Konstantin brought the exchange to a halt with a single, abrupt gesture. “Enough,” he commanded. “All of us here speak from the heart. Doubtless, what we hold in our hearts for us is true.”
Anaise apologised to Stefan and his companions. “Rilke means you no ill,” she said. “He was chosen for his diligence, not for his manners.”
There was a moment of tense silence which was broken by a gentle laughter, begun by Konstantin, then spreading through the circle as others took their cue from their Guide. Finally, and with some reluctance, Rilke himself joined in.
“No offence was intended,” he said gruffly. “I speak my mind, that’s all.”
“No offence is taken,” Stefan assured him. “Candour is a virtue to be valued like all others.”
Anaise von Augen clapped her hands. “We have spent too long talking,” she declared. “Sigmarsgeist must be experienced. Words alone cannot do justice to its glories.” She stood up. “Now that you are fed and rested, you must look upon our works at first hand.”
“Gladly,” Stefan affirmed.
Konstantin looked to his sister. “Shall I be their guide, sister?”
“Or I?” Baecker asked. “I would be happy to show our friends the glories of our citadel.”
“No,” Anaise said, firmly. “I’ll take them myself She turned towards Stefan and the others and smiled, knowingly. That way, I get to have our friends all to myself for a while.”
For all that, they were not to be entirely alone with Anaise. Two escorts were assigned to them, one wearing the white of the elite guard, the other the red of the regular militia. They went to a courtyard facing the palace, where a carriage and horses waited. “You will want to see what lies within the palace itself,” Anaise told them. “We’ll finish our tour with that. First, let me show you our citadel.” She ushered them inside the cabin. The guards joined the footman up above, and within moments they were away on their journey.
For the next hour or so the carriage took them through the maze of streets that was Sigmarsgeist. Close up, what from a distance had appeared as a unified design looked anything but. Some streets were made wide, and ran straight as an arrow, whilst others were narrow lanes that would suddenly wind back upon themselves in twisting curves. Similarly the buildings. Many were plain to the eye, clean but austere, built surely with only function in mind. But more than a few had been built from stone that had been carved with elaborate, often beautiful shapes or inscribed with tableaux depicting the gods of the Empire, or Konstantin himself. Stefan didn’t quite know what to make of it. It was as though the plans for several cities had come together in one. The results were fascinating, but confusing as well.
But whatever the purpose that lay behind its design, Sigmarsgeist exuded an undeniable vitality. Every corner of every street, and every building, was occupied, busy with activity of a particular and purposeful kind. Stefan had grown used to viewing city life as at best a happy accident—a muddled confluence of hundreds, sometimes thousands of individuals, with their own business to follow, their own battles to be won. Life was untidy, wasteful and noisy, and conflict was inevitable. Sigmarsgeist had no lack of bustle, but the populace seemed wedded to a single purpose, their labours orchestrated and meshed together like a well-drilled army. An army of builders.
All across the city, they found teams of men and women labouring amongst the shells and wooden frames of new buildings. A fine dust hung about the air, and hardly ever seemed to settle. On the streets, carts and wagons loaded with timber struts, flint and steel rolled past in an endless procession.
“When will all this work be finished?” Bruno asked. Anaise made a non-committal gesture, as though the question were one without precise answer. “Each day brings new converts to the True Faith,” she said. “At the moment it may only be a few pilgrims, a mere trickle. But when the great conflagration comes, that trickle may become a flood. We must build now for the future.”
Nowhere was the work more intense than upon the city walls. Already substantial, the walkways and ramparts were being reinforced and strengthened and, in places, extended, widening the stout belt around the city. It looked, Stefan reflected, like a place preparing for a long and difficult siege.
As they travelled through the streets, rows of houses alternating with shining new foundries and workshops, other differences also became apparent. Bruno, perhaps still mulling over the plain water they had been given to wash down their breakfast, was the first to comment on an odd deficiency.
“Do you know,” he said after a while. “We’ve been on the move all this time, past every manner of dwelling and building, but I don’t think I’ve seen a single inn or tavern. Are they somehow disguised?”
“Not disguised,” Anaise told him. A look of almost playful reproach crossed her face. “There are no taverns. The drinking of liquor isn’t encouraged in Sigmarsgeist. It makes man weak, leaves him open to corruption, and opens doors to the soul that are better left closed.”
Bruno sat back, aghast at the idea of a world without ale. Stefan looked at his friend and raised an eyebrow. Anaise leaned forward across the seats of the carriage, her voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s Konstantin’s thing, really,” she explained. “His heart is so pure, but that purity brings strictness. He believes that all of us are vulnerable to the dark powers, and he has ruled against anything that might sow the seeds of weakness.”
“Even a mug of beer?” Bruno asked, incredulous.
“Even a mug of beer.”
“It’s not such a terrible thing,” Bea commented, slightly stiffly. “Remember what drink did for the kind burghers of Mielstadt.”
“That’s true,” Stefan said. He caught his friend’s eye and shrugged. “Things are indeed different here.”
He looked out from the carriage window as they rode past yet another work party, half a dozen loaded wagons being followed by a gang of workers, marching two abreast, shepherded on each side by a row of soldiers. Stefan found himself puzzled by the sight.
“Are those men prisoners?” he asked Anaise. “Why are there so many guards?”
“Prisoners?” she responded. “I wouldn’t have thought so. Perhaps they’re going to work outside the city walls.” The carriage steered left, bringing it back onto the main highway that led through the centre of the citadel. “We’ll be back at the palace in just a little while,” Anaise continued. “That’s where things get interesting.” She leant forward and pointed out of the carriage window. “Now, look out here,” she exclaimed. “Those are prisoners.”
She rapped upon the compartment wall, bringing the carriage to a sudden halt. On the opposite side of the road was a group of about half a dozen, tall, blond-haired men wearing the tattered remnants of dark armour, some bearing the insignia of a horned beast. The men shuffled forward slowly in a line, each one shackled to the next. They were being shepherded by a row of soldiers, swords drawn at the ready. The prisoners hurled curses at their guards and anyone else within earshot in a coarse, guttural tongue that was uncomfortably familiar to Stefan.
“Who are they?” Bea asked.
“Wait a moment,” Anaise replied. She opened the carriage window and leant out, exchanging a few words with the men seated above. The coachman descended and went to speak with the guard escorting the prisoners. After a brief conversation he returned to the carriage and reported to Anaise.
“Norscans,” she explained. “A party of marauders found wandering a day or so ago on the eastern plains. Doubtless they’ve come from Kislev—part of the Chaos army that you helped destroy. If so,” she concluded, “their days of mischief are now at an end.”
Bea watched the bruised and bloodied faces of the captives. A look of pity mixed with disgust passed across her face. “What will happen to them?”
“That depends,” Anaise said. “The strongest will be put to work upon the walls. Or the quarries or the mines beyond the walls, if we think they’re capable of it. Others—well…”
As Stefan look
ed from the window, one of the prisoners turned towards the carriage, and their eyes briefly met. The Norscan stared at Stefan with a disdainful loathing. The man’s lips moved in an inaudible curse, and he hawked a gobbet of blood-flecked phlegm upon the ground.
“There were certainly Norscans at Erengrad,” Stefan confirmed, turning away “Kin to the same marauders who plundered my village when I was a boy. I know only too well what they’re capable of.”
“Don’t worry,” Anaise assured him. These will make full atonement for their sins before we’re done with them. Now-' She rapped again upon the pane behind her. “Let’s away. There’s plenty yet that you must see.”
The carriage swung back into the square where their tour had begun, passing through the guarded outer wall that led to the palace. Without waiting for their escorts, Anaise climbed out and began walking towards a set of double doors set to one side of the main gate into the palace. Bruno helped Bea down, and with Stefan they followed their host across the courtyard, the two escorts a discreet distance behind. Anaise flung wide the door on one side to reveal a set of gates, locked and barred. The guard in white now stepped forward, bearing a set of keys, one of which he inserted in the lock. The other guard approached with a second key, and repeated the procedure. The heavy gate swung open and a gust of air wafted out, bearing with it a smell of antiquity reminiscent of an ancient place of worship.
“We’re about to enter the oldest part of the city,” Anaise told them. The only part which remains from the time-' She broke off, a look of concern clouding her features. She strode forward and caught hold of Bea just as the girl was about to topple.
“What’s the matter?” she asked Bea. “Are you sick?” she motioned to a guard. “Fetch her some water.”
“No, there’s no need,” Bea assured her. She steadied herself for a moment, leaning into Anaise for support. “Give me a moment. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Stefan asked. Bruno placed a protective arm upon Bea’s shoulder. “We’ve done too much travelling. You need more rest.”
“No, really,” Bea insisted. She took a deep breath, and wiped her brow. Anaise was studying her intently.
“What could have brought on such a thing?”
“It’s nothing, really,” Bea replied at last. “Or, rather, it’s not nothing. Just—”
“Go on.”
“I felt it even as we were standing on the hillside, looking down upon the citadel,” Bea explained. “An energy—a great, powerful energy.” She looked around at Stefan and the others. “More than that,” she went on, sounding faintly embarrassed now. “It felt like it was calling to me, as though I was meant to be here. I thought at first it was my imagination. But I felt it again here just now. Only this time it was much stronger—almost overwhelming.”
Anaise turned Bea gently, and led her towards the open gates. “I’m sure this was no imagining on your part,” she said, quietly. “I’m sure that you are, truly meant to be with us here. Come,” she said, ushering them on. “Come, all of you. See what lies at the very heart of Sigmarsgeist.”
Bruno helped Bea through the portal into the darkened interior of a small antechamber. There they waited whilst one of the guards brought a lamp, then followed in single file behind Anaise, down a spiral stairway that corkscrewed deep below ground. Something was different here: in the faint, musty odour that hung upon the air, in the very fabric of the building that they were inside. From the condition of the walls, and the stairway under their feet, it was clear that part of the building was newly made, and some of it was quite old. New brick and mortar were fused with older, mould-encrusted stone, in such a way that it was impossible to say where one became the other. Much of the walls was decorated with runes carved into the stone. Most were so worn away with age, they were impossible to read.
“It was important we kept some link with the age gone by,” Anaise commented. “Down here our bright future meets with the shadows of our past.”
“Then these are the remains of the city that was here before,” Bea said. “Before Sigmarsgeist?”
“A city, or perhaps cities,” Anaise replied. “There may have been many.”
“What was its name?” Stefan asked. “The place that stood here before.”
“No one knows—there have been settlements here since before the time of men.” She turned and smiled at Stefan. “There were only dead ruins here when we came to lay the foundations for Sigmarsgeist.”
“And when was that?” Stefan asked her. “When did that labour begin?”
“The first stone was laid at dawn,” Anaise replied, pausing briefly upon the step, “two years after our quest for a home had begun. Dawn on the morn of Geheimnisnacht, eight years ago.”
Geheimnisnacht, the day of mystery. It struck Stefan as somehow appropriate.
“You have toiled mightily hard,” Bruno commented, “to build such a place in so short a time.”
“Hard indeed,” Stefan echoed. To have constructed a city this size from nothing, and in only eight years, seemed almost beyond belief.
“We have worked hard,” Anaise agreed. “And our work is only still beginning.”
They had reached the foot of the stairs, which opened out onto an antechamber much like the one above. Before them lay another set of locked gates. Once again, the guards turned keys in each of two huge locks. Stefan was reminded of a brief but uncomfortable visit to the grim Imperial dungeons of Altdorf.
“This is a prison,” he said.
“In part,” Anaise replied. “And much more.”
They passed through the gates, the heavy steel clanging shut behind them. From somewhere deep within the subterranean expanse there came the faint sound of voices crying out in pain or in anguish. Stefan thought of the Norscan prisoners they had passed on the street, and of Anaise’s words: they’ll make full atonement for their sins. He knew there was no atonement that would purge the hatred for their kind from his heart. He could slake his thirst for vengeance, but he knew it would always return.
They followed Anaise along a wide passage, past other dark corridors that led off into the gloom beneath the city. The roof was just high enough for a man to pass through walking upright. It was dark, lit only by the faint glimmerings of daylight that penetrated from airshafts, and by lanterns posted at intervals along the passageway. “This would be our place of last resort, our final refuge,” Anaise explained. “A place of final defence in the face of the black tide. Of course,” she added, “we hope it will never come to that.”
“Pray to Sigmar himself it will not,” Bruno concurred.
Anaise came to a door set in the left wall of the passage and waited whilst they gathered round. “By the way,” she said, “there’s said to be water somewhere down here too. A hidden spring. What do you make of that?” The last words seemed to be addressed to Bea in particular. The healer made no reply, but her face betrayed a sudden flicker of emotion.
“I’d say, let’s hope it stays hidden,” Bruno declared. “At least until we’re safely above ground.”
Anaise smiled. “I’m sure it will,” she said, and eased the door open.
Beyond was a chamber, lit by the thin, jaundiced light of the lamps. A rush of air escaped as the door was levered open, air pungent with the sour tang of death and putrefaction.
“Merciful gods,” Bruno exclaimed, quickly covering his nose and mouth with his hand. “What abomination is this?”
Anaise stepped inside, wrapping a portion of her gown about her face to form a mask. “It is evil,” she said. “In here we confront our darkest fears.”
She disappeared into the gloom of the inner chamber. Stefan took a deep breath, and followed, steeling himself for whatever might be inside.
Standing in the twilit gloom were three figures, men dad in dark robes, their faces obliterated by masks. They carried instruments of shining steel in their hands, and Stefan thought momentarily of surgeons, their blades blessed in the hope of curing, not killing.
&nb
sp; But this was no house of healing. The room stank of the charnel house. This was surely a place of death, not life. The three men stood stock still, their eyes betraying surprise at the entrance of the strangers. One, whose mask had slipped, quickly pulled it up to cover his face once more.
“It’s all right,” Anaise called to them. “These are friends, come to see our great works at first hand.” The men eyed Stefan and his companions with continuing suspicion. They stood with their backs to some kind of raised table or galley, shielding it from view.
“These are men of science,” Anaise said, in a measured aside. “Forgive their lack of social graces. Come, Joachim, do not hide your art from us.”
The three robed men stood back, and, in a frozen moment Stefan took in the scene laid out before him. On either side of the men there were tables, some filled with knives and instruments, others with bottles and vials. Beneath the long galley table was a tray that brimmed with a viscous liquid. And laid out flat upon the galley itself was a body, very clearly dead.
It was not the body of a man, though possibly it might once have been. The cadaver had the proportions and structure of a man, but the leathery hide of a reptile. The body had been sliced open along one side, the incision running from the base of its torso to the top of its misshapen skull. Several of the creature’s organs had been cut out and placed within the clear glass jars, or laid out upon silver trays positioned on either side of the body. From the open incision, a stream of something oily and viscous oozed from the body, falling into a vessel below the galley. It wasn’t blood, though the milky flow was flecked with red. The stench from the body was beyond belief. As they watched, the contents of the vessel shifted and stirred.
“Shallya save us,” Bea whispered. “There’s something alive in there.”
“Maggots,” Stefan said, fighting the urge to retch. Anaise looked at him, and nodded. “The mark of Nurgle,” she said. “Dark lord of infestation and decay.”
Stefan stared at the scene, quietly aghast. “What is going on here?” he demanded. “What in the name of Sigmar are they doing?”
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