CHAPTER TEN

The Turning Tide

Drawn into the fury of battle, it was as though Stefan stepped from the mortal realm into a different world, a place where space and time lost all sense and meaning. Where a few seconds of desperate struggle could span an eternity, or a lifetime be cut brutally short, ending in a matter of moments. As he tore into the ranks of the Chaos riders, Stefan surrendered his fortune to the gods. They would be his counsel, steer him and guide his sword. They would bless his victories and sit in judgement upon his deeds. The day would come, Stefan knew, when their judgement would fall against him. On that day it would be he who met the falling blade. Too late to shy from the blow, or take refuge behind a shield. Too late to fall back, bloodied but still valiant, to return again victorious to the fray. Stefan would barely see the shaft of steel as it blazed its fateful arc across that final sky. Somewhere in his mind he would say a last prayer, and walk towards a vision of his father, waiting for him beyond the Gates of Morr.

One day, but not today, Stefan swore. Sweet would be the day when he stood within the halls of the dead, and embraced his father once more. But that day was not come yet. Today would be a day for vengeance, another small victory in the eternal war between darkness and light. Today he would reap a bloody harvest amongst the creatures of damnation.

The twenty of Sigmarsgeist rode headlong into the enemy, the odds that faced them at least two to one. But Anaise’s men were faster, and they were united in will and purpose. The fifty or so they faced were the remnants of a defeated army, men and mutants held together only by adversity. Stefan tore into them in a fury his sword felling two slow-moving riders in the first assault. There were Norscans amongst them, possibly even kin to those who had burned his village and murdered his father. Stefan would take care to send as many as he could to the deaths they so richly deserved.

Others amongst their opponents were mortal men no longer, no more than a ghastly parody of human form. Amongst the wheeling confusion of horses and men, Stefan saw creatures with bodies ripped open, living cadavers whose bones protruded like ivory spears through raw, gangrenous flesh. Many had their faces torn away, jewel-like eyes staring out at him through bleached skulls stripped of skin. Worst of all, Stefan now saw the flags that they carried were not flags at all. The fluttering pennants had been fashioned from human skin; grim trophies flayed from the bodies of the fallen. A wave of anger and disgust rose up in Stefan. These abominations would not see out the day.

He lashed out with his sword, a scything blow that cut through the guard of the creature bearing down upon him. He had a glimpse of a face, a grinning skull that snarled with the teeth of a dog. The blow cut away the monster’s arm in a single stroke, but the mutant did not veer from its collision course.

“Stefan, to your right!” He turned quickly to see another rider racing in on his flank. Anaise von Augen was a blur of speed as she closed upon the mutant. Sunlight flashed upon the steel of her blade as she tore the leering skull-head from its shoulders. The creature buckled and fell, breaking apart in a mass of splintered bone. Anaise was now under attack, two Norscan mercenaries closing in on her from either side. Stefan spurred his horse forward, putting himself between the Norscans and their intended target. The first rider struck out at him hastily, a wild sweep with an axe which found only thin air. Stefan made him pay for his wasted opportunity, aiming a blow squarely into the other man’s guts. The second Norscan was younger and faster than the first and for a few moments the two men traded blow for blow.

The Norscan got lucky, a thrust found its way through Stefan’s guard and pierced the thin chainmail of his corselet. He felt the cold bite of the steel as it cut into his flesh, and saw the sneering satisfaction on the blond warrior’s face. The Norscan aimed what he intended to be the decisive blow, but was too hasty. Your lust for death will be your undoing, Stefan promised. He parried the blow easily and struck back, adrenaline numbing away the pain. The Norscan tried to anticipate the direction of Stefan’s attack, but guessed wrong, caught the full force of Stefan’s blade in his face.

Stefan charged the other man’s horse out of the way, spilling the blinded Norscan from the saddle. Anaise had vanished again, sucked away into another pocket of the battle. Stefan made a rapid assessment of the unfolding scene. He counted two scarlet-dad riders down, but against that at least ten of the enemy had already been accounted for. The Chaos warriors were fighting with an animal desperation, but the odds were turning against them now.

Hans Baecker emerged from the crowd ahead, weaving between three mutants, making every thrust of his sword extract a price. One by one, his opponents were cut down. Slowly, the soldiers of Sigmar were gaining parity with their foes.

Something shot past Stefan’s face, grazing the surface of his cheek. He spun around to see a second missile fly past, only inches away. He found himself looking into the face of a young warrior, his ghostly skin covered in an ugly net of grey-green veins. The apparition jolted forward, accelerating toward Stefan. What had looked at first like the flaps of a coat hanging open around him were now revealed as folds of red raw flesh. The whole of the creature’s upper body had been pared away, leaving the ribcage exposed. The monster was plucking the bones from between its ribs, and hurling them like jagged, bloody spears, with a casual, but deadly ease. Stefan tugged desperately at the reins, weaving from side to side to evade the deadly missiles, closing in upon his adversary.

The creature of Chaos cast three times, each razor-edged shard of bone flying just wide. Now the two riders were at arms’ length. The Chaos warrior ripped another bloody blade from its carcass and stabbed out at Stefan, aiming at his throat in a short, slashing motion. Stefan flung his head back, a sudden, violent motion that all but toppled him from his horse. For a moment he fought to stay in the saddle. If he fell now, it would all be over. He grabbed frantically at the reins and regained balance.

The mutant struck out again, but this time wide of the mark. As the creature swung back, Stefan aimed a firm blow into the mutant’s body, wedging the point of his sword into the open cavity. Flesh tore and bone splintered and cracked as Stefan twisted the blade. The mutant swore and writhed, desperately trying to free itself, but Stefan held firm, driving his sword ever deeper into the monster’s body. When he was sure it was dead he pulled his sword clear to lash it one final time across the body, hurling the shattered corpse to the ground.

A wave of nausea washed over Stefan as the shock of the encounter kicked in. He looked around, gasping for breath, and found himself in a clear space. The plain was littered with the bodies of the fallen. Stefan counted four Chaos marauders dead for each of the six soldiers of Sigmar that had given their lives. The tide had turned, the battle was all but won.

A horseman burst through the skirmish of riders just ahead of him. It took Stefan a few moments before he recognised Anaise. Her white singlet was now a filthy red, and her face was spattered with the bloody gore of her enemies. But she was filled with an energy that was almost frightening to behold. Her face was wreathed in smiles, and her eyes shone with an almost manic excitement. She saw Stefan and saluted him, her voice trembling.

“Seven dead by my sword!” she shouted to him, elated. “Seven sons of darkness who’ll never taint the light of day again!” She pulled her horse about, coming into tandem with Stefan. “How many have you taken?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Five, I think,” Stefan replied. “Maybe six. It seems you have the better of me.” He tried to shape some sense of celebration into his words, but he could not. He felt cold, almost numb. There was something stark, something shocking about the raw blood lust he saw in Anaise. For a moment he found himself looking at her, but thinking about himself, in a way he had never done before. Was this how it was for him, as he emerged, victorious from battle? Was this how he felt? And, in that moment, he was seized with a sense of awe, and a quiet horror.

Rilke stepped from the shadows into the circle of light at the centre of his master’s chamber. In the gloom behind him stood a cluster of Red Guards and two other figures, one of them weighed down with every manner of rope and chain imaginable. Rilke bowed before the seated figure of Konstantin von Augen, his grave expression mirroring that of his master.

“They are here, my lord.”

Konstantin peered into the gloom and beckoned for the guards to approach. They shuffled forward, ushering Lothar Koenig and his prisoner into the interior. Once in place, the guards stood round the prisoner with their swords held ready, drawing a ring of steel around the figure of Alexei Zucharov.

Konstantin von Augen sat, taking in the man stood before him. A look of sorrow, and deep and ancient enmity crossed the Guide’s face.

“The creatures of the night come to Sigmarsgeist,” he murmured. “Like moths to the eternal flame, they come.”

The prisoner looked down upon the Guide as though staring through him, gazing upon something in the far distance.

Konstantin returned the gaze steadily and without fear. The terrors of darkness would hold no dominion here. Finally, he turned to Koenig, who had been standing on one side, his head lowered in a posture of supplication.

“Tell me your story,” Konstantin commanded. The bounty hunter executed a low bow before the Guide. “My lord, I captured this man with my own hands, and at great risk to my life, after a ferocious battle at the foot of the Ostravska valley. I knew at once where I must bring him.”

“Does he not speak?” Konstantin asked.

“My lord, he has uttered barely a word whilst in my keeping. I believe the Dark Gods have poisoned his tongue.”

Konstantin looked to Rilke. “Was he alone at the gates?”

“Quite alone,” Rilke said. “Apart from this.” He raised his arm. Lamplight fell upon a battered and blood-caked object: the severed head of the bandit lord, Carl Durer.

“The mortal remains of a thief and a murderer,” Lothar explained, hastily. “I was taking proof of his death to Talabheim, hoping to earn some favour for my deeds there.”

Konstantin nodded to Rilke. “Have your men dispose of it,” he said, waving aside Lothar’s pleas. He looked long and hard at the prisoner. Alexei Zucharov hadn’t moved so much as a muscle since being led to the chamber.

“A fearsome looking warrior,” Konstantin observed. “And doubtless the poison of evil run deep in his veins. But what of it? The dungeons of Sigmarsgeist are full of creatures such as this. What do you think?” he asked Rilke. “Shall we have this one put to the sword and be done?”

“Please,” Lothar protested. “Look closer, I beg you. My lord, look closer at his arm.”

Konstantin said nothing for a few moments then, slowly and deliberately, rose from his seat and took a few steps towards the prisoner. He nodded to the guards, signalling that they should lift Zucharov’s arm for him to see. The metal of the amulet shone like fire under the lights, but it was not the golden band that caused the Guide to draw in a sharp breath.

The living tattoo upon Zucharov’s flesh covered all of his arm, mapping every inch of his skin. Konstantin took another step closer, unable quite to believe what he was seeing. As he looked at the tiny figures and images etched in the lines of the tattoo, he could swear that they began to move, coming to life before his eyes. He looked up, into Zucharov’s eyes. For the first time Zucharov seemed to acknowledge him, and something akin to a smile crossed his dark features. Zucharov rotated his arm, the metal chains groaning as he opened the palm of his hand. Konstantin looked down, and let out a gasp of shock.

He was looking at the citadel, his creation reproduced upon the man’s flesh. At the centre of the tiny image, two faces, their likeness unmistakable.

Konstantin jolted back, the shock upon his face clear for all in the room to see. The Guide took a moment, struggling to regain his composure.

“Take him to the cells,” he commanded, his voice shaking. “Our physicks must know more of this. They must divine what manner of witchcraft this is, and what it portends.” He looked around the room. “Rilke, do you hear me?”

The White Guard nodded, acknowledging his master. But he was not looking at Konstantin any longer. His focus was elsewhere, his gaze locked upon the figure of Alexei Zucharov, intense and unflinching.

“I feel terrible,” Bruno declared, getting up and pacing the floor for a second or third time. Bea regarded him without too much sympathy.

“Come on,” she cajoled. “It’s only a scratch.”

“I don’t mean this,” Bruno said, holding up his bandaged arm. “I mean letting Stefan down. I should have been there with him when they rode out.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Bea replied. “I’m a good healer, but I can’t work miracles, not yet. If you will go lumbering around near falling buildings then you’ve only yourself to blame.”

“It’s just bad luck,” Bruno continued. “Getting myself injured at the very time I need my sword. The worst of luck.” He settled himself back by Bea’s side, but continued to look out of the turret window, towards the citadel walls.

“I should be there,” he said, mostly to himself. “I should have been with them.”

“Sorry yet again,” Bea answered, a hurt tone creeping into her voice. “Sorry for being such poor company.”

Bruno looked round, and his face flushed. “No,” he said, hurriedly. “That’s not what I meant at all. I meant that I didn’t want to let Stefan down, that’s all.” He looked away, unable to meet Bea’s eye, his face growing ever redder. “You’re not poor company at all. Quite the opposite, in fact…” His voice trailed off and he sat in silence, lost for words. Bea waited a moment then took Bruno’s hand.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Bruno muttered. “I’m not exactly making myself clear.”

“I think you are,” Bea said, her voice warmer, more gentle now. She smiled, and moved closer towards him. Something fastened at Bruno’s neck flickered gold in the low light of the lamp.

“Let me see that,” Bea asked. “Please.” Bruno hesitated. From beneath his shirt he pulled a thin gold chain bearing a pendant. “It’s an icon of the Goddess Shallya,” he explained. “It means—”

“I know what it is,” Bea said, softly, “and I know what it means. May I?” Without waiting for an answer, she took the chain in her hand, leant forward, and lightly kissed the icon. “It means you are a pious man,” she said. “And a good man. But I knew that. I knew it as soon as I first set eyes upon you.”

Bruno turned until they were face to face in the lamplight, their bodies all but touching. The tension of unspoken words hung in the air between them. Finally, Bruno broke away. “It’s stupid,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Or, rather I’m stupid. But I could swear that tower, or whatever it was, had sprung out of nowhere.” He glanced at her again. Bea was looking at him intently, no hint of mockery on her face. “Perhaps I’m going mad,” he suggested.

“No, you’re not,” Bea replied, sounding suddenly very certain. She paused, as though weighing something up. “Actually, I’ve seen them too. Lots of them. All over the citadel.”

“You have?” Bruno asked. “These columns, you mean?”

“I’m not sure what I’d call them,” Bea said. “But whatever they are, it’s like something growing out of the ground, pushing through whatever was there before, breaking it apart.”

“Yes,” Bruno agreed, excitedly. “That’s exactly it. Like—like a carcass, broken open, and something bursting out.” He broke off, reflecting on his words. “That doesn’t sound very healthy to me.”

Now it was Bea’s turn to be silent. She looked at Bruno, then away again. She realised that she wanted to share everything with Bruno: her thoughts, her hopes, her secrets. Most of all, she wanted to share what she had learnt since they had arrived in Sigmarsgeist. For a moment the urge to tell Bruno battled with her loyalty to Anaise. Hadn’t the Guide confided in her precisely because no one else would understand? But, finally, Bea decided that she could stay silent no longer. Anaise would understand. After all, she hadn’t directly asked Bea not to mention their conversation to the others.

“You remember a while ago, soon after we left Mielstadt. I mentioned something. A place.”

Bruno thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “Sorry, I don’t.”

Bea clasped his hand again, more tightly this time. “Yes,” she insisted. “You do remember. Tal Dur. The healing waters of Tal Dur. A magical place.”

Bruno shrugged, tentatively. “Yes, all right. But I don’t understand—”

“Tal Dur is here,” Bea blurted out. “I mean—somewhere here. Once, long ago maybe, the waters of Tal Dur flowed right beneath the citadel, perhaps before it was even Sigmarsgeist. But they ran here. Maybe right through the city. Maybe they filled the moat that we can see all around the walls.”

Bruno shook his head. “Are you saying that has something to do with the pillars, or whatever they may be, springing up everywhere?”

“I don’t know,” Bea conceded. “I can’t be sure. But of one thing I’m certain. This is a place of great confluence. A place where flows of magic met, fusing together into a mighty power. I know it. I can feel it. And if Tal Dur is no longer here, then it isn’t far away. I’m sure of it, Bruno.”

She stopped and pulled away from him, trying to read what was in Bruno’s face. “Now I’m the one who’s mad,” she said, disappointed. “You think so, don’t you?”

Bruno looked at her, meeting her full gaze. After a while he took her hand again, and turned her to face him. Bea started to protest, but he put a finger to her lips, to silence her.

“I think you have something very special, a real gift,” he said, slowly. “More than that,” he took his finger away, and moved closer. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Bea frowned, then smiled. She was about to contradict him, almost a reflex response. But then she stopped, and allowed herself to do what her body was urging her. Bruno cupped his hand behind the nape of her neck, and drew her gently towards him.

The battle had ended as quickly as it had begun, breaking up into a series of single combats as the mutants and their Norscan allies fled, each trying to find their own avenue of escape. For most it was a road that led only to death. The men of Sigmarsgeist hunted them down with a bitter, dogged determination, giving no quarter to the remnants of the Chaos horde. But, inevitably, a few still managed to break away, shedding most of the plunder that had been weighing down their horses to make good their escape into the fading day.

Around Stefan, the victorious soldiers of Sigmar began debating what they should do. Some favoured splitting up, others urged they hunt as a pack. There were even those who thought the day’s deeds now done. They had accounted for at least thirty enemies, at a cost of eight men fallen, and could return home with a great victory. But Stefan sensed there would be no going back, not yet. There was at least one amongst them for whom it was far from over, who would not rest easily whilst any of the marauders remained unaccounted for.

Anaise von Augen gathered her men round, urging them to find the strength for one final foray. “They will not escape us,” she declared. “Not while I still have strength.”

Stefan drew his horse up by her side. The plain was empty now, save for the broken carcasses of the fallen. “The rest of the mutants are scattered to the winds,” he said. “I fear they’re lost to us now.”

Anaise looked around. Aside from the bloodied bodies, the ground was littered with broken sacks and saddlebags that the Chaos riders had shed in making their escape. Scattered amongst the more obvious plunder of gold and silver icons were provisions, bread and fruit, broken skins of wine staining the earth a deeper red.

“They must have got all this from somewhere,” she said, opaquely. She paused, then looked up, having reached a decision. “Ride west!” she commanded. “We’re not done with this yet.”

The dozen rode into the dusk for an hour or more, until a sprinkling of lights in the distance gave notice that they were approaching the edge of a settlement. The decrepit buildings of a small, nondescript town came into view soon after, and Stefan realised that he had been here before. This was Mielstadt, where he and Bruno had rescued Bea from the clutches of the lynch mob, and where, in a way, their present story had begun.

It was not a place he had particularly wanted to ever return to. Mielstadt was no more appealing in the fading dusk than it had been by day. Riding through the empty streets, past the shuttered houses with their dim-glowing lights, it seemed unlikely that any of the marauders would have taken refuge here. Stefan was convinced their search would prove to be in vain.

Anaise had other ideas. She beckoned the two White Guards over and conferred in private for a few moments. Stefan tried to nudge his horse closer but found his way blocked—accidentally or otherwise—by a phalanx of riders in red. By then the conference was ended, and Anaise had turned back towards the rest of her men.

“Make a thorough search of the town,” she instructed them. “If any of our enemies are lurking here, then I want to know about it.”

The group split up, riders peeling off in all directions. Stefan, too, turned his horse about, and tracked back through the quiet streets, looking for any stragglers from the Chaos horde. But if they were here, they were keeping unusually quiet; the only sights or sounds that greeted him were of windows being slammed and fastened tight. There was no welcome here waiting for the soldiers of Sigmar. Stefan continued to ride, but with a growing sense of unease. There was something wrong here, something that had nothing to do with the creatures that they were supposedly pursuing.

After a few minutes more, he decided he had had enough. He would go back to the square and await the others. Mielstadt was dead, as quiet as the grave. He was certain there was nothing of interest here.

That certainty was shaken by a sudden commotion coming from somewhere near the centre of the town. Stefan swung his horse around, and galloped back, a sudden tension gripping his body. He could hear voices—several voices raised in conflict with one another—and the grey gloom was lit by the glow of torches. Stefan’s first thought was of the other village, the hamlet put to the flame by the night phantoms. But this was something different. Up ahead, four or five men in red were holding back a small but gathering crowd of townsfolk. The Red Guards had formed themselves into a circle, and, in the middle of that circle there were two more figures.

Stefan sprang from his horse and ran forward. A couple of the red tunics motioned for him to stay back, but Stefan ignored them, and pushed his way past the cordon. Now he was standing just a few feet away from the two protagonists. The first was a White Guard, a man by the name of Drobny that Stefan had barely spoken to. The other man, too, he barely knew, but they had met before, all the same. It was Augustus Sierck, the pompous town leader who had taken such haughty pleasure in expelling Stefan and his comrades from the town.

Sierck didn’t look haughty now. He was on his knees in front of Drobny, who was berating him with a hefty staff. From the ugly welt across Sierck’s face, Stefan could see that the staff had already been put to work. Sierck was babbling, pleading for help or mercy, but his words were lost in the torrent of abuse that the White Guard was heaping upon him. Drobny raised the stick to strike again.

Stefan remembered Augustus Sierck well. He remembered his table-thumping grandiosity, and his pig-headed refusal to listen to reason. At the time Stefan would have happily have struck him down himself. But this was different. This, Stefan knew instinctively, was wrong.

Before he knew it, his sword was in his hand. Stefan strode towards Drobny. As the White Guard angled to strike a second blow, Stefan shouted out a warning, clear and unambiguous. Drobny stopped short, his staff held in mid-flight, and looked momentarily at Stefan, a mixture of surprise and disdain written on his face. Then he shrugged, and turned back to his business. Drobny swung the staff but the blow never connected. Before it could reach the cowering Sierck Stefan had sprung forward. The first flick of his sword prised the staff from the other man’s grip. The second, with the flat of the blade, sent Drobny sprawling in the dirt.

The White Guard let fly a string of curses, aimed at Stefan. Stefan was already sheathing his sword, a hand extended towards the fallen man. As he stepped forward, something struck him hard, a pounding blow into the back of his head. Stefan crashed forward, senseless, and did not move again.