But otherwise he’d swear the man was untouched. Whatever it was that had stricken him, it was surely not his injury. What was more, he carried his sword in his other hand, his right. Or, rather, had carried it. Lothar watched the sword fall from the man’s grasp. Time passed, moments seeming to stretch forward into an eternity. Only when it became clear that Zucharov was not going to move did Koenig finally gather his courage and snatch the sword from the ground.
Koenig stood over the kneeling figure of his would-be captive. For all the apparent supremacy of his position, the bounty hunter was filled with a terror he had barely known in all the perilous years of his profession.
“Surrender,” he commanded, his voice as firm as he could muster. “Offer me your surrender and I promise you’ll be treated fairly.” He watched as the other man raised his head, the ponderous, slow movement masking the power that lay beneath. Lothar had a sense of a great menace, temporarily subdued. He must hurry.
“Come on,” he demanded. “On your feet.”
The other had turned his face towards the night sky. The bounty hunter felt a jolt as their gaze met. In that moment he had experienced the fleeting sense of another being, a far darker, malevolent soul, peering out at him through the eyes of the man kneeling before him.
“You are weak,” Zucharov said.
At that point, something had snapped inside of Lothar Koenig, something he would best describe as professional pride. The insult stung him into action, reminded him who he was. Lothar Koenig. Not just a bounty hunter. The bounty hunter. The bounty hunter, what was more, who was on the point of claiming not one, but two or even three bounties. Not bad for a couple of days’ work.
“That’s your opinion,” he replied, “but right now I’d say you were the weak one, wouldn’t you?”
He had swung into action, instinct and years of experience guiding him through a series of almost mechanical movements. He kept one eye firmly upon his captive as he took what he might need from his horse. The shackling chains, or perhaps the mesh of wire that could encase a man like a chicken in a net? Better both, he concluded. He patted the pocket of his jerkin, feeling for the glass bottle. If all else failed, the potion would be sure to subdue him for a while. As he set to work, he had been filled with a sudden confidence. This was going to be easy, and he wasn’t going to ask why.
Zucharov had watched the shackles going about his body, the steel biting into his flesh. He neither resisted nor colluded with his fate. He was detached from it, watching it from afar. When his arms and upper body had been chained he was put upon a horse, slung across it like a commodity at market. Then he was lashed to the saddle with strong ropes, so that he would not fall. Through all of this, he was in the hands of the bounty hunter, his captor. And yet he was not; this was just his flesh, his body His spirit had been carried far away, to the dread halls where Kyros held court.
Kyros had heard Zucharov’s despair, listened to his silent rage against his subjugation.
You still have much to learn, the dark lord told him again. This is not the end.
At last they had got under way, the bounty hunter riding ahead, leading the second horse bearing the chained body of Alexei Zucharov by a rope along the steep path that wound up out of the Ostravska valley. The going was difficult and slow, but gradually they had found a momentum, and Koenig’s heart had grown lighter. He started to whistle, a tune half-remembered from his childhood.
And far away, in a place far distant from the mortal realm, Lord Kyros had looked down upon Lothar Koenig, and smiled upon his labours.
This was only the beginning.
CHAPTER SIX
Sigmarsgeist
For two full days and nights, Stefan and his companions had ridden south with the soldiers of the Red Guard. Finally, at the dawn of the third day, they approached their destination.
Through most of the hours of darkness, they had been climbing. A steady, gentle ascent had led along a wooded mountain trail, the way twisting and snaking like a path through a maze. As the first glimmerings of light began to streak the night sky the riders crested a hill and emerged from the cover of trees into open land. They were on top of a high hill on the edge of a mountain range, the ridge curving away to either side of them, drawing into a circle on the far side of the valley, forming a vast cradle. As if on cue, the sun rose from behind the crest of rock, suddenly and dramatically bathing the valley in a flood of warm, amber light.
The land below was swaddled in early morning fog. Through the haze, the scattered spires and towers of a town or city were just visible, rising up out of the mists like ships riding a golden ocean.
“Behold,” Baecker announced. “Sigmarsgeist.”
From on high it was impossible to guess the exact size of the citadel, but it was undoubtedly big. Stefan’s travels had taken him from Altdorf, at the heart of the Empire, to the mighty city of Middenheim, and to Erengrad, at the western edge of the lands of Kislev. Sigmarsgeist might not yet rival them, but this was no mountain village.
Stefan cast his eyes across a complex pattern of roads and streets, a dense forest of buildings of all shapes and sizes, built from flint and stone. A cluster of tall, domed structures set high upon the northern face of Sigmarsgeist dominated the view of citadel. Beyond the domes the streets were laid out in tiers, shelving down towards the southern end of the citadel. It seemed all of Sigmarsgeist was built upon sloping ground, with the domed buildings—which Stefan took to be a temple or a palace of some kind—at its uppermost point. The sun began to burn away the early mist, cutting through the chilly shroud to glint off the slate roofs of hundreds of separate dwellings, halls and workshops.
There had to be a thousand souls living within those walls, maybe many more, Stefan estimated. And it was clear that Sigmarsgeist was still growing. At least a third of the citadel was still being built, with row upon row of new dwellings standing in various states of construction.
Stefan was puzzled that he had had no previous knowledge of such a place. The day before he had checked upon his map; there had been no mention of Sigmarsgeist, nor of any other place of comparable size. The map that they were using was undoubtedly crude, but Stefan was still surprised to find it missing such a detail.
“You are impressed?” Hans asked of him.
“Yes,” Stefan readily agreed. He was impressed. If nothing else, Sigmarsgeist bore ample testimony to the ambition and craft of man.
He shaded the sun from his eyes, peering down into the valley. He tried to compare Sigmarsgeist with the great cities of the Empire, cities such as Middenheim, a mighty, fortress sat high upon its plateau of rock. In many ways Sigmarsgeist was the mirror opposite of the city of the White Wolf. Where Middenheim sat high and impregnable, nestling amongst the clouds, Sigmarsgeist was buried at the very foot of the valley, hemmed in by towering walls of rock. It seemed—to Stefan’s eye at least—a strange choice.
“Why was the city built here?” he asked, “so deep within the valley?”
Baecker did not answer the question directly. “The site was carefully chosen,” he said. “There were many considerations.”
“Such as?”
“The Guides may wish to tell you more of that,” Baecker answered.
“The Guides?”
Baecker raised one hand. “Come. Save your questions for later. Sigmarsgeist is waiting.”
Bea glanced at him, an inquisitive look stealing over her features.
“Was there something else?” Baecker asked her.
“Yes,” Bea replied, uncertainly. “That is, no, not directly. I was just curious to hear more—more of how the citadel came to be built here.”
Baecker nodded, and smiled. “Later, perhaps.” He took up the reins and started his horse down the stony path that would lead them to the citadel below.
“Let’s move on,” he said. Baecker gestured again at the path that wound down the hillside ahead. “Sigmarsgeist waits to welcome you as its honoured guests.”
“Lead on
,” Stefan told him. “For we are equally honoured to be invited amongst you.”
Sigmarsgeist took shape as they followed the path down the mountain. The descent became more shallow as, gradually, the land levelled out, opening on to a patchwork of fields, huge green and golden squares, ripe with crops. Bruno marvelled at the sight.
“There must be enough produce here to feed many hundreds,” he remarked. “You have done well to cultivate so much from such barren land.”
Baecker surveyed the expanse of fields, each with its neat lines of labourers all working the land. “Not nearly well enough,” he said at length. “As fast as we cultivate, Sigmarsgeist grows still larger. Try as we might, it is never enough. Sigmarsgeist is a belly which can never be filled.”
“How do you survive?” Stefan asked.
Baecker shrugged, as though the question had no real answer. “As best we can,” he said, and gave short laugh. “We do whatever we must.”
Beyond the fields, teams of workers were quarrying stone from the mountain side, men working hard and apparently ceaselessly, piling wagons with chunks of rough-hewn granite. A succession of wagons was filled then towed away on the network of roads that led towards the citadel, whilst, all the while, empty vehicles moved in the opposite direction, out towards the rock face. The men worked with an indefatigable zeal, prising rock from the hard earth, piling the wagons high.
“Building the future,” Baecker commented. “Heroes, to a man.”
Stefan didn’t doubt that for a moment. Even in the relative cool of the early morning, it must have been back-breaking work. Not for the first time, he gave silent thanks that he earned his living by the sword. Dangerous work it might be, but there were harder paths in life. Any man who could spend each day labouring like this was a hero indeed.
More than three hours after they had begun their descent from the mountain, they finally stood by the walls of the citadel. From above, the walls had looked impressive enough. Now, close to, they seemed truly daunting, built from heavy stone and taller than any fortification Stefan had encountered in the Empire. Clearly, this was a place built to withstand the most sustained onslaught, and outlast the lengthiest siege.
Massive iron gates set into the walls swung open to greet them. Hans Baecker waved his men on, and led Stefan and his companions into Sigmarsgeist.
Word of their arrival had spread fast within the city. People on the streets stopped and cheered to give thanks for the safe return of the captain and his men. The noise drew mothers and children from their houses, and craftsmen and artisans from their shops and workshops. As the procession of riders made their way into the city, more and more people poured onto the streets to add their voices to the commotion.
In amongst the townsfolk going about their business, Stefan noticed more soldiers dressed in the scarlet livery, as well as others—fewer in number—whose tunics were white rather than red. Each bore the same insignia: the image of the Imperial eagle, its wings spread wide over Sigmarsgeist. Bruno took note, approvingly.
“Feels like being back amongst our own, doesn’t it?”
“In many ways, yes,” Stefan agreed. But, he kept reminding himself, he was not amongst his own. He would keep an open mind—for the moment, at least.
One thing was beyond doubt. Everyone they encountered upon the streets—soldiers, craftsmen, women bearing baskets of fruit or bread—looked healthy and well-nourished. Every town in the Empire had its share of sickness and disease, but if it was present here, then it was well-hidden. The people looked healthy. And young.
“Curious,” Stefan commented. “I’ve not seen a single person above middle years since we set foot through the gates.”
“We are a young people,” Baecker replied. “Many of us travelled here together as pilgrims. We’ve not had the time to grow old yet.” He pulled up, leaning from the saddle to shake the hands of the townsfolk who rushed to greet him. “The Guides will explain how it came to pass.”
“I look forward to meeting them,” Stefan said.
“And they will be glad to welcome you.”
Bruno turned towards Bea, fighting to make himself heard above the bustle of the streets. “Not quite like Mielstadt, is it?”
Bea gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head, but didn’t respond.
“What is it?” Bruno asked, a note of concern in his voice. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing wrong,” she assured him. “But this place has an energy. A positive energy,” she added. “It is a force for good. But it’s so strong…” She paused, and took a gasp of breath. “I’ve not come across such a thing before.”
Stefan looked around at the neat, timber-framed houses, homes laid out in tightly-packed rows along the clean-swept streets. Everywhere the citadel had the look of a great labour that was still in progress. Many buildings were unfinished, none looked more than a few weeks or months old.
“These houses,” Bruno observed. “The whole place looks newly-built.”
Stefan agreed. That was how it seemed. Every street they passed down looked fresh and clean, with a sense of vigour and purpose he had rarely, if ever, noted in cities such as Altdorf or Middenheim, or indeed any other place he had visited. But, in parts—particularly at the edge of the citadel near the walls—Sigmarsgeist had a disordered look to it, with too many houses crammed into too short a space. That, Stefan supposed, explained Hans Baecker’s comment about feeding his people. The citadel was growing fast, almost too fast for its own good.
Nearer the centre of the citadel the streets resumed a more orderly look. The design of the streets appeared more structured and less cluttered, and the surrounding workshops and houses older, though hardly long-established. Here, as elsewhere, statues cast in marbled stone abounded. Many of them were in homage to the Emperor Sigmar, and showed him astride his horse, or standing triumphant in victory. But others—almost as many—depicted a second figure that Stefan did not recognise. The carvings showed an older man, standing proud and upright, with what looked like the citadel in miniature cupped within his outstretched hands. In the course of an hour moving through the streets of Sigmarsgeist, Stefan saw the image at least a dozen times, both in statues, and carved into the facade of buildings.
Finally, the streets opened out into a wide courtyard facing a high-walled building, fronted by iron gates. Stefan recognised the cluster of domes that he had picked out from above. The presence of much larger numbers of militia suggested that it was indeed a palace of some kind.
“We must remain here for just a moment.” Baecker waited with Stefan and the others whilst one of his men approached the sentries standing guard either side of the gates. After a brief conversation, they were waved through. They passed through a stone archway into an open courtyard, where their horses were collected by stablemen clad in the same red livery.
Baecker dismounted, then extended a hand to Bea.
“Time to get some rest,” he said. “Afterwards, we shall learn more of you, and you of us.”
Stefan had a hundred questions in his mind that he wanted answering, but they had been riding since dawn the previous day, and he was more than glad now to be offered some respite. The questions, on both sides, could wait a few hours yet.
Their quarters were on an upper floor of the great building—single rooms, sparse but clean. A bed, a basin with an attendant pail of freshly drawn water, and a window that looked out across the rooftops. Before Stefan finally lay his aching body down, he stood for a while gazing out of the slitted window, taking in the panorama of streets, houses and workshops that lay beyond. Standing there, at the heart of a place that, a day before, had not existed for him even in his imagination, it occurred to Stefan that he had put himself entirely at the hospitality of people he barely knew, and whose motives were at best uncertain.
Stefan Kumansky had grown up at odds with much of the world he had walked through. He had seen shadows where others had seen only light, and suspicion and doubts had walked with him as con
stant companions. But, as he finally lay his head down, he searched his heart for those doubts and found none. Instead he found rest, and a feeling that had been alien to him for much of that short life. The feeling known to the fortunate traveller at the end of a long and uncertain journey. A feeling of coming home.
He awoke feeling more refreshed than he had any right to hope for. When he finally opened his eyes Bruno was standing over him, a playful look of impatience resting on his face.
“Ulric’s toil!” Stefan exclaimed, sitting bolt upright upon the cot. “How long have I been asleep?”
“The best part of a day,” Bruno replied, keeping a straight face. “Actually,” he admitted, “little more than an hour, two at most.”
Stefan stretched and yawned. Certainly he felt as though he might have been asleep for the best part of the day. The air here clearly agreed with him.
“Is Bea awake yet?”
“Yes. We all are. They’re ready for us now, apparently.”
“They?”
Bruno shrugged. “Baecker and his men speak of them only as ‘the Guides’.”
Stefan sat up and pulled on his boots. He splashed cool water from the basin onto his face, rubbing away the last of his sleep from his eyes. “In that case,” he said, “let’s not keep them waiting.”
They were received in a spacious, low-ceilinged chamber somewhere near the core of the palace. The attendant who had escorted them from their rooms executed a brief, low bow as he entered into the room. Stefan repeated the gesture. As he looked up, he scanned the chamber to take stock of who or what they were about to be presented to.
The chamber had few concessions made to luxury. If this was the office of the high council, or whoever ruled Sigmarsgeist, then it was austere indeed. For all that, the room was airy and well lit, possessed of the same spartan health as the citadel itself. Stationed along the walls around the edge of the chamber were soldiers decked in the same red livery as Hans Baecker’s men. Each bore a brightly burnished sword, held upright and close to the chest, in the formal posture of vigilance. But where Stefan might otherwise have expected to see a table of high office, there was only open space and a stone floor bare except for a wide circle marked out in runes bearing pious homage to the gods. Seated within the circle was a group of about a dozen people, Baecker amongst them, some wearing the white livery that Stefan had noted earlier.
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