CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Forgotten City

 

 

Konstantin waited until the last of the guards had withdrawn from his chamber then he turned to face the only person left in the room, his sister. As he began to speak, Konstantin realised that an anger that had been building within him for days, or even weeks, was now finally finding its voice. He had meant to stay calm; he took pride in his reason. But when he finally spoke, it was the rage that won out.

“There must be an end to this madness,” the Guide thundered. “It must be ended, all of it, now.”

He battled with the fury that burned in his heart, determined to have mastery over his own emotions. Konstantin was a man who prided himself upon order and structure. Everything he believed in, all that he strove for in the building of Sigmarsgeist, was founded on that sense of order, and the need to preserve it in the face of overwhelming odds. Now he saw that order beginning to unravel, being torn apart by a force he could neither control nor comprehend. And his greatest fear was that the locus of this great unravelling was none other than his own sister.

“Madness,” he muttered again, to himself as much as to Anaise. “And I will see that it goes no further.”

“Brother,” Anaise responded, gently. “There is no madness other than the anger I see burning in your eyes.” She raised her hand to his face, and placed her cool palm upon her brother’s cheek. “I fear you are being driven to a fever, though none that I can feel,” she said. She tilted her head to one side, her expression quizzical, probing. “There must not be strife between us,” she continued. “If the Dark Ones can divide us, then they can destroy us, too.”

“That much is true,” Konstantin conceded. “But I will not countenance folly such as I have just witnessed. What in the name of Sigmar was in your mind?”

Anaise raised her eyebrow in surprise. “Nothing but the search for the truth,” she protested. “Either of these warriors might serve our cause, and serve it mightily. But they are opposed, one against the other. Each has defamed the other. We must decide who is just, and who has deceived us. All I did was place that decision in the provenance of the gods, that they might let justice prevail in combat.”

Konstantin grunted with derision, unconvinced by his sister’s oratory. “Kumansky is a prisoner, guilty of murder. He has had his justice. As for the other—it is there for all to see what he is. The mark of mutation could not be plainer upon him.”

“Nonetheless,” Anaise continued, “there may be ways in which he can serve. For the glory of Sigmarsgeist.”

“The glory of Sigmarsgeist is already tarnished!” Konstantin shouted at her. He pointed across the city, towards the tangled mass of structures choking the life from the citadel. “I have kept my counsel for long enough. Too long,” he reflected, with bitterness as well as anger. “Too long I have played the loving brother, indulging his sister’s magical designs. Designs, you tell me, that will hasten the rise of Sigmarsgeist as a great power.”

In a sudden fit of anger he seized hold of his sister, and forced her to the window.

“Is this our great design?” he demanded of her. “Is this what our glory has come to?”

“It is none of my doing,” Anaise responded coldly, shrugging him off.

“Are you saying it is mine?”

“You are the architect of Sigmarsgeist,” she told him. “Are you now disowning the fruits of your designs?” When Konstantin did not respond, she continued, her tone more conciliatory. “Listen,” she urged. “There is a magical energy at work here, a power beyond our understanding. It is the same elemental power which drew us to Sigmarsgeist, and led us to set our first stones here. Without it, Sigmarsgeist would be nothing, just another pitiful village huddled upon the windswept plain.” She drew her brother to one side and led him back to his seat, her hands resting gently on Konstantin’s shoulders. “It is true this energy works in ways we cannot always control. But I shall master it in time, dear brother, you may be assured of that. The elemental forces shall serve Sigmarsgeist, just as we have harnessed mortal will. You must be patient, brother,” she insisted, “and you must place your trust in me.”

Konstantin took Anaise’s hand from his shoulder, and stroked it absent-mindedly. His sister could use words with the guile of a conjuror, and he knew he was being cleverly placated. But it was not a disagreeable experience, and he felt himself growing calmer. When he looked up at her again, he was unable to suppress a momentary smile.

“Your champions would have torn each other apart like dogs had I not intervened.”

“Maybe so,” Anaise agreed, non-committally. “As it is, they both survived.”

Konstantin pondered for a while. “No reason why Kumansky cannot be put back to work,” he said at length. “There is use in him yet awhile, I imagine.”

Anaise said nothing, but nodded her head in agreement.

“But the one marked by Chaos is too dangerous,” Konstantin went on. “He must stay in captivity. Unless you would have our physicks make examination of him?”

“Neither,” Anaise replied curtly. Konstantin’s eyes widened in surprise. Anaise’s expression hardened. “There are things best left to my domain,” she told him. “Things that you do not understand. You must hold your trust in me,” she said again. “Only then will all that is promised come to pass.”

 

The descent back into the mine was little more than a blur to Stefan. His body was suffused with pain, and it took all of what little strength remained for him to safely negotiate the ropes and the steep iron ladders as he worked his slow progress down below ground. The guards gave him no quarter, nor did he expect any. But once, when he faltered upon the step and seemed about to fall, one of the men in red thrust out an arm to steady him. They don’t want me dead just yet, Stefan realised. There was a purpose to this that had not yet been revealed.

Rather than being put straight to work, he was taken first to a chamber, not much more than a large, hollowed-out cave, deep in the interior of the mine. This was where the prisoners waited to be assigned to their duties and, whilst they could, take some rest. From the stink of unwashed bodies carried by what little air wafted through the gloomy galley, Stefan could tell the place was already well-stocked. He stumbled over a line of prostrate prisoners then collapsed upon the first clear space he came upon. His body had nothing left to give. The fight with Zucharov had taken him to his limit. He could think of nothing except that he had had a chance to end it, and he had not taken it. Only time would tell how costly his indecision would prove.

He stretched out as best he could, and groaned despite himself. At that moment he felt a cloth pressed lightly to his brow, and some of the pain was eased. “Merciful Shallya,” he muttered. “Is that you, Bea?”

“Hardly,” a voice replied. “But the comparison flatters me.”

“Blood of the just,” Stefan exclaimed. “Bruno.” He opened his eyes, and saw his companion standing over him. Bruno was bruised and filthy, but he had a great grin upon his face.

“Thank the gods, Stefan! Thank the gods, you’re safe.” Bruno embraced his comrade joyfully “When you didn’t return from the mine, I was filled with all manners of hopes and fears. Hope, perhaps that you had met with Rilke, and found a way out.”

“No sign of Rilke,” Stefan said. “But there’s something more—”

“Wait a moment!” Bruno interjected, abruptly. “In Taal’s name,” he said, “What am I thinking of?”

“What is it?”

“News,” Bruno told him. “Important news. I’ve been talking to our friend over there—” He broke off abruptly. Stefan looked up as a guard passed by, probing and prodding at the exhausted prisoners with his staff. The guard met Stefan’s eye for an instant and then moved on.

Bruno lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve been talking to our friend over there…” He pointed towards a figure sitting hunched by the thin light of a tallow lamp. Stefan recognised Lothar Koenig.

“The fellow we were talking to before. The one who thinks his captivity is just a big misunderstanding,” he said.

Bruno nodded. “He wants out all right,” he said. “And he’s not stupid. He’s guessed we’re planning to get out. I think he wants us to take him with us.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” Bruno replied, breathlessly. “It’s not. This man’s a bounty hunter. He brought a prisoner here to Sigmarsgeist, hoping to sell him. And not just any prisoner, Stefan. It sounds like it might be—”

“Zucharov? You’re right, my friend. Alexei is here, in Sigmarsgeist.”

Bruno pulled back, astonished. “You’ve seen him?”

“More than seen him,” Stefan replied. “I’ve come within an inch of losing my life to him.”

“Taal’s breath, where did this happen?”

Stefan paused, waiting for the guard to pass out of earshot. “In the palace,” he whispered.

“The palace?” Bruno replied. “Do the Guides know of this?”

“More than know of it,” Stefan told him. “My meeting with Alexei was contrived. A little sport for Anaise von Augen.”

Bruno shook his head. “Then there is a darkness falling over Sigmarsgeist.” He looked up, a flicker of hope passing across his face. “In the palace—did you get any news of—”

“Of Bea? I’m sorry, no,” Stefan said. “Though there is no reason to suppose her harmed. Not so long as she’s useful to them.”

“I must go back for her, Stefan,” Bruno said. “I must find a way. I vowed to do as much.”

Stefan’s reply was cut short by a command shouted out by one of the soldiers standing close by. All around, the prisoners that had been sitting gnawing bread, or trying to get some sleep now began to stand up, and form into a weary line near the entrance to the chamber.

“Come on, you filthy rabble,” the guard shouted out. “Work’s barely begun.”

Stefan and Bruno were shoved forward, into the waiting line. Stefan sought out the shuffling figure of Lothar Koenig, a few paces ahead of them. He pushed his way through the slow-moving line until he was shoulder to shoulder with the bounty hunter. Koenig looked as if he’d aged several years since Stefan had last seen him. His back was bowed, and he walked with a heavy limp. The steely determination in his eyes had dimmed, but it was still alive.

“Quickly,” Stefan said to him. “Before they split us up. Tell me about the man you brought here. The mutant.”

Lothar weighed Stefan up carefully. For a moment he was no longer a prisoner, but Koenig the bounty hunter, Koenig the opportunist. “Everything has a price,” he said. “Even down here.”

“What’s yours?” Stefan demanded.

“Company,” Lothar told him, simply. “If you’re planning to escape—and don’t tell me you’re not—I want you to take me with you.”

“Maybe,” Stefan replied. He exchanged glances with Bruno.

“You wouldn’t regret it,” Lothar boasted. “I’m a useful man to have on your side. The best tracker this side of the Grey Mountains.”

“Tell us about the mutant, Zucharov,” Stefan said. “How did he come to be your prisoner?”

Lothar drew himself up, painfully, to his full height. A look of bravado flickered momentarily on his face, then vanished as he let out a long sigh. “I suppose if I told you I bettered him in combat, you wouldn’t believe me,” he said.

“I wouldn’t. And I don’t,” Stefan confirmed. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Koenig sighed again. “I’m a survivor, friend,” he said, looking around him. “As Sigmar is my judge, I’ll survive this, somehow I will. But I swear, the tattooed mutant could have torn me apart at any time of his choosing.”

“You’re telling us he let you capture him?” Bruno asked. “Let you bring him here?”

Koenig nodded. “That’s how it seemed to me.”

“Then it’s no accident that he’s here,” Stefan said. “There is a purpose to it.”

“There’s a purpose to everything, friend,” Koenig agreed. “If only we can find it.” He smiled, enigmatically. “And I can find anything, given time. I’ll find a way out of here. Wait and see.”

The line of prisoners ahead of them came to a halt. They had reached the bottom of a shallow slope, leading to a quarry face. Men were being set to work, pounding at the ore with their picks, gathering it into barrows and sacks with their bare hands.

“Here we go again,” Bruno muttered.

Stefan saw a figure wearing the white of the elite guard step from the shadows and speak to two of the Red Guard standing on watch at the head of the line. As the man turned towards the light, Stefan recognised Rilke. The White Guard ran his eye along the line of prisoners until he found Stefan standing with Bruno towards the back.

“Those are the ones,” he said out loud. “Those two. Bring them out here.”

The Red Guards moved forward and hauled Stefan and Bruno out of the line, marching them across to where Rilke stood, arms folded across his chest. Rilke dismissed the guards with a curt nod.

“Plotting another insurrection?” Rilke accused them loudly. “How did you think you were going to get away with it?”

“If you plan to have us killed just get on with it,” Bruno countered, angrily. “Don’t waste our time with imaginary plots.”

Rilke seized hold of Bruno and pulled him closer. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I said I would get you out of here and I will,” he said. He looked to Stefan. “I hadn’t bargained for Anaise’s little diversion with you. This may be our only chance.”

“Why should we trust you?” Stefan asked him. “How do I know this isn’t another attempt to put a knife in my back?”

“You don’t know anything,” Rilke said. “But you don’t have much choice, do you?”

Stefan looked around. One of the guards at the head of the line was keeping a wary eye on the conversation, one hand hovering over his sword.

Stefan had no reason to trust Rilke but right now, there was no other choice but to trust the man. “Very well,” he said. He saw Koenig on the fringe of the group of prisoners, still looking in his direction. “That man over there,” he said to Rilke. “He comes too.”

A look of disbelief passed over Rilke’s face. “Are you mad? I’m risking my life just trying to get the two of you out.”

“One more won’t make any difference,” Stefan insisted. From the corner of his eye, he saw the watching guard unsheath his sword.

“Very well,” Rilke snapped. He gestured, impatiently, for Koenig to be pulled from the line. Two guards stepped forward to seize the bounty hunter. Koenig made a convincing show of resistance as he was pulled, kicking and protesting his innocence, towards the waiting Rilke.

“A third conspirator,” Rilke announced. He struck Koenig hard upon on the side of his face, stifling his protests. “Get the rest of them to work,” he told the guards. “I’m taking these ones back above.”

“You’ll need an escort,” a guard said, half as a question and half as a statement of fact. Rilke held his sword out for the Red Guard’s inspection. He glowered at the other man.

“Are you suggesting I can’t take care of these wretches on my own?”

The guard shook his head, vigorously. “Just orders, that’s all.”

“Forget orders,” Rilke barked back at him. “I can take care of them.”

The guard wavered for a moment, but finally shook his head. “Best I come with you, all the same,” he said, emphatically. Rilke stared back and him, and shrugged.

“As you will,” he said, and prodded Koenig with his sword. “Get moving,” he snapped. “Get moving, all of you.”

 

Alexei Zucharov watched Anaise like a hawk. He recorded every gesture of her hand, every movement, every line that animated her face. And, as he watched her, so the Chaos Lord Kyros watched too. Watched, and bided his time. The net was tightening.

The chamber they had gone to was within Anaise’s own private quarters. This was a place where Konstantin and his guards would not, dared not go. But Zucharov was unsure of his status now. Had the words that Kyros crafted for him done their work? Did Anaise now accept him as her consort, her advisor or was he still a prisoner? The armed men she had posted around the room and beyond the closed doors did not suggest she considered him free to come and go as he pleased.

“Why did you allow the combat to be ended?” Zucharov demanded.

“To appease Konstantin,” Anaise responded. “We must tread carefully around my brother. He does not understand, not yet.”

Zucharov felt the anger chafing at him like a wound which would not heal. “I should have killed him,” he said, slowly. “Kumansky. It was my right. My destiny.”

“It did not look that way to me,” she retorted. “Kumansky had outwitted you. You were at his mercy. Perhaps you should be grateful to Konstantin for intervening when he did.”

Zucharov wanted to punish her insolence, but knew that Kyros would not allow him, not yet. He felt the hand of his master, reining in his desires. His face lifted up, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Kyros had nearly total mastery of him now, able to orchestrate his every word and movement.

Zucharov looked around the room, his gaze taking in the guards standing with their swords held upright, each man waiting on his mistress’ command.

“There are some amongst you that you can no longer trust,” he said at last.

Anaise looked at him, quizzically, then realised that Zucharov was referring to her own men. She stepped closer, almost within touching distance.

“The soldiers of Sigmar have served me faithfully,” she said. She laughed, but the laugh caught in her throat, giving lie to her confident manner. “What are you saying?” she demanded. “That someone here is going to betray us?”

Zucharov closed his eyes. From deep within him, Kyros reached out, his sightless gaze spanning both past and future, tracking the futile endeavour of mortal souls as they struggled against inevitable fate. In that brief, flaring moment of clarity, everything was clear, and everything was known to him.

Zucharov opened his eyes, and looked down on Anaise. A faint, sardonic smile appeared upon his face.

“You have already been betrayed,” he said.

 

They walked, and sometimes crawled, through the cramped, airless passageways for the better part of an hour, until they reached a shaft leading up to the next level of the mine. Rilke lifted his lantern to indicate the ladder.

“You first,” he said to the guard.

The guard looked up at the ladder then back to Rilke, keeping one eye fixed upon Stefan and the others. “You go first, then the prisoners,” he said. “Once you reach the top, I’ll follow.”

“Of course.” Rilke forced a smile, and laid a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. “What am I thinking of?” He steered the guard away from the ladder, and, in the same movement, turned in slightly. Stefan saw the brief flicker of steel in Rilke’s right hand, then the guard’s eyes widen in sudden alarm. He started to call out, but it was a gushing purple tide of blood, not words, that spilled from his mouth.

Rilke cleaned the knife carefully on the dead man’s tunic, and went to tuck it beneath his belt. He hesitated, then offered the blade to Stefan, “You’re probably going to need this,” he said, “and this.” He held out the lantern.

“By the time this wick has burnt down a finger’s width,” he said, “I’ll have raised the alarm. You overpowered both of us.” he looked down dispassionately at the crumpled body at his feet. “This poor wretch got the worse of it.” He bent down, and gently extracted the sword from the dead man’s grip. “You’d better take this as well,” he said. “There’s no telling what lies ahead for you now.”

“Armed or not, how are we going to get out of the mine?” Bruno asked, still suspicious. “The place is thick with guards, all the way to the top.”

“You don’t go up,” Rilke told him. “You go down.” He indicated with his lantern. “Take the passage off to your left. It works its way along for about a quarter of a mile, then comes to a dead end.”

“A good place to die, trapped like a rat,” Bruno commented, sourly.

“There you’ll find rubble that’s been hewn from the rock face,” Rilke continued, ignoring Bruno. “Hidden underneath there’s a plate, a trapdoor. It hasn’t been opened in a while, but you should still be able to prise it free.”

“And underneath?” Stefan asked.

“A shaft, just about big enough for a man to pass through-Climb down it, and you will be in the tunnels which once formed part of the old city.”

“The old city? You mean the original foundations of Sigmarsgeist?”

“No.” Rilke shook his head. “The rulers of Sigmarsgeist were not the first to build here. As the foundations were dug, they came upon the ruins of another city, long since abandoned or destroyed.”

“Who built this other city?”

“No one now knows for sure,” Rilke replied. “Perhaps they were people not unlike the Guides. Perhaps they too had dreams of a great citadel, a bastion to protect them against evil. But the underground tunnels are all that remain now, and they will not survive long. Soon the seam that lies directly above is going to be mined. The shaft will be buried and access to the old tunnels will be lost forever. This is your only chance.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a chance,” Bruno commented. “How can we find our way through?”

“Head due north,” Rilke said. “That is, directly away from Sigmarsgeist. Find the routes that take you upwards, towards the surface. Some will be impassable, but a few, I know, are still open.”

“If there’s a path, I can find it,” Koenig said, confidently.

“You must leave now,” Rilke said. “Time is running out.” He held out the lamp. “Take this. There should be a good hour’s worth of light in it. Then you’re on your own.”

Stefan took the lantern. “It seems we misjudged each other.”

“One last thing,” Rilke said. He took a step towards Stefan, his hands down by his sides. “Hit me,” he instructed him, “and make it look convincing.”

Stefan hesitated, momentarily disarmed by the request. “Not long ago I’d have gladly done so,” he reflected.

“Then act on that memory.” Rilke offered his head to one side. “My very survival may depend upon it.”