CHAPTER EIGHT

The Well of Sadness

 

 

“Your comrades have found these things shocking, Stefan. I understand that. But you must try to understand us, understand our purpose. The forces we will face in that final battle recognise no fairness, no noble ideals of honour. They will use every opportunity, every cruel turn of fortune against us. If we are to survive the coming storm, then we must be prepared to do likewise. We must fight fire with fire. There is no room in our armoury for compassion.”

Konstantin von Augen waited to see how his words would play with Stefan. His worn but still vigorous face betrayed no hint of guile or duplicity. Stefan had no doubt that he meant every word of what he said with a passion and a conviction that could only be admired.

For all that, Stefan was feeling less at his ease in the Guide’s presence that morning. He had become uncomfortable with Konstantin’s zeal and certainty, and uncomfortable, too, with the thought that he had found himself so readily seduced by it. There was no disputing that there was much in what he had seen and heard that found a place in his heart. In so many ways, Sigmarsgeist offered a vision of the world that he had been unable to find anywhere else in his years of searching. He should feel at home here. And, the gods knew, he had waited long enough for that.

But instead, Stefan was feeling vaguely troubled. Something was worrying him, some nagging memory that lay just out of reach. Had he found what they had seen, deep below ground, shocking? Stefan would not have thought it possible. All his life, since the night of childhood when life changed forever, Stefan had lived to see the world purged of the forces of Chaos. Anything, surely, that led along that road must be right, must be honourable? And yet, and yet…

Konstantin read the doubt clouding his features. “What is it, Stefan? You must tell me honestly what is in your heart.” The Guide cast his eyes around the small chamber. “It’s all right,” he added. “We speak privately here. Whatever you have to say to me goes no further.”

“I don’t know,” Stefan told him. “Perhaps I’m just tired, that’s all.” It was true, he was tired. He had slept badly, the night hours punctuated by dreams of running through the streets of a village, between houses wracked with flame, thick, oily smoke pouring from every window. In the dream, Stefan had been chasing someone, a person who always kept ahead of him, just out of sight. That in itself did not perturb him much. Dreams of smoke and fire had been his nocturnal companions on countless occasions since that night in Odensk, and given what had happened in the last few days it was perhaps little surprise that they had returned to haunt him now.

“You look tired,” Konstantin agreed. “There is something lacking in your quarters, perhaps?”

“No, no,” Stefan assured him. “It’s just—” he paused, searching for the right words. “I’m just wondering whether soon we must take our leave of Sigmarsgeist.”

Konstantin nodded, sympathetically. “I know, you have a quest to fulfil,” he said. “I would be the last to stand in the way of that. But do you truly know where that quest will take you from here?”

“No,” Stefan answered him, truthfully. “I do not.”

“Then why not stay?” Konstantin urged. “Sigmarsgeist is still young, Stefan. What you have seen is only the birth, the seed that has yet to grow into a mighty tree. You could be part of that.” He placed his hands firmly upon Stefan’s shoulders. “We have great need of men such as you, Stefan. Your skills would be prized here.”

“Maybe so,” Stefan conceded. “But my life belongs upon the road, I think. I’m happier seeking out trouble than waiting for it to find me.”

It was a good answer, and not without truth. Over time he could have chosen any number of well-paid, and probably comfortable, lives as a bodyguard, armed retainer or chief of a private militia. And before he left Erengrad, Gastez Castelguerre had made him a better offer yet. To join the secret few, the men known as the Keepers of the Flame, pledged to stand in eternal defiance of the forces of darkness. Then, as now, Stefan had been honoured. But he had said no, as surely he must now. It was his destiny to be the restless soldier, always on the move. And as long as Alexei Zucharov and his kind were waiting, somewhere in the world beyond, it would have to remain that way.

Konstantin sat weighing Stefan’s words, and considering his response. “Of course,” he replied at length, a knowing smile upon his face. “You must leave whenever you see fit. But if your thirst must have you seek out evil, then you need seek no further than here. Evil is all around us, Stefan, it is everywhere.”

“I understand,” Stefan told him. “I appreciate what you believe you must do for the coming time. But I’m not sure I can wait that long.”

“No,” Konstantin said, gravely. “You do not understand. We are not simply sitting here waiting, waiting like sheep in the field for the wolf to come. We are taking our struggle to the acolytes of darkness, Stefan. Seeking them out. Destroying them wherever we find them.”

Stefan had experienced most of his life as a series of clear decisions. Often life or death had hung upon the outcome, but the way had always seemed clear. To find himself torn between two paths was something new, unusual. Instinct told him that they had already spent too long in Sigmarsgeist, that they should be back upon the road before they outstayed a generous welcome. But something urged him still to stay. It was true: what he had seen in the dungeons of the citadel had troubled him. The rules of conflict by which he had lived most of his life had been turned upside down.

“What you stand against is clear,” the Guide said. “You stand against all evil, against the foul, corrupting tide that threatens to engulf our lands. I give praise for that. Would that there were more like you.” He paused, letting the silence add weight to his words. “But let me ask you this. Can you tell me what you stand for? What causes will you champion? Where will your road lead you?”

Stefan said nothing. In his heart, he knew he had no answer to give.

“Join us,” Konstantin entreated. “Join with us and share our goal, our vision of the world to come. You belong here, Stefan. You are as one with us.”

The words struck a chord with Stefan that could not be denied. Here, in Sigmarsgeist, he had no need to try and explain himself. No need to justify his driven, single-minded quest. No need to explain why he could not rest whilst the followers of Chaos still hid within the shadows of the Old World. No need, because that was exactly the spirit that had given birth to the citadel. He could never go home from Sigmarsgeist, Stefan reflected, because he was already there.

“I’ll need to confer with my comrades,” Stefan replied at length, conscious that he was only buying time by such an answer.

“Of course,” Konstantin agreed. He truly seemed to have no wish to pressure Stefan into a decision. But the look on his face signalled his belief in what the answer would be. “I promise you,” he said, “joining the True Followers of Sigmar will be the defining moment of your life.”

Stefan bowed, and turned to leave. He opened the door to find himself face to face with Rilke, the White Guard who had spoken against them at the meeting of the council. The look on the other man’s face suggested that nothing had softened his opinion of the newcomers, and Stefan had the distinct impression that he had been standing by the door for quite some time. Rilke stood staring at him for a moment, quite unembarrassed to have been discovered. Somewhat grudgingly, he moved aside to let Stefan pass. Stefan didn’t move.

“You should have come in,” Stefan said. “That way you’d have better heard what passed between the Guide and myself.”

Rilke held Stefan’s gaze, unflinchingly. There was no humour or apology in his eyes. “I hear everything I need to hear,” he said, acidly. “Nothing you do or say is likely to escape me.” He made to push his way past Stefan, who was now barring his way into Konstantin’s chamber. “Let me pass,” he demanded. “I have urgent news for the Guide.”

Stefan held steady, keeping his body as a barrier between the man in white and the door. “You and I seem to have got off on the wrong foot,” he commented. “I hope it proves to be just a misunderstanding.” He barely caught Rilke’s muttered reply.

“There is nothing to understand,” he said. “I have a duty to do, and I’m going to do it.”

 

Bruno had risen early with the idea of exploring Sigmarsgeist on his own. Although it was still barely past dawn, the heart of the citadel was already busy. Bruno stepped from the quiet of the palace on to streets full to overflowing with people going about their work. He had no particular direction or destination in mind, although a part of him was still reluctant to believe that in all Sigmarsgeist there wasn’t a single beer-house or tavern. And if there was even one, then he would find it.

He emerged from the palace gates and started to walk down the broad avenue that passed directly through the heart of the citadel. Bruno’s sense of direction was good and it was no idle boast that he would only need be taken somewhere once in order to commit it to memory. So he followed the same sequence of streets that they had passed along in the carriage the previous day, this time taking in his surroundings at his own leisurely pace.

After an hour, he was lost. None of the streets he now passed through seemed to bear any resemblance to those he had seen the day before. Bruno couldn’t fathom it; he was sure that he had followed the same precise route, street by street. But it didn’t worry him unduly. Before long, he was sure, he would recognise a landmark. If not well then, there was no shortage of people to help him find his way.

In the meantime, he took good note of what he saw around him, and what he didn’t see. No inns or beer houses, for sure, not a single one. And no dwellings, at least none resembling the haphazard, ramshackle collections familiar from home. When he at last came to the residential quarter, it resembled nothing he had ever seen before. Instead of single houses there were great misshapen stone edifices, each large enough to house a dozen families or more.

Bruno gazed up in wonder at the carved facades, each with its array of tiny windows. He stood for a few moments, marvelling at the strangeness of it all. People, men, women and a few children poured from every doorway in a steady stream whilst those returning from their labours were coming the other way, ready to take their place in the communal homes.

Like a nest of termites, Bruno caught himself thinking. The comparison seemed harsh, but somehow apt. To a man, the workers were immersed in their daily routine, those now leaving the houses hurrying to relieve the workers returning home. But all seemed to Bruno to be in good heart, and, if most ignored him or greeted him only with the most cursory of nods, then he guessed it was because they were focused upon the day to come, or else the rest that would be their reward for their labours. He stood a while longer taking in the extraordinary scene, then walked on.

The communal quarters gave way to a road lined with storehouses, and then, in turn, to a street occupied by a huge, smoke-belching armoury, its red-bricked chimneys standing like sentries against the sky. Bruno took his time, stopping to look through the open gates and between doors, marvelling at the intensity of the heat generated by the mighty furnaces within. Outside the gates, teams of horses hauled wagons slowly up the hill past Bruno, each wagon laden with the produce of labour: heavy broadswords, axes and pikestaffs fashioned from fresh-minted steel. Truly, Bruno reflected, this was a people readying themselves for war. Could the rest of the world really have left themselves so unprepared?

Turning the corner at the head of the road, he came to a plot of open ground framed by tall, spindly trees. It was a rare enough sight in the citadel. Bruno remembered noting the scene during their journey the day before, and congratulated himself on regaining his bearings. He remembered the square as empty save for the trees, and a squat, rectangular structure at its centre, flanked by statues of the gods Taal and Ulric. Bruno had marked it for a temple or shrine of some sort.

Now, he looked on, puzzled, wondering if his memory had deceived him. The yellowish shell of the building had been almost split apart, ripped open by a tall finger of bleached white stone shaped like a pillar that had burst through the roof of the other building. Both of the statues had been felled. The holy gods lay upon the ground, their likenesses broken into several pieces.

Bruno stood and stared at the improbable structure that seemed to grow from out of the ruined temple. It looked to be made of some kind of marble, and rather than climbing straight as a chimney might, bent and twisted along its length, giving Bruno the absurd impression that it had grown up out of the ground. The column stood taller than any of the trees, and was carved from top to bottom with runes of the most intricate design. There was no way that he could not have noticed it before, and equally surely no way that such a large and elaborate structure could have been built so quickly. The white marble glinted in the sunlight, teetering above the older structure like a predator over its prey.

So distracted was he by the sight that Bruno did not notice Hans Baecker walking towards him until the two of them were almost face to face.

“What’s the matter?” Baecker demanded of Bruno, cheerily. “Are you lost?”

“No,” Bruno replied, shaking his head forcefully, hoping either memory or vision would resolve itself. “But I’d swear that yesterday that pillar—or whatever it is—wasn’t there.”

Baecker edged forward, and took a few steps around the temple, keeping a careful distance. “What are you saying?” he asked at last. “That all this has been built overnight?”

“Not all of it,” Bruno said. “Just the pillar.”

Baecker looked the pillar up and down, taking in its considerable height and the carvings etched upon its surface. “That seems unlikely,” he replied, doubtfully. “We work hard here in Sigmarsgeist, but, all the same…”

“I’m sure I’m not imagining it,” Bruno went on. Then laughed. “But, perhaps I am! Perhaps I’m actually seeing things. In which case,” he added, “only one way to find out.”

Hans Baecker began to utter some kind of caution, and he reached out to catch hold of Bruno. But Bruno was too quick, he slipped through Baecker’s grasp and darted towards the temple. If the strange, snaking pillar of stone was real then he would touch it with his own hands. Or, better still—his sword. He marched forward. At the same time he heard a sound from somewhere above his head, a sound like something cracking or splintering off. Bruno looked up, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the direct sunlight.

The next thing he was aware of was something dropping down out of the sky, a sliver of stone the shape and size of a blade. The fragment struck his outstretched hand and broke into a dozen smaller pieces. Bruno cursed loudly and staggered back, blood pouring from a deep cut in his hand. “Taal’s breath,” he swore. “That’s my sword hand.”

Hans Baecker ushered him back from the courtyard of the temple, muttering condolences. “I was trying to tell you,” he said. “Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.”

 

Bea, too, had chosen to use her time that morning for exploration of a sort. The young healer had set off in search of solitude, a quiet place where she could try and come to some understanding of the conflicting emotions at war inside her. She explored the grid of narrow lanes that ran beyond the palace, high above the rest of Sigmarsgeist. Finally she found a bench which allowed her a view that stretched across the lower levels of the citadel, towards the outer walls. She sat down in the warm sunshine, and stayed for a while watching the incessant movement in the distance. Lines of men, and women too, bearing their loads of stone, raising the line of the wall towards the sky, ever higher, ever more impregnable. Elsewhere, further along, the existing structure was being demolished and a new wall was being built beyond it, like a belt being loosened to accommodate an ever-swelling belly.

Bea stared at it all, the figures of the labourers and their scarlet escorts, stared at them hoping to find an answer to the question that would not leave her. Why had the gods brought her here? She was certain this was not the work of chance. But, for as long as she waited, she found no answer in the silent toiling of the tiny figures upon the walls. All they spoke of was the relentless march towards war, final and inevitable.

Bea turned abruptly at a light touch upon her shoulder. Anaise von Augen was standing over her, an expression of gentle curiosity upon her face.

“Oh!” Bea said, startled. “How long have you been standing there?”

“A while. I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked so peaceful.”

Bea stood up, feeling suddenly awkward and exposed under the other woman’s gaze. “Not so peaceful, actually. I think I was in search of peace, but I’m not sure I found it.”

“I’m sorry if it was I who disrupted that peace,” Anaise replied, contritely.

“Not at all,” Bea assured her. “The cause is all my own.”

Anaise turned her expression to one of concern. “What are you feeling?” she asked.

“Confused.” She saw no need to be other than truthful. Anaise took Bea’s hand and sat by her. “Now, tell me,” she began, smoothing her skirts. “I want to know what is troubling you.”

“I’m confused. Confused about myself,” Bea began, after a pause for thought. “Don’t misunderstand me, Anaise. All this—” she made a sweep of the citadel beneath them with her hand. “All of this makes perfect sense. I understand what you are doing here, I really do. And yet, yesterday, below ground—I’m sorry, I—” she broke off, lost for words.

“It’s all right,” Anaise said, softly. She reached for Bea’s hand again. “I know. I could tell it disgusted you. It made you think you could never be a part of such savagery, whatever the motive that lay behind it.”

Bea nodded, almost imperceptibly. Anaise sighed. “My brother and I have spent many nights of conversation, arguing into the small hours about such things. I do not expert you to understand, nor to accept. I understand your revulsion, Bea.”

“But do you understand this?” the younger woman countered. “Do you understand why I find myself drawn to this place, drawn by a force so powerful I can feel it even here? Drawn for no purpose that my reason can explain?”

“Well,” Anaise replied. “Much talk here has been of warriors. Of men like Stefan and Bruno, who could perform great service for Sigmarsgeist. But I think you would be of equal, if not greater value to us, Bea.” She squeezed the girl’s hands between her own. “Truly, I do.”

Bea shook her head in emphatic denial. “That’s exactly it,” she said. “I wouldn’t. Look at all this—” she indicated the citadel again. “I’m a healer. My work is amongst the sick, the diseased, the dying even. Sigmarsgeist fairly bursts with vigour and health. You have no need of me here, no need at all.”

Anaise got up, and stood for a moment, letting the sunlight play upon her upturned face. Then she looked down at Bea. “I think there’s something you ought to see,” she said. “Something I did not share with the others yesterday.” She looked around. “My carriage is close by,” she said. “It’ll be quicker that way.”

She extended her hand, and smiled, encouragingly. “Will you come?”

 

* * *

 

They rode back towards the centre of the citadel, and the palace. Neither spoke. Bea passed the time looking from the window, marvelling at how Sigmarsgeist seemed busier by the hour, like a voracious bloom, constantly growing. Inside the palace it was cool, and quiet after the bustle of the streets. Anaise led the way to a suite of chambers a single floor below ground. A soldier in the white of the elite guard escorted them through a set of heavy oak doors, and then they were alone. No guards, no distant screams. The two women stood within the eerie stillness of the inner sanctum.

“Few people ever come here,” Anaise murmured. “Not even my brother.”

Bea looked around. They were inside a circular chamber, lit by the dim glow of candles fixed at intervals around the walls. The room was unfurnished except for four chairs set facing a rounded turret or basin that sat waist-high in the centre of the chamber. The whole place smelt of dry antiquity, and was obviously far older than the rest of the citadel. Bea immediately knew that beneath the stillness in the room, the energy was stronger here than anything she had sensed before. She steadied herself against the upright back of a chair.

“What is this place?” she whispered. “Why have you brought me here?”

Anaise gave no direct answer to her question, “I know your secret,” she said instead, and smiled, knowingly. Bea’s face flushed a guilty red. She turned away from the other woman. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “What secret?”

Anaise drew the younger woman to her, taking her gently in her arms. “It’s all right,” she assured Bea. “We’re the same, you and I. The others don’t understand us. But we know. We can feel it, can’t we?”

Bea broke away in a sudden panic. She had the feeling that Anaise was looking directly into her soul. “I don’t understand,” she protested. “What—”

“Magical energy,” Anaise said. She clasped hold of Bea’s hands, and steadied her, forcing her to meet her gaze. “You can feel it, can’t you?”

Bea looked up at Anaise and a signal passed between them, an unspoken complicity. “I feel it,” Bea confirmed. “I can feel it here more than anywhere.”

Anaise led her towards the centre of the chamber. The two women stood with their backs to the raised, circular wall. Bea was at once aware of something flowing into her, powerful and irresistible.

“Turn around,” Anaise commanded, softly. Bea waited a few moments longer, then obeyed. She knew, sooner or later, she would have no choice. She found herself gazing down into a shaft which disappeared into the darkness far below. The faintest of breezes wafted up from the bottom of the shaft. Bea breathed in, and gasped, involuntarily, as her mind connected with an invisible force.

“This is why you came to Sigmarsgeist,” Anaise told her. “All that you have been searching for is here.” She pulled Bea back from the edge of the parapet. “Steady,” she advised. “It will overpower you if you’re not careful.”

Bea took a step back. Her head was still swimming. “What… is that?” she asked.

“This is the most ancient part of the old city still remaining,” Anaise told her. “The shaft passes right through the core of Sigmarsgeist. It goes deeper than we went yesterday. Far, far, deeper. I did not bring your comrades here,” she said. “They wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not sure that I understand,” Bea said, slowly. But she felt impelled to look again. Gingerly, she edged towards the open shaft and stole another glance inside. Immediately, she felt something spark inside of her. The sensation lasted no more than a moment, but it was unmistakable, nonetheless. Anaise caught sight of her confusion, and laughed.

“Careful!” she cautioned, smiling broadly. “You are like I was at first. You cannot resist it. Take care, or it will consume you.”

Bea’s heart was pounding. She took a deep breath to free herself of the sudden intoxication. “What is it?” she asked.

“It is a well spring of magic,” Anaise said. “The shaft runs right to its source. Whoever built it long ago was tapping into the unimaginable power that lies buried deep beneath the world. People are frightened of such things, but you and I understand the good that they can do.”

Bea nodded, confused and awed. She knew, and yet she did not know, not really. “I have given it a name,” Anaise continued. “The Well of Sadness.”

“Sadness?” Bea asked. “How can such a wondrous thing speak of sadness?”

“Because the well is dry,” Anaise explained. “At some time in the past the shaft has been blocked, or else the waters that fed it have ebbed away.”

“The waters,” Bea echoed. Somewhere in her mind the pieces of an ancient puzzle were coming together.

“You know,” Anaise said. “You believe. You speak its name, even to those who do not believe.”

Bea had to cling on to the other woman to keep herself from falling. She felt overwhelmed. The words were on her lips but now she could not speak.

“Tal Dur,” Anaise said at last. “The waters of Tal Dur that once rose here.”

Bea nodded. It must be so. Nothing else could account for the power she had felt flowing into her body. “Imagine,” Anaise went on, “imagine what we could achieve, what ills we could heal, if only we could tap into its mighty power once again.” She turned Bea’s face towards her until she was looking directly into the other’s eyes.

“Like me, you have longed to find Tal Dur. Tell me it’s so.”

“In my dreams I have often stepped into its waters,” Bea whispered. “And through its divine will, I have brought healing to the world.”

Anaise smiled at her, indulgently “So pure,” she murmured, “so beautiful.” She ran her fingers through the copper curls of Bea’s hair. “You should grow your hair long,” she told her. “Grow it long like a priestess of Shallya.”

Bea twisted away. A frown crossed her face. Anaise stepped back, giving the healer space. “No, not a priestess,” she corrected herself. “The sisters of Shallya do not countenance the healing powers of magic.”

“No,” Bea said quietly. “They do not.”

“But we believe,” Anaise said. “And our belief will endure. Tal Dur is here, somewhere very close,” she said. “And, with your help, I shall find it.”

 

Stefan had stepped to one side to allow the stocky figure of Rilke past. But now he found himself more than curious to hear whatever it was that Rilke was so anxious to discuss with the Guide. As the White Guard went to close the door to the chamber behind him, Stefan held firm, keeping it open. Rilke glared at him with an undisguised loathing.

“If you want to pit your strength against mine, mercenary, then we’ll find a place that will do justice to the argument.”

“I’ve no interest in fighting you,” Stefan told him. “But if you’ve come to say something to the Guide about my comrades or I, then I want to hear what it is.”

“What I have to say is none of your business,” Rilke spat. “Whether it concerns you or not.” He hauled upon the door, putting all of his strength into pulling it away from Stefan, but Stefan held his ground. The two men stood with the door between them, going nowhere.

“Enough!” the voice from within the chamber commanded. “Both of you, step inside.”

Konstantin’s face was a mask of contained rage. “Men of good faith must not enter into conflict,” he told them. Stefan and Rilke exchanged wary glances. Neither spoke.

“That is how our enemies will divide us,” the Guide stated, curtly. “You are both of you fools if you cannot see that.”

“I apologise,” Stefan said at last. “If you wish, I’ll withdraw.”

Konstantin waved his offer away. “No,” he said. “Rilke has been ill-mannered. Our guest will stay, and hear whatever it is you have to tell me.”

Rilke executed a short, graceless bow. He looked far from happy.

“It would be better that we spoke in private,” he said.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Konstantin concluded. “Now, speak.”

Rilke looked from the Guide to Stefan, and back again. The expression on Konstantin’s face made it clear he was not to be swayed.

“So be it,” Rilke said, stiffly. “I bring news from our scouts on the western plain. They have found a gang of marauders, close on two score of them, riding south.”

“Do we know who they are?” Konstantin asked. Rilke glanced again at Stefan before continuing. “They may be remnants of the defeated Chaos army at Erengrad.”

“Good. Very good, Rilke.” Konstantin turned his gaze towards Stefan. “It seems the opportunity for you to exercise your blade has come sooner than either of us could have expected,” he said. “You wanted to take the fight to our enemies. Now you have the chance.”