid. And laid out flat upon the galley itself was a body, very clearly dead.

It was not the body of a man, though possibly it might once have been. The cadaver had the proportions and structure of a man, but the leathery hide of a reptile. The body had been sliced open along one side, the incision running from the base of its torso to the top of its misshapen skull. Several of the creature’s organs had been cut out and placed within the clear glass jars, or laid out upon silver trays positioned on either side of the body. From the open incision, a stream of something oily and viscous oozed from the body, falling into a vessel below the galley. It wasn’t blood, though the milky flow was flecked with red. The stench from the body was beyond belief. As they watched, the contents of the vessel shifted and stirred.

“Shallya save us,” Bea whispered. “There’s something alive in there.”

“Maggots,” Stefan said, fighting the urge to retch. Anaise looked at him, and nodded. “The mark of Nurgle,” she said. “Dark lord of infestation and decay.”

Stefan stared at the scene, quietly aghast. “What is going on here?” he demanded. “What in the name of Sigmar are they doing?”

“This is no casual examination,” Anaise replied, coldly. “Our physicians are studying the ways of the Dark Powers. Only through understanding evil can we hope to destroy it.”

She turned towards Stefan, a defiant challenge burning in her eyes. “Or would you rather we knew nothing of our enemy, until they were feasting on the corpses of our dead?”

“I feel as though I already know too much,” Bruno said, keeping his hand clamped over his mouth.

Bea turned away, a trembling in her body. Her face was a confusion of disappointment and anger. “This is horrible,” she pronounced, her voice very small.

Stefan found he did not know what to think. The sight of the mutant, dissected upon the surgeons’ table, repelled and fascinated him in equal measure. Part of him could not believe that man could work in such intimate proximity to evil without becoming evil himself. But, if, truly, Chaos could be understood, measured and weighed like the pieces upon a scale—what then? Perhaps one day, finally, it could be overcome. Forever.

There was a brief, and uncomfortable space in the conversation, a tension finally broken by Anaise. “Come,” she said. “This is a shock to your senses, and I should apologise for inflicting it upon you without warning.” She hesitated. “We should return to the Seat of the Guides. Konstantin will be able to explain this to you so much better than I.”

None of them had any objections. It was a relief to get beyond the door of the chamber, putting the physicians and their grim endeavour beyond both sight and mind. The four and their guards retraced their steps a distance through the passage. The sound of voices began again to grow louder.

“We are near the cells now. Do you want to come and look?” She extended a hand towards Stefan. “I think of you as our friends. I want to keep no secrets from you. I want you to know exactly what Sigmarsgeist is, what it stands for. Only then can you truly judge.”

“After what we have seen, I doubt little else can shock us,” Stefan replied.

“It cannot fail but be easier on the stomach,” Bruno agreed. He took Bea’s hand. “Come on,” he said, encouragingly. “We’ll be back above ground in no time.”

The prison cells lay beyond a further set of gates, their iron bars thicker and sturdier than either of the two they had passed through before. Any captive would surely look upon them and despair of ever regaining his liberty. As they made their way through the chill grey of another passageway, the isolated cries gradually grew to a cacophony.

“Their agony comes from within,” Anaise commented. “The Dark Gods began their torture long before they ever found themselves here.”

There were series of iron doors along the length of the passage, a dozen or so on each side. Many of the lightless cells were empty, but, in others, something malevolent stirred. Creatures thrashed at the chains that held them fastened to the walls, or roared belligerent hate at the sound of footsteps outside. Stefan caught glimpses of the creatures that only evil could beget: an orc, the green-skinned killer staring at its captors with brutish defiance; two beastmen, bull-headed mutants locking horns in snarling, futile combat in the narrow confines of their cell. Creatures so wedded to violence that they would tear each other apart if they could find no better foe.

But amongst the monsters there were also men. More of the Norscans, the mark of mutation not yet apparent on all of them. And others, some in armour, some not. Soldiers, perhaps, or mercenaries. Who knew what they were, or what they had been? They were all prisoners now.

“Where have they all come from?” Bruno asked.

“Some are the flotsam of the war in Kislev,” Anaise told him. “Those who fled south, hoping to find easy pickings in the unprotected lands of the Ostermark.” She pulled back from the narrow bars of a cell as a face loomed out of the darkness, venomous fangs snapping at her hand.

“Yet some of these are men,” Bruno protested. “Ordinary men.”

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised, then turned to Stefan. “You do not think that evil can take human form?”

Stefan knew only too well what the answer was. Evil could take on almost any form. Chaos was never more dangerous than when it cloaked itself in familiarity.

“What will happen to them?” he asked.

“Many will be put to work, building against the day when their kind will return to threaten the world. Others…” she inclined her head back the way they had come.

“Others will serve in other ways.”

Something in the thought appalled Stefan, appalled and disgusted him. And yet he knew that reason was all on Anaise von Augen’s side. If the mastery of Chaos was the end to which they were striving, who was to say that the ends did not justify the means?

“Please,” Bea steadied herself against Bruno’s side, and gasped for breath. Her face had turned a deathly pale.

“She needs some air,” Bruno declared. “And for that matter, so do I. I’ve seen enough here.”

Anaise turned to Stefan. “Have you seen enough?”

Stefan took in the rows of cells, the inhuman wailing from the creatures trapped inside. It was the stuff of nightmares. But if, within that nightmare, there existed a seed of hope that that evil could not only be contained, but conquered? Was that a nightmare, or a dream?

“I’ve seen things we’ve never seen before,” he said. “And, for that matter, never thought to see.” He looked at Anaise, and nodded. “Yes, I have seen enough.”

Anaise signalled to one of the guards. “Take our guests back above,” she instructed. “See that their needs are attended to.”

 

Anaise waited whilst the guard led Stefan and the others away. She listened as they ascended the steps towards daylight, listened to the sound of their footsteps echo and fade. Then she turned back along the passageway, the second guard following at a distance. As she passed along the row of cells the cacophony of hate erupted again. The captives screamed out at her in their torment, their hatred for all her kind. Anaise inclined her head one way, then the other, and kept walking with the serenity of the invulnerable.

Near the end of the row she stopped by a cell, and slid back the narrow panel in the door. A powerful scent wafted from the cell. Not the stench of decay, but something quite different: a sweet, animal scent, earthy and cloying. The smell of both fear and desire, of dread, and of anticipation. Anaise flinched away, but drank it down all the same. She edged closer, and looked inside.

Crouched upon the floor of the cell were two or more bodies, their smooth skins glistening in the gloom. Their bodies were intertwined, in some kind of grotesque embrace. Sensing Anaise, they broke apart. One of the creatures stood and turned to the door. The figure was slender and quite hairless. Neither quite human nor animal, neither male nor female. Its body was covered with what at first looked like wounds, a scattering of swollen, cherry bruises all across its arms and chest. It peered out at Anaise, its pale, almond eyes holding her in its liquid gaze. The bruises swelled and parted, splitting open like ripe fruit. A dozen miniature mouths opened in a facsimile of a smile; tiny tongues forking through needle-pointed teeth. Anaise pulled her gaze away but stayed fixed by the door, breathing in the musk-drenched odour of the cell.

“My lady.” She turned at the voice of the guard, standing several steps behind her in the passageway. The white-clad soldier stood waiting for instruction, his face blank of emotion. “My lady?”

Anaise cast a final, long, look at the apparition. She shivered, then looked away. “No,” she said to the guard. “Not this time. Let us away.”