CHAPTER TWENTY

The Wrath of the Gods

 

 

What could Stefan hope to achieve with the small force now at his command? What little he knew of the Red Guard—so recently his adversaries—told him that they would give their all, but he had no idea whether that would be enough. He did not know if Sigmarsgeist could be saved, but the briefest tour of what remained of the citadel quickly confirmed that Baecker’s death had been in vain. All attempts to force a breach in the city walls had failed. More than two-thirds of the citadel was now below water, buildings and dwellings wrecked and submerged. Only the tallest of buildings still survived, those and a steadily diminishing island at the centre of the citadel, with the palace at its heart.

But Stefan was sure of two things at least: he had to destroy the roaming gangs of Norscans that were feeding off the carcass of Sigmarsgeist, and stop Alexei Zucharov. That the two were inextricably linked, he had no doubt. Their fates, and his, were now intertwined. There would be no reasoning with the Norscans, no course of action open but to hunt them down, and then fight them to the death. He led his men on, out into the citadel, knowing full well that most would never return.

The appearance of the guards upon the streets was greeted with commotion from the surviving townspeople. Word quickly spread of their arrival, and faint hope began to supplant the despair that had settled like a shroud across the citadel. But with the hope came impossible demands. Men and women cried to them from the roofs of flooded houses. Buildings were still collapsing into the swirling waters, creating mayhem. And those that had so far survived the worst were cold, hungry, and in urgent need of care. But Stefan could not help them. First he had to deal with the Norscans. Until then, anything else would be at best a postponement of the greater horror to come.

The most important task now was to eliminate the Norscans, and find the man who led them. The man he had once known as his friend. For the moment the hopes of the people had to be ignored. In the end, it was their only true hope of survival.

There had been no time for Stefan to win the trust of the men he now commanded. But the scarlet-clad soldiers had so far fought more bravely, more defiantly than he had dared hope. Their belief in the future that was to have been Sigmarsgeist might have been built upon a falsehood, but it was deeply held, and they would cling to that belief until every last drop of their blood was spilled.

At the very edge of the flooded area, a group of women had taken shelter in a chapel, a place of humble worship to the goddess Shallya. The women—twenty or thirty of them—had huddled together inside as the waters rose around them, united in their fear, and in their hope that the watchful goddess, and the very safety of their number, would protect them. The Norscans had fallen upon them like wolves, taking what pleasures they liked before slaughtering the women indiscriminately.

Stefan and his men heard the screams from afar, the sounds guiding them like a beacon to that forsaken place. But by the time the Red Guard arrived, the grim deed was done, and the Norscans, clad to a man in mocking white, were spilling back out onto the street, already seeking the next diversion to feed their bestial greed.

Stefan and his men saw to it that that they had all the diversion they could handle, and plenty more besides. They swarmed over the Norscans, the Red far outnumbering the White, totally overwhelming them. It was a small revenge, only a beginning, but victory tasted no less sweet for it. Stefan waded in amongst the clashing steel, and settled upon his target. A large, grinning Norscan was emerging from the chapel, tightening his breeches as he went. The man was oblivious to what was going on until it was too late. Stefan didn’t wait for the man to find his sword. Before the Norscan had even moved, Stefan took aim and plunged home his blade. A flower of dark blood blossomed out over the white uniform as the Norscan screamed out in agony. Stefan pulled the sword clear and, with the next stroke, sliced off the man’s head.

He looked around for likely opponents, but with the Red Guard in the ascendant the battle was already all but won. A flash of movement caught Stefan’s eye. He turned, and saw a figure slip out from the chapel, running for cover. Another moment and the Norscan would be out of reach. Stefan pulled the knife from his belt and took careful aim before hurling the blade. The knife arrowed through the air before catching the Norscan below one shoulder. The Norscan slowed, stumbled, and fell.

Stefan hurried across to the prostrate enemy. This one he would keep alive, for a while at least. He pulled the knife free then turned the Norscan onto his back. The pale face stared up at Stefan, defiance in his eyes.

The man started to swear at Stefan, harsh curses from his barbaric land.

Stefan slapped him hard across the face. “Be quiet,” he commanded. “Tell me about the mutant, the tattooed mutant.”

The Norscan struggled, trying to break free, but Stefan held him down. The marauder glared up at Stefan. “The tattooed one? He’ll swallow you whole and spit your bones out into the water,” he sneered. “Head south if you’re in a hurry to meet your death.”

“Get up,” Stefan said curtly, tugging the man to his feet.

Weak from blood loss, the Norscan was unable to put up much resistance.

Stefan wordlessly dragged his prisoner along behind him, back towards the chapel. The battle was over, all the other Norscans were either dead or dying. Of the Red Guard, all but three had come through the encounter unharmed. It was as good a start as Stefan could have hoped for, but now there were hard decisions to be made.

“You’ve had a taste of what it feels like to get your own back,” he said to them. “I hope it tastes good.” His words were met by a chorus of cheers from the Red Guard.

“You’ll have plenty more chances to enjoy that taste,” Stefan assured them. “But it’s not going to be so easy from here.” He looked round at the men, meeting the gaze of as many as he could. “There are Norscans everywhere,” he told them. “And doubtless things far worse than them, too, creatures touched by Chaos. We have to spread out, form ourselves into smaller units.” He took a breath, measuring up what needed to be done.

“I need a few men to come with me,” he said, “five or six, no more than that. I warn you, mine will be the party at most risk. You others, form into three groups. My group will head south. The rest of you cover the other quarters of the city, as far as you can go towards the water line. Do what you can for your people, but your priority must be the Norscans. They must be destroyed at all costs.”

“What about this one?” a voice from the back demanded. Stefan glanced around at his prisoner, seized the man by the scruff of the neck and threw him back towards the gathering of Red Guards. “Deal with him as you will,” he said.

 

No longer would there be safety, nor security, in numbers. Stefan had left the gates of the palace at the head of a formidable force, a troop approaching a hundred men. For a short while, he had felt invulnerable. Now, he headed back across the dark, watery wasteland of the citadel in search of Zucharov with a bare half dozen guards at his side. Now he was both hunter and hunted once again.

Still the exodus came, long lines of bedraggled people heading in the opposite direction, fleeing the merciless waters with whatever they could carry. Whenever he could, Stefan spoke to them, always with the same question. But none of the frightened refugees would admit to any knowledge of the tattooed mutant. Most would struggle past without making any response, and those few who did meet his eye only answered with a short shake of the head. Before long, even the last of the refugees had disappeared. Stefan and his men had reached the flood line and were wading in water that was knee deep and still rising. The citadel seemed to have emptied.

Stefan looked around, increasingly convinced that the trail had led only to a dead end. Zucharov was not here. He would have no purpose in being here.

As he searched around, desperately looking for any clue, his eye fell upon the remains of a house, its upper floor a jagged spur of stone and earth still standing above the waters. A face appeared briefly at a window, then pulled back hurriedly at the sight of Stefan and his comrades.

“You in there,” Stefan called out. “Show yourself. We mean you no harm.”

He stood waiting for a response. The face did not reappear. “We mean you no harm,” Stefan repeated. “You must leave your home,” he said, determinedly. “You will drown unless you leave now. Let us help you.”

A few moments later the face reappeared, peering over the ledge of the window. “We cannot leave,” a voice, worn down with age and exhaustion, replied.

“My men will help you to safety,” Stefan assured them. “We just want to talk to you first.”

The old man extended his head from the window to take a better look at Stefan. He stared at him for a few moments, then said, “Who are you?”

“I am Stefan Kumansky,” Stefan said. “And an enemy to your enemies.”

The old man peered at him through the gloom. “You’re one of the ones who came to the citadel with the healer,” he said. “With the healer.”

“I am,” Stefan affirmed.

The old man disappeared back inside the room for a moment, then called down to Stefan, an urgency in his voice now.

“Come up here,” he said. “Come quickly.”

Inside, the house was dark and crumbling, the stairs disintegrating under Stefan’s feet as he climbed up. Whoever was still in the house only had a little time left to get to safety. Stefan climbed the stair quickly, but with caution. He had no idea what awaited him above. Reason told him that it could not be Zucharov, but he held his sword drawn ready nonetheless.

As he reached the top of the steps he saw the old man who had been at the window sitting by the dim light of a spluttering oil lamp. Next to him a woman, her body wrapped in a heavy shawl to keep out the cold, was bending down over something or someone lying stretched out upon the floor of the tiny room. The light was too poor for Stefan to see clearly, but he felt his pulse suddenly begin to race.

“What is it?” he demanded of the old couple. “Why are you still here?”

“The healer loved him,” the old man said, sadly. “He went to her aid.”

“But the dark one fell upon him,” the woman muttered. “The dark one was sent from Morr to claim him.”

As Stefan stepped into the room, the bundle laid out upon the floor stirred slowly, and a voice, so weak as to be all but unrecognisable, called his name.

“Bruno!” Stefan cried out. He fell down upon his knees at his friend’s side, and took Bruno’s head in his hands. His comrade opened his eyes, and forced a semblance of a smile.

“Zucharov,” Bruno whispered. “Sorry, Stefan. I couldn’t stop him.”

“Here,” Stefan beseeched the old couple. “Give me some light.”

The woman passed Stefan the lamp, and he bent towards Bruno’s chest, to see that his tunic was sodden and sticky with blood. Carefully, he prised the fabric apart, trying to get to the wound. His hand fastened upon the locket hanging from a chain around Bruno’s neck, the likeness of the goddess Shallya.

“It’s all—right,” Bruno said, struggling to force out the words. “Our lady intervened to—spare me. See?” he gasped. “The icon—deflected the blade.”

Stefan took the lamp in his left hand and looked closely at the wound. The talisman around Bruno’s neck was battered, almost folded in two by the impact. Clearly, it had taken some of the force of Zucharov’s sword. But the wound was still deep, and a thick, darkish blood was oozing from the jagged incision in Bruno’s chest. Stefan was no surgeon, but he had seen enough battle to recognise those who the gods would spare, and those that were bound for Morn The locket had not so much saved Bruno’s life, as prolonged his death. Stefan pressed his hand against the bloody gash, hoping against hope for his comrade’s survival, despairing in his own helplessness.

“He loved the healer, with his life,” the old man said, solemnly. “And she was our redemption, our hope. We could not leave him to die alone.”

“He’s not going to die,” Stefan retorted, defiantly. But his heart and his head were telling different stories. “I’m going to get you to safety,” he told Bruno. “Somewhere where we can take proper care of that wound.”

Bruno’s eyes flickered open again. “No,” he said, a harder tone in his voice. “You must save Bea,” he said. “Zucharov—took her, with Anaise. Back to—the palace. To find—Tal Dur.” A violent cough shook through Bruno’s body, and spittle flecked with blood appeared at the corners of his mouth. “Stefan,” he urged. “Please. You must save her.”

Every instinct inside of Stefan told him he could not abandon his comrade. He could not leave him—not now, not here in this dank forsaken place. It could not end like this. Yet he knew also that Bruno was right. If he did not find Bea, and with her Zucharov, then all would be lost. Everything that they had endured—and Bruno’s sacrifice—would have been for nothing. As he looked down upon his friend, he tried to hold his emotions back but the tears still fell from his eyes. He looked at the woman who had been tending Bruno’s wounds.

“Can he be moved?”

She shook her head, emphatically. Stefan stood up, and shouted to the soldiers standing round.

“Fetch some help,” he commanded them. “In the meantime, in the name of the gods, do whatever is within your power to help him.” He turned to the old man and his wife.

“Will you stay with him also?” he asked.

“We would not do otherwise,” the woman said. “We will give back such healing as we can.”

“You’re going back to the palace?” a guard asked. “Alone?”

“There’s only one man I’m looking for now,” Stefan replied. “And he will be waiting for me.”

 

Anarchy had been loosed upon the world. The whole of Sigmarsgeist had become consumed within a carnival of death and destruction. Soldiers ran amidst the remains of houses and streets, fighting running battles, their blood mixing with the boiling, foaming waters. The people of Sigmarsgeist, once so organised, so industrious, were running, too, but without purpose now. They were running anywhere that afforded shelter, running from the tides of water and steel that had engulfed the citadel.

Anaise von Augen looked around at the destruction of her life’s work with astonishment, and with a crazed sense of delight. Had she not known it? Sigmarsgeist would be torn down before it could be made anew. The old would be swept aside. Only when it had been purged, utterly and completely, would Sigmarsgeist be ready to greet the new age: the age of Tal Dur.

The girl had ceased to resist. At the moment when Zucharov had killed Bruno, Bea had gone wild, suddenly consumed with pain and despair, and had fought like a wildcat to free herself from Anaise’s grip. But Anaise was far too strong for her. There was never any possibility of her letting the healer go, not even for a moment, and gradually Bea’s protests and struggles had subsided until, finally, she hung limply upon Anaise’s arm, an animal being led meekly to the slaughter.

Anaise strode through the carnage, untouched and invulnerable. Zucharov, walking a few paces behind, was her shield, her merciless sword to fend off any who dared to come too close. There were few enough of them, and none lived to regret their folly. The time would soon come when her protector, too, would have outlived his usefulness. But for now, he still served, as all had come to serve her. As the mighty powers of Tal Dur in turn would come, so soon now, to serve her.

Within sight of the gates of the palace, Anaise stopped, and turned her face to the sky. She looked about, listening intently to the sounds echoing around her. Keeping Bea secure within one arm, she lifted the other above her head.

“Listen,” she said, to Bea, to Zucharov, to any who would hear her.

“What is it?” Zucharov demanded. “Why have you stopped?”

“Listen.” Anaise said again.

“I hear nothing,”

“That is it,” Anaise said, a new excitement rising in her voice. “That is exactly it.”

 

Konstantin had heard it too. Hidden away within his chamber in the highest reaches of the palace he had heard, or, rather, sensed the sudden cessation of the roaring of the waters that battered against the fabric of his dreams.

His lieutenants had entered his room without even the formality of knocking. The elder Guide could see at once from their faces that they believed themselves to be the bearers of good news.

“Majesty,” one began. “The assault upon the citadel is ended!”

“The waters are no longer rising,” his comrade went on, eagerly. “All is growing calm.”

Konstantin smiled at them, indulging their humour. “I hear,” he said, quietly.

“Do you think that Kumansky was successful?” the first man asked of him. “Perhaps the outer walls have indeed been breached?”

“No,” Konstantin replied. “I do not think Kumansky was successful.” He watched his lieutenant’s face fall.

“Then what?” the man asked, uncertainly. “What can it mean?”

Konstantin did not answer the question, but instead turned his attention inwards, drawing deep upon the insight and wisdom that, in his madness and his folly, he had all but lost. After a long pause, he opened his eyes and looked up at the expectant faces of his men.

“It means,” he said at last, “that it is time for you to stand down from your posts. Time for you to leave me. Time to leave the palace, if that is your will.”

The two men were amongst the oldest and most trusted of his officers. They had followed him without question or complaint, all through the long rise and swift descent of Sigmarsgeist. Now he dismissed them for the last time, with no more than a word and a gesture of his hand. The officers stared back at the Guide in disbelief.

“Sire,” one said. “We will not go. We will stay at your side, and serve you through whatever is to come.”

“I release you from my service,” Konstantin said again, with steel in his voice. “Only solitude may serve me now. Go.” He turned away, and when he spoke again, his words were no longer for them.

“What there is left to face, I must face alone,” he said.

He did not turn back, nor speak another word, until at last the two men had retreated reluctantly from his sight. Then he sat, and waited, alone with the stillness that had now settled like a cloud over Sigmarsgeist. He did not have to wait for long.

The rumbling started deep within the palace itself. Konstantin could not place it exactly, but he did not have to. He knew where it came from, and he knew—now—what it meant. It came from the very heart of the palace, and rose from the depths to touch the very top of its highest towers. It was a rumbling like the anger of the gods, deep and unforgiving. Konstantin watched as first the table, then the walls around him started to shake. He bowed his head.

“Anaise, my sister,” the Guide murmured. “Do you hear it? It is the voice of judgement, calling us to account.”

Konstantin von Augen closed his eyes, and prayed. For the last time, he prayed to the holy memory of Sigmar, a prayer of atonement, heavy with regret. And he prayed that, if the gods should ever choose to grant him another life, he should never again grow to be so blind.

 

Yard by yard, and sometimes inch by bloody inch, Stefan had fought his way back to within sight of the gates of the palace. By now, all order had broken down, the hierarchy of control was defined by the outcome of single acts of combat, Red Guard pitted against Norscan, and Norscans turning their cruel rage upon anyone who came within sight. Not all the combatants were human. As Stefan edged closer he began to encounter those whose mutations had placed them far beyond the bounds of the mortal realm. These were the creatures of the dark, nameless abominations, once chained within their cells in the dungeons of the palace, now freed to exact their revenge upon humankind as they chose.

The attack came without warning, a flash of movement and colour, something tumbling from out of the sky, plunging from the ledge of a building high above. The daemon spun onto its feet in front of Stefan and stood before him, a shimmering grotesque of muscle and bone, razor-sharp talons adorning the claws on each of its sinuous arms. It shifted and settled back on its haunches, lithe as a dancer, savouring the encounter to come. Stefan sensed it had been waiting for him, its sole purpose to stop or delay him reaching the palace.

Stefan drew breath then rushed forward, hoping for a quick and decisive resolution. The Chaos creature moved with astonishing speed and agility, springing from its haunches to leap into the air above its opponent’s head. Stefan spun around, disorientated, holding his sword high to fend off the anticipated attack. He felt a blow upon his back, then wiry, powerful limbs wrapped themselves about his neck, and razor talons were clawing at the exposed flesh of his throat. Stefan twisted from left to right, and managed to dislodge the creature from his back. The thing fell heavily, but regained its feet in an instant and stood eyeing Stefan, a knowing smile upon its thin, androgynous face. It winked, mockingly, then spat at Stefan, a bolt of sulphurous bile that bubbled and smoked as it struck the ground by his feet.

Stefan struck out with his sword, but the creature simply stepped away from the blow, moving faster than any mortal man. By now Stefan knew what to expect, even if there was little he could do about it. The counter-attack came with lethal speed, a sudden blur of colour as the claws raked the air before Stefan’s face. Stefan felt a sudden stinging as though a thousand needles had pierced his skin. His face was damp as though sweating from every pore, but this was blood, not sweat. And if the servant of Tzeentch got any closer, he would be cut to ribbons.

Stefan thrust out his sword again, aiming for the murderous, raking claws. Bone bit upon steel, the creature had one arm wrapped like a serpent around the outstretched blade. Stefan swung the sword, two-handed, smashing the creature against the wall. Before it could recover he lashed out again, finally managing to land a blow upon the multi-hued body. He moved in for the kill, but the creature wasn’t finished yet. Claws tore at his face and body. A cut appeared along Stefan’s left arm, then another upon his thigh. The creature opened its mouth and let loose a low, keening wail.

Then the thunder came, a noise fit to wake the sleeping gods. It started as a low rumble, somewhere deep below the ground, but rose quickly to a crescendo. It was like the roaring of the waters as they first burst up into the citadel, but much, much louder. The creature of Chaos turned its hairless face to the sky and uttered a blood-curdling response. It seemed to have anticipated the sound, and turned towards Stefan as if to say, you are too late.

But, for a brief moment, its guard was down. Stefan had one chance, and he made sure he took it. The ground trembled as the pounding rhythm took hold, the gates and walls of the palace, the buildings lining the surrounding streets, everything was moving. But Stefan had only one focus. He blocked out the thunderous roar, and all thought of what it might portend. The monster flung its head full back and wailed, and Stefan lashed out with his sword, the blade slicing clean through its neck. The creature’s head flew from its body, the leering grin still fixed upon its face.

Stefan steadied himself upon his sword, fighting to stay upon his feet. All around him, buildings were cracking and crumbling, great towers of stone falling to the ground. The gates of the palace stood open, unguarded. Stefan ran towards them, not knowing if he was running towards his salvation or his doom, only knowing that this was the locus of the storm. Whatever outcome awaited, it would be decided here.

A mighty crack split the air. Stefan looked up and saw one of the great domes above the palace crack open. Plates of iron peeled apart, spraying wreckage and dust into the shivering air. A second dome fractured, and then a third under the relentless pounding. The palace, the very heart of Sigmarsgeist, was dying before Stefan’s eyes. And all within it were surely going to die, too.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the infernal hammer beat was stilled. An eerie, tranquil silence settled upon the citadel. Stefan ran on through the gates, suddenly able to hear his own footfalls amongst the steady rain of debris falling upon the ground.

He counted five seconds of silence… six… seven. Somewhere between the eighth and ninth, the explosion struck. The thunderous pounding that had reduced much of the palace to rubble had been only the beginning, a prelude to what was to come. As Stefan looked on, a massive column of water burst forth from the ground and punched, like a great fist, towards the sky. The water crashed against the walls of the palace with the force of a mighty explosion, like a thousand storms brought together into one single, catastrophic event.

Sigmarsgeist had been meant to stand until eternity. But the buildings beneath the four domes had already been undermined by the sprawling mass of bone-like growths that had eaten their way through the fabric of the palace. Once-solid structures began to crumble. Great slabs of masonry were thrown into the air and smashed to fragments upon the ground below. Through the blurring haze, Stefan caught sight of the domes as they fell, dragging the walls of the palace down behind them. Ten years of mighty labour was torn apart in minutes.

Blinded by the icy spray, and showered with shards of broken stone, all Stefan could do was protect himself as best he could. For what felt like an age he crouched down with his arms about his head, the only shelter he could find from the relentless storm.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the noise and water were gone. Dazed, Stefan clambered to his feet, gazing spellbound at the ruination all around him. The proud heart of the citadel had been swept away. The high walls, the domes and gilded towers were all gone, replaced by a drowned wasteland of rubble.

Minutes before, the streets in and around the palace had been teeming with people. Only the gods knew how many souls had been swept to the Gates of Morr in the maelstrom that had followed. Stefan looked about and said a silent prayer for them all, and for all the hopes and futile dreams of Sigmarsgeist, gone in the passing of a moment.