CHAPTER NINETEEN

Endgames

 

 

Bruno forced out his words between painful gasps of breath as he lay on the upper floor of the ruined house.

“That’s as close as I ever want to come to drowning,” he gasped. “If I never cast eyes on another drop of water, then I won’t be sorry.”

“Not something you’ll be worrying about for a while,” Lothar panted in reply. “I have a feeling there’ll be plenty of water about for a while yet.”

“I have a feeling you’re right,” Stefan added. He got to his feet and peered out through the narrow, slitted window, looking down onto the fast-flowing river that, only minutes before, had been a street.

They had escaped with their lives from the warren of sewer tunnels by the narrowest of margins, clambering clear into the daylight with the sound of the pursuing waters like the roaring of a wild beasts in their ears. They were on dry land for no more than a few seconds before the waters had burst from the tunnels with an unstoppable force, and Stefan and his companions were thrust into a battle for simple survival.

The abandoned house would provide at best temporary refuge. Stefan had calculated that, at the pace the waters were rising, the upper floor and finally the whole building would be below water in less than an hour. But, for the moment at least, it was a place that offered concealment and a chance for them to take stock. The families of workers who had occupied the building were gone, escaped to dry ground, or else drowned in the attempt. The threadbare, makeshift furnishings decorating the rooms and the remnants of a meagre meal still left on a table were all that was left of them, all that was left of the better world that should have been Sigmarsgeist.

“I wonder if they still thought it was worth it,” Bruno mused, looking over the scraps of the abandoned lives. “The dream of Sigmarsgeist. Whether they still believed, right to the end.”

Lothar Koenig reached across Stefan and picked the rotting remains of an apple core from off the table. He put it into his mouth in one piece, and chewed on it noisily. “It’s all about winning and losing,” he said. “If you win, your dreams are real. If you lose, then all is dust. That’s the way it’s always been.”

“I’m glad it’s so simple for you,” Bruno observed.

“Wait a minute.” Stefan was back at the window. He beckoned the two of them to be quiet.

“What is it?” Bruno whispered.

Stefan crouched down by the window, careful not to make himself conspicuous. The light outside was fading fast, and most of the lamps in this area of the citadel had already been extinguished by the flood. But he could see something moving along the skyline marked out by the rooftops on the far side of the street.

“What is it?” Bruno hissed again. “What can you see?”

“Company,” Stefan told him. “At least a dozen men clambering about at roof level, just across from here.”

“The Red Guard,” Bruno surmised. “I was wondering when they were going to show up.”

“No,” Stefan said quietly. “These wear the white.”

“The elite guard? Rilke’s men?”

Stefan peered again at the clambering figures. The pale skin and blond complexions of the men seemed to confirm his fears.

“They’re dressed as White Guard, but it’s not Rilke, nor any of his men,” Stefan concluded. He turned back into the room. “Bruno,” he said. “I think they’re Norscans.”

“Taal’s blood,” Bruno swore. “That’s the last thing we need. How did they get loose?”

“Things are much changed around here,” Stefan muttered. “And changed for the worse, however unlikely that might seem.”

“Do you think they’ve any idea we might be here?” Lothar asked.

Stefan was saved the trouble of answering by the sound of splintering wood, and the shattering of glass somewhere nearby.

“They soon will,” Stefan said, evenly.

Bruno turned to Lothar. “Looks like you can let your sword do your talking for once,” he declared. “Think you’re up to it?”

“I’m as ready as you are,” Lothar retorted, defiantly. “I intend to make sure I come out of this alive.”

“Gods willing, so shall we all,” Stefan concurred. The crippled building shook to the sound of heavy-booted feet upon the narrow stairs. “Stand ready,” he said. “Here they come.”

Who the Norscans were looking for wasn’t clear. The original inhabitants of the house, perhaps, or any other innocent citizen of Sigmarsgeist who hadn’t yet perished. What they obviously hadn’t been expecting to encounter was three armed men, ready to return their favours in kind. The first marauder broke down the fastened door and burst into the room, casting his gaze about for plunder or bloody sport. His eagerness earned him the length of Stefan’s blade, rammed to the hilt into his belly.

The Norscan was dead before he could even cry out, but the sound of his body crashing to the floor was enough to bring his comrades stamping up the narrow stairway in pursuit.

The first of them, a red-eyed youth rash enough to take the vanguard, was cut down by a stroke from Bruno’s blade. But hard on his heels were four more muscular warriors, and by now the advantage of surprise was lost. The Norscans cried out, giving their blood-lust full voice, and flung themselves into the combat. The air rang with the sound of clashing steel as the adversaries locked swords. Stefan focused upon his target, an ugly, thick-set Norscan with a pock-marked face that he took to be the leader. The man towered over Stefan, bettering him both in height and bulk. The Norscan spat contemptuously, anticipating an easy victory over this lesser opponent, and then struck out. His first blows were delivered with a savage force, and some accuracy, but Stefan kept one step ahead, slipping just out of range of each murderous strike, all the time drawing the Norscan towards him. The big man struck a third, and then a fourth blow, each time missing his mark by bare inches. Stefan grinned, and dropped his hands by his side.

“This make it easier for you?” he taunted.

The Norscan screamed out at Stefan in rage and frustration, and swung his sword in a blind fury, aiming at Stefan’s unprotected flank. Stefan dodged the blow, and the sword bit deep into the stout wooden beam that stood behind him. As the Norscan tugged desperately at the blade to pull it free, Stefan struck back, finding the exposed flesh of the Norscan’s throat with one, telling thrust of his sword. Now the odds were at least even.

Or better than even. Stefan had feared that Lothar Koenig would prove little match for the brutal Norsemen, or, worse, would flee in the confusion of the battle. Wrong on both counts. The bounty hunter was very much with them, and more than holding his own against his opponent, making up in cunning and skill what he lacked in bulk and speed. But that still left Bruno facing the remaining two Norscans on his own. Bruno was a match for most swordsmen, but he was being forced back by the sheer force of the onslaught from his two attackers. The Norscans had him cornered, and, amidst a hail of sword strokes, some of their blows were beginning to find their mark.

Stefan shouted out—something, anything to draw the Norscans’ attention—and flung himself across the room towards them. One of the Norscans paid no heed, and continued to tear at Bruno with a manic energy. But the other pulled up, and turned, caught between attack and self-defence. Stefan made him pay dearly for his indecision, knocking the man’s sword from his grasp with a mighty kick then following through with his sword, a two-handed blow that cleaved the Norscan’s arm from his shoulder. The Norscan staggered but did not fall, so Stefan struck him again, and then a third time, pouring all he had into the blows until his enemy was beaten to the ground.

Bruno was wounded, but now took new heart, digging deep to find last reserves of strength. His opponent struck at him again, but before long he was using his sword to fend off the blows, not to deliver them. Stefan saw the man glance round and take stock of the situation. The cruel grin on his face was replaced by desperation as he began to look about for a means of escape. There would be none.

Bruno landed the decisive blow, his sword biting deep into the flesh below the Norscan’s ribs. Stefan met him as he fell back, two scything strokes of his blade ending the argument for good.

Stefan’s first concern was for Bruno. His comrade was covered in blood, and the cuts on his face and arms were many, but they were not deep. Stefan looked for Lothar, already marshalling what energy he had left for one last, desperate, assault. But Lothar had no need of their help. In the space of a few minutes he had turned the tables on his opponent. Stefan saw him standing on the far side of the room, one foot pressing down upon the prostrate form of the Norscan, sword poised to deliver the final blow.

“Wait!” Stefan shouted to him. “Hold off.” He crossed the room and reached out to stay the bounty hunter’s hand. “Just a minute. We might be able to learn something useful from this creature.” He knelt down and grabbed the man by his straw-blond hair, pulling his face up towards his own.

“Tell us who your leaders are, and where we can find them,” he demanded. “Tell us, and we may spare your miserable life.”

The other man looked up at Stefan. He was young—probably little more than twenty summers, younger than Stefan himself. But a cruel savagery had run deep through that short life.

Stefan could find no kinship in the other’s eyes, nor even the faintest glimmer of compassion. The Norscan sneered up at Stefan.

“If I’d cared about preserving my life, I’d have made other choices long ago,” he muttered.

“Answer me,” Stefan insisted. “Who leads you? Who freed you from the cells?”

The dying Norscan parted his lips, and spat in Stefan’s face. “I will tell you nothing,” he said.

Stefan stood up, disgusted, and glanced at Lothar, still poised with the sword.

“Go ahead.”

 

As soon as the way was clear, they got out of the building. They could have delayed little longer. The waters were still rising fast, and the bottom half of the stairway was already submerged.

Stefan led the way out through one of the upper windows, and onto the flat roof. For a while the three men just sat, watching the scene unfolding around them. The citadel had a quite different look now. To the south, it had become a drowned world with only crests of stonework left poking through the churning waters like islands in the sea. They had to keep ahead of the flood, keep moving toward the higher ground, around the palace, at the northern edge of Sigmarsgeist.

“What’s our plan?” Bruno asked.

Stefan thought for a moment. “First we have to get to a place of safety,” he said. “And try and keep out of the way of the Norscans.”

“How many more do you think there might be?”

“A lot, I fear,” Stefan replied. “Too many for us to account for on our own.”

“Where are Rilke’s men?” Bruno wondered. “And the Red Guard?”

“Where indeed,” Stefan agreed. “We need to find the answer to that question if we’re going to stand any real chance of defeating the Norscans.”

“Excuse me,” Lothar cut in. “But when you’re talking about ‘we’, I hope you’re not including me in your plans?”

“It’s your choice,” Stefan replied. “But it stands to reason you’d be safer if you stayed with us.”

Lothar Koenig smiled, and shook his head. “No offence, friend,” he said, “but you seem to attract trouble like a lamp gathers moths. Besides,” he said, getting up and looking around, “you and I have quite different quests to fulfil. You want to save the world, and all good people in it. Me—” he sheathed his sword, and fastened the buckle of his belt tight around his waist. “I just want to get out of this a rich man.”

“I’m afraid there’s no certainty any of us will get out of this at all,” Stefan said, quietly.

“Be that as it may, I’ll take my chances. You go your way, I’ll go mine.” He held out his hand. “No offence.”

Stefan took the bounty hunter’s hand, and shook it. “You owe us nothing,” he said. “And we owe you a good deal. Take whatever path you must, and take our good wishes with you.”

Bruno nodded, but said nothing. Lothar Koenig looked them up and down once more, then raised his hand in a brief salute, and was gone.

“That man,” Bruno said at last. “Is nothing better than a looter, out to line his filthy pockets.”

“Maybe,” Stefan concurred. “But if so, then he’s a brave one.” He watched the bounty hunter for a while longer as he picked his way along the skyline with an agility that belied his years. “Actually,” Stefan said, “I think he’s just a survivor. Not good, nor bad. Just a man doing whatever he has to do to see him through this life.”

Bruno looked round at Stefan, faintly surprised. “A while ago you wouldn’t have talked like that,” he observed. “You’d have had no truck with the likes of him.”

“That might be so,” Stefan agreed. “Perhaps I’ve started to see things differently. Perhaps the line between black and white, good and bad, isn’t as clear as I once thought it was.”

He got to his feet, and helped Bruno up in turn. He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“This isn’t the place or time for such discussions,” he said. “We need to get moving too.”

“Agreed,” Bruno said. “But to where?”

“I want to know what’s happened to the Red Guard,” Stefan said. “I can’t believe they’ve all been swept aside in such a short space of time. I need to find Konstantin.”

“Konstantin?”

“He should have command over every man in this city. And we can’t hope to turn this situation about without them.”

“Do you really think Konstantin will help us? We were hardly honoured guests last time we came before him.”

“Things have changed,” Stefan said. “And they’ll change a good deal more before long unless we can act.”

“And Anaise?”

“Anaise has contributed to this evil, knowingly or not. But we stand a better chance of dealing with her if we can sway Konstantin.”

Bruno fell silent, pondering Stefan’s words. “You’re right,” he said. “We must reach the palace then, if we can.” His head was nodding agreement, but his face told a different story. It took Stefan a moment to realise what must be going through his mind.

“Of course,” he said then. “Bea.”

“I’m sorry, Stefan,” Bruno blurted out. “I know there are more important matters to be resolved. But I can’t just forget about her.”

“No, no,” Stefan assured him. “It’s I who should apologise.” He took hold of Bruno. “Of course you must go,” he told him. “You must do whatever you can. But—” he hesitated. “Is it not possible that Bea is still inside the palace too?”

“Possible, yes, but…” Bruno shook his head, firmly. “There’s only one place she would want to be,” he said. “Amongst the fallen, tending to the wounded as best she can. She’s out here, somewhere. I’m sure of that.”

Stefan mulled over his words. “You may be right,” he concluded. “Then we must go our separate ways.” He thought for a moment.

“We’ll stay together until we reach dry ground,” he concluded. “Then I’ll head in towards the heart of the citadel, and the palace.”

“And I will look for Bea,” Bruno said. “Wherever she is, I’ll find her.”

“I pray you will,” Stefan said. “And may the gods smile kindly upon us both.”

 

Anaise held out the battered metal bowl, and all but forced it into Bea’s hands.

“Take it!” she demanded. “What are you waiting for? This is water drawn from the holy flood. It can heal your patient, can’t it? Or will you now deny everything that you have ever believed?”

“This same water has claimed the lives of countless of your people,” Bea countered, quietly. Anaise stared at her, unblinking.

“Water touched with the gift of Tal Dur,” she insisted. “In the right hands—the hands of a healer—it can restore the powers of life. Isn’t that so?” she demanded.

Bea shrugged, and tried in vain to evade Anaise’s grasp, her burning stare. In truth she no longer knew what to believe. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

Anaise cast her eyes down at the injured woman, barely more than a bundle of rags, lying on the damp floor between them. She had been trapped between two buildings when one had collapsed into the other. Anaise knew little enough of the arts of medicine, but she knew that the woman would die soon, and she knew that Bea knew it too.

“Why do you hesitate?” she pressed. “You know that the waters are her only hope. ‘That which lays waste may also yet make whole.’ Isn’t that what the prophesies tell us?”

Bea shook her head, unhappily. There was no point in denying the truth of what the Guide had said. Without another word, she took the proffered bowl and began to dab water from it lightly upon the injured woman’s brow. She waited a moment then dipped her fingers carefully in the bowl again, this time letting drops of water fall where the woman’s wounds were gravest. The woman stirred, fitfully, then began to breathe more easily.

Anaise jumped to her feet, her eyes ablaze with excitement. “There!” she exclaimed, delightedly. “You see! The gifts of Tal Dur begin to work their magic!”

“They channel their powers through me,” Bea said, hesitantly.

“Then they shall channel that power through me, too,” Anaise declared. “You shall show me, Bea.” She crouched down once more and put her hands either side of Bea’s face, running her fingers through her curled brown hair as though she were a treasure. Bea shrugged her off and turned back to her patient.

“This is not Tal Dur,” she said, “only a weak reflection of its magic. The true power of Tal Dur will only be found at the water’s source.”

“But that cannot be far from here,” Anaise insisted. “It cannot.”

“No,” Bea conceded, wearily. “It cannot be far.” She was tired. Too tired for any more subterfuge, any more trying to divine what was the right thing to do. She just wanted to be left alone, left to answer the call of healing.

The woman coughed, and her body went into a sudden spasm, then, for the first time since Bea had come to her, opened her eyes. Bea turned to the woman’s husband, a pitiful figure who had been sitting mute on the sidelines whilst she tried to work her healing.

“Keep her warm,” she told the man. “Pray, and she will live, I’m sure of it.”

“The waters cured her,” the man replied, his voice cracked and thin. “She should take more of them.”

“No,” Bea said, firmly. “It’s not safe for you to do what I did. You would cause more harm than good.”

Anaise’s patience had worn thin. She tugged Bea to her feet, roughly and without ceremony. “You know where the source can be found,” she insisted. “Where is it, Bea? Where?”

Bea struggled half-heartedly, but knew she could never evade Anaise. Only one thing would satisfy her now, she was blind to all else.

“All right,” she said at last. “Very well. My sense is that the waters will converge near the bottom of the Well of Sadness. That, if anywhere, is where the locus of Tal Dur may be found.”

Anaise glowered. “Nonsense,” she retorted. “I spent long hours sitting at its edge only this day. It was dry as tinder.”

“The ways of Tal Dur are not so transparent,” Bea said, obdurately. “The first waters were channelled elsewhere, to surface at the lower part of the citadel. But I will wager my all,” she went on, “when the springs at the very heart of Tal Dur burst forth, it will be through the Well of Sadness.”

“Then that is where we go,” Anaise declared. She seized Bea and started to drag her along behind her. “We go there now. I’ve waited long enough.”

 

Fortune had favoured Stefan, at least as far as the gates of the palace. His journey across the rooftops of the city towards the higher ground had taken a zig-zag course, following the paths connecting the taller buildings that still held out against the flood. There had been times, when two buildings were separated only by a short span of water, that he had been tempted to leap into the flow and swim. But he did not. Some instinct of nature told him to avoid the dark sea that was slowly swallowing up the citadel, even if it meant finding a much longer way around. Progress was steady, but slow.

For the most part, he managed to stay clear of the Norscans. Once or twice he had seen gangs of them, patrolling the distant skyline, or traversing the flood waters in makeshift boats. It seemed that they were unopposed. With no sign anywhere of the Red Guard, the Norscans had taken complete control of the citadel. Just once, Stefan encountered a single northerner, climbing from the shattered window of a building. He was laden with plunder he had stripped from the house, and hadn’t been expecting to find an armed adversary waiting for him. The combat was brief and bloody, and left another Norscan body floating on the tide. But otherwise Stefan avoided contact where he could. This was not the time to fight, not yet.

In time he reached the heart of the citadel, where the waters had only just begun to penetrate. Now, as he came within sight of the palace, Stefan realised what had happened to the Red Guard. They were here, scores of them, lining every wall and standing guard upon every door and gateway, even though there was no obvious sign of Norscan attack.

Stefan sheathed his weapon as he climbed the hill that led to the great courtyard. The streets beyond the palace were teeming with people, workers no longer, now simply refugees from the unforgiving flood. But there was to be no refuge for them within the palace, the guards surrounding the walls refused to let them inside.

Stefan fought his way through the crowd and approached the gates with his hands high above his head. There was no way he could hope to fight his way in. It would have to be his word, not his sword, that served him now.

An exchange of shouts greeted Stefan as he approached the gates. Several of the guards had recognised him and had drawn their swords. They looked on, some incredulously, as Stefan drew out his own weapon then held it out towards the men in scarlet. “I am a prisoner,” he said. “I offer you my surrender.”

 

Konstantin von Augen had taken his customary place in the chamber of the High Council. Although at least a dozen of his men were with him, he looked very much alone. When he at last looked up, Stefan saw he was much altered. The madness that had seized hold of Sigmarsgeist had taken a different path in Konstantin. The elegant, lined face with its mane of iron-grey hair was unchanged, but his eyes were empty, devoid of hope or inspiration. Konstantin looked like a man already contemplating the aftermath of defeat.

He looked up at Stefan for a few moments before seeming to recognise him.

“Ah,” he said at last. “It is you, then. I thought it might be Baecker. I am waiting news of his return.”

One of the attendant guards stepped forward and knelt by the Guide. He coughed, awkwardly. “Sire,” he began, a tone of careful deference to his voice. “You will recall the news that was brought earlier. Hans Baecker is dead. My men have recovered his body.”

Konstantin nodded, absentmindedly, oblivious to what had been said. “Baecker has a plan,” he told Stefan. “A plan to save Sigmarsgeist.”

“Konstantin,” Stefan said. “I must speak with you. I need you to hear what I have to say.” The guards standing around the chamber looked from Stefan to the Guide, uncertain whether Stefan was to be treated as a prisoner or an emissary. When Stefan took a step closer to the Guide, he was not opposed. Stefan moved within arms’ length of Konstantin, then settled upon the floor of the chamber, facing the Guide.

“Why do you keep your men here?” he began. “Don’t you realise that the Norscans will soon have the run of Sigmarsgeist? Your people are being tortured and killed. Sigmarsgeist is being torn apart.”

Konstantin drew himself upright and stared back at Stefan. For a moment he assumed the grandeur and authority of old.

“My men will defend the sanctity of Sigmarsgeist,” he said. “No enemy—neither man nor flood—shall pass through these gates. Sigmarsgeist shall prevail, ready to face the dark tide to come.”

Stefan wanted to grab hold of Konstantin and shake him. But instead he mustered all of his patience. Reason, he told himself, reason must prevail.

“Look around you,” he told the Guide. “You devoted your life to building a fortress, a great wall to keep the forces of evil at bay.” He paused, and took another breath. Konstantin still gazed at him, his blank expression unchanged. “But all you have kept at bay are your own, frightened people,” Stefan continued. “Somewhere, Konstantin, your purpose was lost. You became what you wanted to destroy, and opened the gates to the very thing you wished to oppose. The great battle against the darkness that you spoke of so eloquently. It is not ahead, in some distant time yet to be imagined,” he told the Guide. “It is here. And it is now.”

“Baecker will reverse our fortunes,” Konstantin said again, with a hollow defiance. “Sigmarsgeist will stand firm.”

On impulse, Stefan reached forward and took hold of the Guide. No one moved to stop him. “Baecker is dead,” he reminded the old man. “Your men have his body.”

“His plan was to breach the walls to release the flood waters,” one of the guards added. “I fear it is too late for that now.”

“And where is your sister?” Stefan demanded. “Is she here, by your side? Is she fighting for the soul of Sigmarsgeist?”

“My sister?” Konstantin looked around, taking in the figures standing about the room, as if searching for some sight of Anaise. “My sister is lost,” he said, at last, sadly. “And so now are we all.”

“We are not lost yet,” Stefan told him, defiantly. “Until we stand at the very gates of Morr, there is always hope.” He paused, trying to marshal the thoughts racing about his mind. “Do you remember,” he said, “when we first spoke. You asked me if I knew what it was that I stood for? Not just what I stood against, Konstantin, but what I stood for.”

Konstantin made no response.

“I couldn’t answer your question then,” Stefan went on. “But I know the answer now.” He got to his feet. “This—this struggle, until the very last hope is extinguished, that is what I stand for. I stand for all the people who live their lives, not by some shining ideal, but as well as they can, in order to survive. I stand for life, Konstantin, impure and imperfect.” He turned and scanned the faces looking on. “And, by all that is mighty, for as long as life survives, we owe a debt to the gods to fight for every precious last breath of it.”

Konstantin looked up at Stefan, a broken man at the end of his life. But somewhere inside him, Stefan’s words found their mark or at least tugged at a memory of the dream that the Guide once held for Sigmarsgeist.

“What is it you want of me?” he asked, mildly. “What do you want me to do?”

Stefan looked round in search of the soldier who had spoken up before. “How did the Norscans get out?” he asked. “Who set them free?”

“The mutant,” the guard replied. “The one whose body bears the living tattoo. He accounted for Baecker, and Rilke too.” The man looked round, nervously, at his comrades. “He has—he has the confidence of our lady Anaise,” he said.

“Then he will account for all Sigmarsgeist unless we act now,” Stefan replied, tersely. “You must turn control of your men over to me,” he told Konstantin. “All is not lost yet, but we must act now.”

A look of pain crossed Konstantin’s troubled features. “You last came before me as an enemy of Sigmarsgeist,” he recalled.

“Then ask yourself this,” Stefan urged him. “Ask yourself how things have come to this. Ask yourself who are the true enemies of Sigmarsgeist now.”

Konstantin made no reply, but there were tears welling up in his eyes. After some hesitation, he slipped a bronze ring from his right hand, and offered it to Stefan.

“This is my authority,” he told him. “My sovereignty and my power. Take it and you have my all.” He cast his eyes about the chamber, meeting the gaze of his men. “Witness this act,” he commanded. “And witness with it the end to the vain folly that has brought us here. He is your captain now,” he told them. “Follow his command as though it were my own.”

The Guide slumped back, his eyes closed, his breath slow and deep.

“And may Sigmar grant some stay against the dimming of our light,” he whispered.

 

As the long day of carnage gave way to grim night, so Alexei Zucharov made his way through the drowning citadel. He had no need to look for the healer girl, no need to guess where she might be found. He had Kyros to light his path, to guide him, sure and certain, to his destination. The spirit of the dark lord flowed in every fibre of his being. It was the voice that whispered incessantly inside his head, and it was the rhythm that beat, without pause or falter, inside of him, a second heartbeat next to his own. Zucharov could feel it rising from the golden amulet clamped tight about his wrist, a burning flow of pure energy pouring through his body.

His progress was slow, but inexorable. Where he met with resistance—from what few of the Red Guard were on the streets, or the even fewer townsfolk stupid enough to stand in his way—he repressed it, ruthlessly. He dealt out death, but not as the Norscans had done. Zucharov took no delight in this simple, meaningless killing. His was the greater purpose ordained by Kyros. He killed swiftly, efficiently and economically, expending no more effort than was necessary to remove the obstacle. He would leave the Norscans to enjoy their mindless plunder whilst they may. The greatest spoils of blood still lay ahead.

Beneath the sound of the surging waters, he could hear the last desperate calls of those left behind in the ruins, praying against all odds that salvation would still come. They would pray in vain; if the waters did not claim them, then the Norscans surely would. Their plight did not interest Zucharov.

He stood, head turned slightly to one side. Gradually, Kyros tuned out the plaintive wails of hunter and hunted, and the tumult of the waters, leaving only silence. Gradually, into the silence came the sound of footsteps, two pairs of feet, hurrying away from the rising tide towards the dry ground above.

Zucharov stepped back into the shadow of an adjacent street, and waited. The footsteps grew louder, and with them the sound of two women’s voices, one raised against the other. Zucharov stood within the shadows, very still, and let them come. Only when they had passed, one tugging the other behind her, did Zucharov step from his place of concealment and call out, “Where are you going?”

The two women stopped, and turned around. Zucharov moved closer, stepping fully under what light the moons allowed, recognising one of them as Anaise. He watched, with satisfaction, as the expression upon their faces turned from surprise to a disbelieving horror. The transformation that had raged like a fire inside him and out was all but complete now. Every inch of his flesh was now mapped by the lines of the tattoo. Even Anaise could not have imagined it coming to this. Besides, who knew what dark future each woman saw—or imagined she saw written in the terrible tableau of his face?

“Where are you going?” he said again, slowly, deliberately. “Where are you going, Anaise?”

He watched the Guide carefully. In her surprise she had let go of the healer. Now she grabbed the girl back, like some precious treasure she meant to horde. Zucharov knew already what reply she would make, but it amused his dark lord to hear the worm-tongue words.

“I was searching,” she stammered. “Searching for you.”

Zucharov nodded, an almost serene smile playing upon his hideous face. “I am glad of that,” he said.

“Yes,” Anaise affirmed, more boldly now. She held the healer out towards him, as if in proof of her words. Bea screamed out and struggled to escape, but the Guide was deaf to her pleas.

“See. I have the girl safe. I was bringing her to you. Now the time is come. Now Tal Dur is come.”

Zucharov listened to her words, and, behind her words, heard also what was unspoken: the lies, the duplicity and the manipulation. Anaise thought she could use him, trick him. She was not so stupid as to try and directly oppose his will, not yet at least. But she still believed that Tal Dur could be hers alone. That delusion was her weakness. And there would be no room for weakness in the world that was to come.

Immersed in his contemplation of the Guide, Zucharov only now noticed the third player in the scene as he advanced upon them. A voice, raised in warning or alarm, rang out, calling the healer’s name out loud. A figure came running towards the two women, sword held aloft. Zucharov edged back into the shadow and looked on. Memory stirred at the sound of the voice. An old, abandoned memory buried deep in the recesses of the mind of the man he had once been.

It was him. Kumansky. The face from the past. And from the present. The more recent memory of the battle, bitter and rancorous, rose in Zucharov’s mind. Now he would finish it. Now he would be avenged.

But he was mistaken. It was not Stefan Kumansky who was now sprinting towards the two women. Another face, almost equally distant, yet still familiar, swum into view. Zucharov trawled through the debris of that fading life, and seized upon the name: Bruno, Bruno Hausmann. Not Kumansky, but almost as good. Bruno, Kumansky’s oldest, most trusted friend. Killing him would be satisfaction enough, until the final reckoning came.

At the very moment that the girl Bea tried to shout out a warning, Zucharov stepped forward where he could be seen, and drew out his sword. It seemed to take an age for the rushing swordsman to see him standing beside the women, and another for recognition to strike. But when it did, the effect was profound.

“Alexei.” Bruno’s voice was quiet, almost stunned. He looked upon Zucharov, at the grotesque facsimile of what his former comrade had become. Fear, confusion and disbelief all met in his face. Zucharov read each separate, jarring emotion. Smelt them, and tasted them, as clear as he could taste the blood that was soon to flow.

“Alexei,” Bruno said again, and then his expression hardened. He looked at Anaise and to Bea, still held firmly in the other woman’s unyielding embrace. Bruno hesitated, wavering for just an instant, then took his sword in both his hands.

Now it begins, the voice whispered to Zucharov.

“Alexei, I’m sorry,” Bruno shouted, then charged towards him. Zucharov saw at once in the speed and movement of his body, and in the way that he carried his weapon, that this opponent would be different. This was no red-shirted conscript, no wretched townsman fighting in a last, crazed defence of his home. He would be stronger, more skilful and more resilient than all but one of those that Zucharov had fought. But he would make the same mistake that others had made: Rilke, Baecker and the feeble bounty hunter who had served to bring him to Sigmarsgeist. Bruno would believe that he had enough skill, enough guile, and enough bravery to defeat him, and he would be wrong.

Bruno fell upon Zucharov in a fury, his sword probing Zucharov’s defences. He was not a small man, but he was faster than most, certainly fast enough to catch Zucharov off-guard if he allowed his concentration to falter. For a while the two swordsmen circled each other, trading blow for blow. But each thunderous stroke from Zucharov drained away a little more of Bruno’s strength.

He is already wounded, Zucharov noted, he cannot endure long.

He swung his sword two-handed, aiming to smash his way through the other man’s guard. Bruno saw the blow coming and swerved aside. For a moment, Zucharov was left vulnerable. He saw the glint of steel and felt the cold stab of Bruno’s blade as it penetrated his flesh. The pain was vivid, brief; forgotten in an instant. He turned, with improbable speed, and met the second strike with his own sword. He caught Bruno just below the wrist, not where he intended. But it was enough to loosen Bruno’s hold upon his weapon. His opponent cried out in agony, dropping his guard momentarily. Zucharov struck out again, this time knocking the sword clear from Bruno’s hand.

Zucharov experienced a sensation of disdain, almost disappointment. It had been easy, too easy. Just for a moment, he made the error of assuming the battle already won. In that same moment, Bruno threw himself at him, raining down blows with his fists in a last, desperate assault. In the tumult that followed, Zucharov’s own sword was dislodged, and parity restored.

At least half of Bruno’s blows were finding their target, but it made no difference. To Zucharov they were little more than the fluttering of an insect upon his face. He hit back, battering his opponent from side to side, until blood was flowing from Bruno’s face. Bruno struck out again, with all that remained of his strength, but wide of the mark. Zucharov’s reply knocked the other man off his feet, and tumbling across the ground. By the time Bruno had regained his feet, Zucharov had recovered his sword.

Bruno closed on Zucharov one final time, but the look in his eyes betrayed the hopelessness of his situation. Zucharov shrugged off the challenge, and pushed his opponent away. Then, as Bea screamed out in despair, he thrust out his sword, and drove the blade through Bruno Hausmann’s heart.