CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tal Dur

 

 

If Anaise still held any lingering doubts that this was to be her destiny, then those doubts were utterly dispelled now. She had watched in wonder as the palace of Sigmarsgeist was destroyed. On all sides, walls, towers and statues fell, great edifices of stone thrown high in the air and smashed upon the earth below. The carnage was absolute, the destruction all but total. But it did not destroy her. With Bea and Zucharov she had walked into the maelstrom, to the very edge of the storm that was tearing the palace apart, and she was not harmed. Now, Anaise knew, this was the will of the gods—not the safe gods of the Empire, but deeper, darker forces. It had been ordained. At last, her time had come.

She watched in wonder as the work of years was undone in a few violent minutes, the unnatural fury of the water leaving nothing intact. Soon there was no palace, nothing left of the monument to her brother’s dreams. The entire edifice, the tallest structure, the highest point in all Sigmarsgeist, had collapsed in upon itself. The palace and all its surrounding buildings had disappeared, pounded to rubble then collapsed within the great pit of its own dismembered foundations. Everything, above and below, had been washed away.

Anaise began to laugh, softly at first, then with a growing intensity until her voice became a hysterical counterpoint to the dark laughter of the gods. Her brother’s dreams had been buried, and with them Konstantin himself. But she had endured. The new citadel that would follow would be in her image, an everlasting testament to her great and enduring will.

As suddenly as the deluge had begun, it was over. For a moment the great tower of water hung suspended, spinning in mid air. Then, abruptly, the pounding ceased, and the tower fell in upon itself, wave upon wave crashing down upon the wreckage of the palace.

The waters flooded across the open space and then withdrew, draining back into the crater left behind. Almost as quickly as the subterranean ruins beneath the palace had been exposed, they were drowned, subsumed as the waters poured into the gaping chasm. Where the palace had once stood there was now only a pool, the size of a small lake. The fury at its destruction was spent, not even the smallest ripple disturbed the surface of the water. Anaise was left with her captive and her consort, standing by a shore of tumbled stone beside the edge of the lake.

Nothing was left standing above the water, except for a solitary tangled mass of bleached-white bone which had tumbled from on high to lie spanning the width of the water like a ghostly bridge.

Anaise looked around. Gradually her delight gave way to a puzzled disbelief. She seized hold of Bea, and pulled the girl around to face her.

“Is that it?” she demanded, tersely. “What happens now? Where is the Well of Sadness?”

“Gone,” Bea said quietly. “It has served its purpose.”

Anaise shook her violently. “Where is Tal Dur?” she screamed. “I will not be denied, not now!”

“Tal Dur is here,” said Zucharov from behind her. “Still you do not understand, and you will never will.” He turned his gaze upon the dark unblemished face of the waters and stretched out a hand. The placid calm of the lake broke apart in response, rising up in a swirling wave.

“The sins of Sigmarsgeist have been washed away,” Bea told Anaise. “The power of the waters is distilled to its very essence. This is the source,” she said, looking toward the lake. “This is Tal Dur.”

“The girl,” Zucharov said. “Give her to me.”

Anaise took a step back, her eyes fixed upon Zucharov. With one hand she still held firmly to Bea. The other trailed down by her side, lightly brushing against her gown.

“Of course,” she replied at last. “I will share the gifts of Tal Dur with you. That was always our agreement.”

“Give her to me. Now.”

Anaise dipped her head in a shallow bow. “Of course,” she replied, forcing a smile. “One moment.” She appeared to fumble with the clasp of her gown.

Zucharov made a grab for the girl, his patience at an end. He didn’t see the knife until it was flying towards him. In a single, elegant movement Anaise had lifted her hand clear of her gown and sent the blade twisting through the air. It struck Zucharov, hard and firm, in the very centre of his chest.

The tattooed warrior stumbled backwards, a look of puzzled disbelief forming beneath the hideous mask. He coughed, gasping for breath. His huge frame shook, then steadied itself. Zucharov grasped the hilt of the knife, but did not pull it free. His expression changed. Slowly, a bitter smile crept across his dark features. When he spoke it was with the voice of Kyros.

“You are wrong,” the Chaos Lord murmured. “We were never to share Tal Dur. That was never to be your destiny.” He ripped the blade from his chest, a plume of crimson blood spouting from the wound. Oblivious to any pain, Zucharov pulled open his tunic around the wound, revealing the canopy of horrors daubed upon his body.

“See,” he continued. “This is your destiny.”

A scream welled up in Anaise’s throat as the image shaped itself before her eyes. Right where the knife had penetrated the mutant’s body she saw her own likeness, drenched in blood. The wound that she had inflicted was a jagged scar that ran the length of her body. She let go of Bea and tried to run, but Zucharov caught her, and restrained her with ease.

Alexei Zucharov brought his hands about Anaise’s neck and held them there. He traced the contours of her face, running his fingers down the length of her cheek. Anaise battled to free herself with every last ounce of her being, beating at Zucharov with her fists. When all else had failed her, she screamed.

“Enough,” the voice of Kyros murmured. “Enough. Now you see where your destiny has brought you. Now you see where you belong.” Zucharov raised one hand, brushing away the single tear running down her face.

“You are fallen,” he whispered to her. “You are weak.”

Anaise’s eyes grew wide with fear, or with anger. She began to speak, defiant to the last in the face of the monster who would deny her her rightful prize. Zucharov pressed one finger to her lips, stopping her words. Then, slowly, almost gently, he cupped his hands once more around Anaise’s neck, and stilled her voice for ever.

 

At first, it had seemed impossible to Stefan that anything, or anyone, could have survived, either inside the palace, or in the dark maze of dungeons that had once lain below. Every living thing must surely have perished. Yet he had been spared, and he now realised that he was not the only one to have survived.

He now stood on the lip of a vast crater where the walls had fallen, and the palace had collapsed in upon itself. The waters had drawn back, retreating into the cavernous space, filling it until all that remained of either the palace or the great flood which had destroyed it was a lake. The only structure that still stood was a single span of the bone-like growth that curved like the spine of some great beast across the surface of the water.

Fragile and brittle, the bridge swayed precariously in the faint breeze that drifted off the water. At any moment this last remnant of the struggle would surely crack and break apart. But for the moment, the bone-bridge held, a solitary arch above the still, silent waters. Upon the bridge, Stefan made out two figures>One was monstrously tall and powerfully built. The second, diminutive by contrast, walking two steps behind, hands fastened behind their back, linked to the first by a length of rope or chain. He recognised them instantly—Zucharov and Bea, captor and captive. Locked together in a slow dance across the waters of Tal Dur.

Stefan had asked himself what he would feel when this moment came. Would he be consumed by vengeance, raw hatred for the creature who had stolen the life of his comrade? Would he feel excitement, or fear at the prospect that his own life, too, might soon be at an end? Now the time had come, Stefan felt neither of these things. He had become quite calm, as though he had reached a sudden and unexpected point of stillness. As he slowly drew his sword he was aware only of a sense of fulfilment, and the knowledge that he had been waiting for this moment for much of his life. This would be the fulcrum, the defining struggle. Whatever the outcome now, nothing would ever be the same again.

Zucharov had not seen him yet. He was only interested in Bea, dragging the healer behind him as he moved on to the bridge. Bea looked rigid, immobile. For a moment Stefan feared that Zucharov might want her dead, but no, that was not Zucharov’s purpose. Her presence made Stefan’s task all the more difficult, now he must destroy Zucharov without endangering Bea. There would be a way. There had to be a way.

Finally, almost casually, Alexei Zucharov looked up and saw his former comrade. A look passed across the mutant’s face that signalled that he, too, had been waiting for this moment. A flash of common understanding passed between them, the last bond they would ever share.

Stefan barely knew Zucharov now. He looked as if he were wearing a mask, a mask that clung taut against his skin, covering every inch of his face. Then Stefan saw it for what it truly was, the living tattoo that had begun a lifetime ago in Erengrad, as a tiny bruise upon his comrade’s arm. There could be no question now that Chaos had now claimed Zucharov. There was no way back from the abyss for Alexei.

Stefan wasn’t expecting Zucharov to smile, but smile he did, even though the tattoo rendered the smile inhuman. Stefan realised that this, after all, was what Zucharov truly wanted. To face Stefan here, at the place they would know as Tal Dur, and to kill him. Zucharov’s whole body had been transformed. Sinews strained and pumped-up muscles pushed hard against tough, leathery flesh. The realisation sat like ice in Stefan’s stomach. The dark power flooding into Zucharov was making him ever stronger, ever more unassailable. Every moment that passed tilted the odds of battle further in Zucharov’s favour.

Beyond the fight that lay ahead, there was Bea to think of. So far she seemed to be unharmed, but Stefan knew he could not risk attacking Zucharov whilst he still held the girl.

“Let the girl go free!” Stefan called. “This quarrel is for you and I alone.”

Zucharov’s mocking laughter echoed across the water in response.

“Quarrel? With you? I’ve no more quarrel with you than I might have with a fly.” Zucharov raised the blade of his knife to Bea’s throat. The healer’s face was pale with terror.

“Is this what agitates your weak, insect mind, Stefan?” He touched the edge of the steel to Bea’s skin. “Perhaps if I dispense with the girl then the fly will stop bothering me?”

Stefan moved forward, cautiously. “I don’t think you’ll do that,” he said. He paused, struggling with the gamble he was about to take. “But if you want,” he said, “then go ahead. Kill her. You’ll have no excuse to hide behind then. You’ll have to fight me.”

Veins pulsed upon the mutant’s forehead. The patchwork that was Zucharov’s face buckled and stretched, and blood began to leak from his dark lidless eyes. He pulled himself up to his full height, towering over both his captive and his opponent.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he told Stefan. “As it is, you will live just long enough to regret your words.” He turned to the girl.

“Where does the source lie?” he demanded. He took hold of her arm, twisting it slowly, relentlessly, until Bea screamed out in pain.

“Tal Dur,” Zucharov demanded again. “Where is the source of its power?”

“In Shallya’s name,” Bea responded, fearfully. “At the centre of the lake. Where the water is at its deepest. The power of Tal Dur flows from there.”

Zucharov looked toward Stefan who was still advancing. “I have not done with you yet,” he told Bea. “But for the moment, our business must be set aside.” The mutant unfurled the iron chain coiled around Bea’s wrists, and secured one end against a thick spar of bone, pulling the iron links so tight that they cut into the flesh of Bea’s hands. Zucharov ignored her cries, concerned only that she should have no chance of escape.

“Now,” he called out to Stefan. His face split into a hungry grin. “Come and taste the power of Tzeentch.”

Stefan needed no bidding. He vaulted up upon the tottering bridge, and attacked. The many victories he had known as a swordsman counted for nothing now. This was the only fight that mattered.

The speed of his opening thrust seemed to take his opponent by surprise. Stefan’s sword cut through Zucharov’s tunic, exposing the patterned flesh beneath. But it made as much impact as a fingernail grazing leather. Zucharov spat a dark oath and brushed the blade aside, counter-attacking with a flurry of sword-strokes that swiftly forced Stefan back.

Zucharov drove in again, the heavy steel went just wide of Stefan’s shoulder and sliced deep into the side of the bridge. The bridge shuddered violently, shards of fibrous bone breaking away to scatter into the water below. In the instant it took him to free his sword Stefan had struck back, this time finding his range and aiming a blow cleanly between Zucharov’s shoulder and chest. The mutant’s answering howl gave Stefan fresh hope. No longer human, perhaps, but not immortal either. Not yet.

The wound sparked Zucharov into a frenzied rage of retaliation, and Stefan had to defend himself beneath a murderous storm of steel. He was drawing on his deepest reserves of strength and skill, but still some of his opponent’s blows were finding their mark. Stefan bit back upon the pain as first one arm and then his leg was sliced open, and still the onslaught continued. Each new wound, however small, was taking its toll. With every passing moment his strength was being depleted. He was getting weaker whilst Zucharov only grew stronger. He had to finish this soon. Time was running out.

Stefan swerved aside to avoid another attack, and found space momentarily to strike at Zucharov’s unprotected head. He connected only with the flat of his blade, but the blow was still enough to kill most mortal men. Zucharov was merely stunned. Before Stefan could draw breath and consolidate, his opponent had recovered. Now it was Stefan who was caught off-guard. He watched in horror as Zucharov’s blade slid beneath his ribs, and a white-hot pain erupted in his gut. He fell back, clutching one hand to the wound, and collapsed against one side of the narrow bridge.

Through a red haze, Stefan watched the scene unfold. His former comrade walking towards him, slowly, almost nonchalantly, preparing to end his life. The gold band, carved with ancient runes, glittered upon his wrist. And behind Zucharov, somehow far away, Bea still trying desperately to free herself from the chains shackling her to the bridge. The surface of the bridge was slick and warm, wet with his own blood. Already the pain was starting to ebb away into a drowsy numbness that suffused his whole body. This is it, Stefan told himself. I’m dying.

He felt tired, so very, very tired. He wondered if it was always like this at the end. It wasn’t right. There should be desperation, anger, a last, defiant flaring of the light. He looked up at the servant of Tzeentch as his life drained away. Zucharov was gazing down at him, a quizzical, half-smile on his tattooed face. Then he raised his sword for what would be the last time.

A sea of thoughts was running through Stefan’s mind. All the friends and comrades he had known, all the battles fought and won. All had led only to this, this death, this end. From out of the torrent, the image of his brother appeared. For a moment Stefan saw him clearly, seated by their favourite corner of the Helmsman, at home in Altdorf, two pots of good ale set in front of him. Before he had set out on his journey, Stefan had made a pledge to Mikhal that he would return safe from Erengrad, that they would meet to drink and tell their stories. A week from this very day, they should have been sitting at that very table.

This isn’t how it’s meant to be, he told himself. It isn’t supposed to end like this. And in that moment, the weariness was gone, and rage had taken its place, a rage against the dark force about to claim his life. This was not meant to be.

His sword was gone, lost in the struggle. He had no weapon to defend himself with but his own, battered body. Zucharov towered over him, savouring the final moment before the kill. He knew it was hopeless, but his rage would not let Stefan abandon the fight. He gripped hold of the bridge as best he could and kicked out blindly, again and again. The target did not matter now. All that mattered was to fight, and keep fighting until the gift of life was gone.

The bridge shuddered again. He heard Bea cry out. Then came a single sound, a sharp crack as a bridge strut broke in two. Zucharov spun about, suddenly realising that Bea had managed to break free. For a moment, his attention was drawn away from Stefan, and Stefan knew he had to grasp that fleeting opportunity.

He poured what was left of his strength into one final kick. His booted foot missed Zucharov but connected squarely with the side of the bridge. A tremor ran the length of the skeletal structure, and the bridge lurched violently to one side.

Zucharov spun around, surprise and confusion visible beneath the markings on his face. The sudden shift in bulk and weight caused the bridge to roll even further. Zucharov toppled forward, off-balance, towards the prostrate figure of Stefan.

One chance, the rage told Stefan. Once chance. This is it. He lifted an arm as Zucharov skidded towards him, and managed to hook his fingers around his opponent’s belt.

The mutant staggered forward, trying to hold his balance on the collapsing structure. Stefan shut his eyes and rolled sideways, moving with the sway of the bridge, jamming his foot hard against the side wall. The brittle structure shattered and cracked, and suddenly, briefly, Stefan sensed only a roaring in his ears and empty space beneath his body as the bridge disintegrated.

The water was dark, and very, very cold. There was a burst of sound as Stefan struck the surface and then everything was stillness. He was alone, falling ever deeper towards the heart of Tal Dur. He knew he must be drowning, and yet the rage inside him was gone, replaced by a calm serenity. In his mind, he saw again the image of his brother seated at his table at the inn. Mikhal looked up at Stefan, and beckoned to him. No, Stefan told himself. This is not how it is when you die. This is how it is when life is given back.

His head broke the surface of the water and sweet air flooded into his lungs. He saw the moons up above, pale light shimmering on the surface of the lake. And he saw Bea, stepping from the shallows towards him, unfurling the severed links of the chain from her wrists. Stefan’s sword was tucked into the belt at her waist.

Stefan lifted an arm clear of the water. To his astonishment, he discovered that he felt no weariness, no pain. His whole body felt renewed. He was giddy, drunk with newfound strength.

“It’s all right!” he shouted to Bea. He stretched out, and began to swim slowly towards her. A look of alarm passed across Bea’s face. She raised her hands in warning.

“Wait!” she called out. “Stay where you are, Stefan. Don’t move!”

“It’s all right,” Stefan shouted back. “I can make it.”

“No!” Bea commanded. “Respect the power of Tal Dur.” She shed the last of the chains, and swam to meet Stefan halfway across the pool. “Take hold of my hands,” she instructed him. “Both of them. Tal Dur will only lend its power through one blessed with the healing gift.”

She clasped Stefan’s wrists securely in her own. “Now,” she said. “We go. Slowly.”

Together they swam back to the shore and emerged, dripping, at the edge of the lake, amidst the rubble of the palace.

“Your wounds?” Bea asked. Stefan looked down in wonder. The gash beneath his ribs had closed. The scar lining his flesh seemed already to be fading. Other, smaller wounds had simply vanished.

“Truly,” Stefan said, “your powers are wondrous.”

“The power comes from Tal Dur,” Bea said, quietly. “I am nothing but the vessel.”

Stefan gazed back across the lake. “What happened to Zucharov?”

Bea shook her head. “Wait,” she urged. “Watch.”

For what seemed like an age, nothing disturbed the glass-like sheen of the water. Then bubbles of air broke the surface, one or two only at first, then steadily more. Stefan felt his body tense. “Give me the sword,” he whispered.

Alexei Zucharov rose like a ghost from the waters. Tal Dur had wrought its changes upon him, too. He seemed smaller, physically diminished. All trace of the tattoo had been washed from his body, every mark upon his skin, was gone. His eyes, when they met with Stefan’s were deep, untainted blue. The eyes of a long-vanished comrade.

“Stefan—” he began, uncertainly. “Stefan?”

Zucharov edged forward and then stopped, as if something unseen had taken hold of him. Stefan’s grip on the sword eased, and then tightened again. Another change was sweeping over Zucharov. His eyes dulled and widened until only the dark kernels were visible. He looked at Stefan again but no longer knew him. His body began to shake, violently, as some invisible force began to break through from within.

One chance, the voice told Stefan again. He stepped into the waters, his sword poised high above his head. “Goodbye, Alexei,” he said, softly.

The water around Zucharov began to stir, swirling around him like a vortex. Stefan drove forward, but never delivered the final blow. Zucharov’s mouth opened in a silent scream as his body thrashed against the force pulling him down. The snaking waters wrapped around him, dragging him back towards the depths. Stefan was close enough to touch him, he could have reached out and pulled him clear. Their eyes met for one last, fleeting moment before Tal Dur sucked Zucharov down.

The earth itself seemed to shudder and cry out. Stefan felt a mighty pulse as it passed through the ground beneath his feet, spreading from the centre of Tal Dur in a shock wave through the ruins of Sigmarsgeist. The waters rose up in a great wave, then settled for the last time, like a shroud above Alexei Zucharov’s head.

 

A phalanx of Red Guard bore Bruno’s body down to the water’s edge. He was still breathing, but he was surely nearer to death than life. Bruno was not yet within the realm of Morr, but his soul stood close by the final gates. His last moments were steadily trickling away.

“Hurry,” Bea implored the guard. “Time is running out.” Running out for Bruno, and for Tal Dur too. Since Zucharov had been sucked down by the whirlpool, the fall of the waters had been dramatic. The lake that had been Tal Dur had halved in size in less than an hour, and the levels were still falling. All across what remained of Sigmarsgeist, the waters were draining away. Soon there would be no sign of their existence save for the ravages they had left behind.

Bea waded into the water, bearing Bruno’s body into the depths. She motioned for Stefan and the soldiers to stay back.

“Wait,” she told him. “Trust me. Trust in the healing powers of Tal Dur.”

She lay Bruno upon his back, then guided the injured man across the surface of the pool until the waters had risen up above her waist. Then, with her arms supporting Bruno’s weight in the water, she bowed her head until it was resting upon his chest, and made a silent prayer.

This time the waters did not rise up. There was no turmoil, no churning whirlpool to answer Bea. Instead the stillness of the waters seemed to reach out and fill all of Sigmarsgeist. For all his desperate worry for his comrade, Stefan found himself grow calm. He looked about, across what remained of the citadel to north and south. For a moment he thought about the Norscans, whether they or any other of the Chaos creatures could have survived. But Zucharov and Anaise had gone, and with them had gone the poison that had swept through Sigmarsgeist. The heart of the citadel was gone, and with it too the rage of battle.

Bea looked up from her prayers, and beckoned Stefan towards her.

Bruno lay very still in the water, an expression of calm on his face. For a moment Stefan thought his comrade was lost, but then Bruno began to breathe again, slow and regular, like a man in the depths of restful sleep. Finally he opened his eyes and looked up at Bea. He smiled at the sight of her.

“I thought for a moment I had died,” he murmured, “and that you were the goddess Shallya, come to receive me.”

Bea lowered her head, and kissed him gently. “You did not die,” she whispered. “Nor am I the goddess, though I know now how I may serve her.”

Stefan looked at Bruno and Bea in turn, and shook his head in relief and disbelief. “Tal Dur?” he asked her.

“Tal Dur,” Bea affirmed.

“But the same waters destroyed Zucharov,” Stefan said. “How can that be?”

“Tal Dur looked into his soul,” Bea said. “And gave back what it found within. Evil begot evil. Tal Dur destroyed Zucharov as it destroyed Sigmarsgeist, and all evil that ran within it.”

“It could have been different,” she continued, thoughtfully. “Theirs were once noble dreams, Konstantin and Anaise both. I’m sure of that.”

“But those dreams are buried beneath the rubble now, and Konstantin and Anaise with them,” Stefan replied. “Evil will always find ways to taint the purest of hearts. We must be ever vigilant, lest ambition and greed poison our noble intent.”

“The gods will bear witness to that,” Bea agreed.

 

They walked side by side through the ruins as day broke across Sigmarsgeist. The rising sun was welcome but unforgiving, exposing the full horror of the devastation that had swept through Sigmarsgeist. Very little of the citadel had been left untouched. The final shock that Stefan had felt standing by Tal Dur had torn through the ruins like a hammer blow, devastating those few buildings still standing. The dream that had been Sigmarsgeist had been left hollow, and empty. It seemed far from certain that it would ever live again.

The floods had continued to recede, ebbing away almost as fast as they had first risen. Before long, nothing would remain of the waters.

“I’m not sure that we are ready for the gifts of Tal Dur,” Stefan mused. “With such a power for evil as well as good, I’m not sure we ever will be ready.”

Bea said nothing, just continued to walk at his side. Stefan had already noticed a distance that had come between them. They were comrades still, without doubt, but comrades now bound upon very different paths. They walked in silence for a while before Stefan spoke again.

“Tal Dur surely worked its wonders upon Bruno,” he said. “I’d wager he’ll recover, stronger and healthier than ever he was before.”

“He has rested the better part of the night,” Bea replied. “Soon he’ll be ready to travel.”

She smiled, a little ruefully. “Beyond that, we cannot say. Tal Dur has gifted Bruno his life,” she said. “But it will not be the same life, the same future that he had before.”

“All our futures are unwritten,” Stefan said. “That is the only certainty we may know.”

He took Bea’s hand. “What about you?” he asked. “What hopes for the future have you?”

Bea stopped short, gazing about her at the people as they passed by, men and women struggling with bundles filled with clothes or food, beginning the long battle to rebuild their lives.

“I shall stay here,” she said at last. “This is where I belong. I know that now. I think perhaps I always knew it.”

“What will you do?”

Bea laughed. “Whatever I can. I don’t think I’ll lack for opportunity. There is work to be done, amongst the sick, the wounded, the starving. I can’t help them all, but I will do what I can.”

“Does Bruno know?” Stefan asked. “That you mean to stay, I mean?”

“Not yet,” Bea said, her voice very small. “Maybe in his heart though, yes.”

“You know you could ride back with us,” Stefan said. “To the Empire. Back to Altdorf. There’d be a life for you there.”

Bea smiled, and squeezed Stefan’s hand. “A life, maybe,” she said. “But not your life, Stefan. Nor Bruno’s, either. Your life is with the sword,” she said. “Mine is not. Mine is to heal.” She looked around. “I’m going back,” she said at last. “Back to my calling, I mean.” She opened her hand to reveal the battered icon of Shallya that Bruno had worn about his neck.

“Bruno wanted me to have this,” she said. “I don’t think even he knew quite how right that was.”

Stefan looked at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Bea flushed, and took a breath. “A long time ago, before I knew I had a gift, I was a Sister,” she said. “A Sister of Shallya, a priestess. Then I discovered that I had other powers, powers to heal that came from magic, as well as from the divine will of the goddess.”

“I still don’t understand,” Stefan said. “Surely your healing powers were a blessing, wherever they came from?”

Bea laughed again. “Others didn’t see it that way,” she said. “What I took as a gift, others saw as witchcraft. I had to renounce my calling, and leave the Sisterhood. I thought perhaps in Mielstadt I would be left to work in peace,” she said. “But—well, you know the rest.” She sighed, then brightened. “But here, I won’t be judged. Here I can start afresh, and use my gifts as they were always meant to be used. The goddess knows, there’s work enough to be done.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that,” Stefan conceded. He looked around, surveying the scenes of desolation on all sides. Most of the townsfolk who had survived would be left without homes or shelter of any sort. He feared it would not be long before disease and starvation would stalk the ruins in search of easy prey.

“Are you sure you want to stay?” Stefan asked her. “These are dangerous times, now more than ever. The Dark Powers will turn their gaze upon the ruins of Sigmarsgeist. It may not be long before they send their armies here.”

“All the more reason for me to stay,” Bea said, resolutely. “These people may be beaten down, but their hearts are strong. They came here to build a fortress against the evil, the dark tide of Chaos. They shouldn’t be abandoned now.”

They rounded a corner, stepping across mounds of rubble and slurry. From the opposite direction, a familiar figure came into view, a well-loaded sack balanced upon his back.

“Lothar!” Stefan called out. “Lothar Koenig!”

The bounty hunter looked up, and shuffled towards them. The contents of the sack gave a metallic ring as Koenig set it upon the ground.

“Quite a haul,” Stefan observed.

The bounty hunter glanced at Stefan, and frowned. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Dirty, plundering thief, eh?”

“There might have been a time when I’d have thought that,” Stefan conceded. “But I’m in no hurry to rush judgement anymore.”

“Well, it’s all honestly come by,” Lothar said. “From those rich enough and dead enough not to care, either.” He grunted, and peered at Stefan. “What about you?” he asked. “Did you find your tattooed friend?”

“Yes,” Stefan said. “I found him.”

“And the gold band?” Lothar asked. For a brief moment a gleam came into his eye. “Did you find that?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t offer it to you,” Stefan said.

Lothar pondered a while then laughed, softly. “You know, I’m not so sure I’d want it anymore, either. There are some prizes where the price is just too high.”

“That there are,” Stefan agreed.

Lothar Koenig hefted the sack up upon his back once more. “Well,” he said. “I’d best be going.”

Stefan held out his hand to the bounty hunter. “Then go safely,” he said. “May you live and prosper.”

 

* * *

 

Stefan stood at Bea’s side. As he watched the bounty hunter disappear into the distance, his mind was very much on Alexei Zucharov.

“He understood about your power, didn’t he?” he said to Bea at last. “Zucharov, I mean. That’s why he wanted you at the lake. He meant to channel the power of the waters through you.”

Bea nodded. “Not something I want to think too much about,” she said.

“But—” Stefan hesitated, “if he had succeeded…”

Bea shrugged. “We must thank the gods that he didn’t,” she said.

“Thank them with all our hearts,” Stefan affirmed. “Truly, it’s for the good that the waters have drained away,” he added. “Let us hope they lie deep, far from all temptation.”

Bea shivered, and drew her shawl about her. “It’s growing cold,” she said.

Stefan looked at the sky. The clouds above had formed a shield of leaden grey. The first few snowflakes were starting to fall, soft upon the chill ruins of the citadel. “Kaldezeit is upon us,” he reflected. “The cruel season, the season of death.”

“Without death there can be no renewal,” Bea reminded him. “We will take what fortune the seasons bring.”

“Life here will be hard, Bea. Whatever happens.”

“Life will be hard for us all,” Bea replied. “I do not think the road you travel will be the easier.”

“No,” Stefan agreed. “I don’t suppose that it will.”

“I must go to my work,” Bea said. “The people of Sigmarsgeist need me now as never before.”

“Yes,” Stefan agreed. “You must go, and I must go too. If Bruno is able, we’ll ride from here before dusk. We have a journey of many weeks still ahead of us.”

“Back to Altdorf?”

“To Altdorf. A homecoming long overdue.”

A silence fell between them, then Bea leant forward and kissed Stefan lightly upon the cheek. “Go with all my blessings,” she said to him. “And may Shallya attend you all your days.”

Stefan took her hand in his, and stood facing her for a few moments longer. Then he turned, and began the journey that would lead him home.

 

Bea waited until Stefan had gone, his words all the while ringing like a warning inside her head. She whispered a prayer for Stefan’s fortune, and for Bruno’s, too. She prayed that his heart, like his body, would be healed in the fullness of time. She opened her left hand again, and looked upon the locket, the image of Shallya gazing up at her.

Then she opened her right hand, and looked down at the tiny vial resting in her palm. So small, yet so precious. The last few drops, taken from the lake of Tal Dur, before the waters were lost forever. Such a tiny amount. It could do no harm, she told herself. Surely, it could only be for the good.

She lifted the vial and held it to her face. The glass felt cool against her skin. It was the right thing to do. With the healing powers of the water, who knew what might not be achieved? Sigmarsgeist could be built anew, and her people made whole and strong, free once more of all sickness and pain.

It could surely do no harm, could not be anything but for the good. Sigmarsgeist would rise again, and she, Bea, would be there to lead its people from the darkness back into the light.

She would be their inspiration. She would be their Guide.