02 - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  “This is no casual examination,” Anaise replied, coldly. “Our physicians are studying the ways of the Dark Powers. Only through understanding evil can we hope to destroy it.”

  She turned towards Stefan, a defiant challenge burning in her eyes. “Or would you rather we knew nothing of our enemy, until they were feasting on the corpses of our dead?”

  “I feel as though I already know too much,” Bruno said, keeping his hand clamped over his mouth.

  Bea turned away, a trembling in her body. Her face was a confusion of disappointment and anger. “This is horrible,” she pronounced, her voice very small.

  Stefan found he did not know what to think. The sight of the mutant, dissected upon the surgeons’ table, repelled and fascinated him in equal measure. Part of him could not believe that man could work in such intimate proximity to evil without becoming evil himself. But, if, truly, Chaos could be understood, measured and weighed like the pieces upon a scale—what then? Perhaps one day, finally, it could be overcome. Forever.

  There was a brief, and uncomfortable space in the conversation, a tension finally broken by Anaise. “Come,” she said. “This is a shock to your senses, and I should apologise for inflicting it upon you without warning.” She hesitated. “We should return to the Seat of the Guides. Konstantin will be able to explain this to you so much better than I.”

  None of them had any objections. It was a relief to get beyond the door of the chamber, putting the physicians and their grim endeavour beyond both sight and mind. The four and their guards retraced their steps a distance through the passage. The sound of voices began again to grow louder.

  “We are near the cells now. Do you want to come and look?” She extended a hand towards Stefan. “I think of you as our friends. I want to keep no secrets from you. I want you to know exactly what Sigmarsgeist is, what it stands for. Only then can you truly judge.”

  “After what we have seen, I doubt little else can shock us,” Stefan replied.

  “It cannot fail but be easier on the stomach,” Bruno agreed. He took Bea’s hand. “Come on,” he said, encouragingly. “We’ll be back above ground in no time.”

  The prison cells lay beyond a further set of gates, their iron bars thicker and sturdier than either of the two they had passed through before. Any captive would surely look upon them and despair of ever regaining his liberty. As they made their way through the chill grey of another passageway, the isolated cries gradually grew to a cacophony.

  “Their agony comes from within,” Anaise commented. “The Dark Gods began their torture long before they ever found themselves here.”

  There were series of iron doors along the length of the passage, a dozen or so on each side. Many of the lightless cells were empty, but, in others, something malevolent stirred. Creatures thrashed at the chains that held them fastened to the walls, or roared belligerent hate at the sound of footsteps outside. Stefan caught glimpses of the creatures that only evil could beget: an orc, the green-skinned killer staring at its captors with brutish defiance; two beastmen, bull-headed mutants locking horns in snarling, futile combat in the narrow confines of their cell. Creatures so wedded to violence that they would tear each other apart if they could find no better foe.

  But amongst the monsters there were also men. More of the Norscans, the mark of mutation not yet apparent on all of them. And others, some in armour, some not. Soldiers, perhaps, or mercenaries. Who knew what they were, or what they had been? They were all prisoners now.

  “Where have they all come from?” Bruno asked.

  “Some are the flotsam of the war in Kislev,” Anaise told him. “Those who fled south, hoping to find easy pickings in the unprotected lands of the Ostermark.” She pulled back from the narrow bars of a cell as a face loomed out of the darkness, venomous fangs snapping at her hand.

  “Yet some of these are men,” Bruno protested. “Ordinary men.”

  She looked at him, one eyebrow raised, then turned to Stefan. “You do not think that evil can take human form?”

  Stefan knew only too well what the answer was. Evil could take on almost any form. Chaos was never more dangerous than when it cloaked itself in familiarity.

  “What will happen to them?” he asked.

  “Many will be put to work, building against the day when their kind will return to threaten the world. Others…” she inclined her head back the way they had come.

  “Others will serve in other ways.”

  Something in the thought appalled Stefan, appalled and disgusted him. And yet he knew that reason was all on Anaise von Augen’s side. If the mastery of Chaos was the end to which they were striving, who was to say that the ends did not justify the means?

  “Please,” Bea steadied herself against Bruno’s side, and gasped for breath. Her face had turned a deathly pale.

  “She needs some air,” Bruno declared. “And for that matter, so do I. I’ve seen enough here.”

  Anaise turned to Stefan. “Have you seen enough?”

  Stefan took in the rows of cells, the inhuman wailing from the creatures trapped inside. It was the stuff of nightmares. But if, within that nightmare, there existed a seed of hope that that evil could not only be contained, but conquered? Was that a nightmare, or a dream?

  “I’ve seen things we’ve never seen before,” he said. “And, for that matter, never thought to see.” He looked at Anaise, and nodded. “Yes, I have seen enough.”

  Anaise signalled to one of the guards. “Take our guests back above,” she instructed. “See that their needs are attended to.”

  Anaise waited whilst the guard led Stefan and the others away. She listened as they ascended the steps towards daylight, listened to the sound of their footsteps echo and fade. Then she turned back along the passageway, the second guard following at a distance. As she passed along the row of cells the cacophony of hate erupted again. The captives screamed out at her in their torment, their hatred for all her kind. Anaise inclined her head one way, then the other, and kept walking with the serenity of the invulnerable.

  Near the end of the row she stopped by a cell, and slid back the narrow panel in the door. A powerful scent wafted from the cell. Not the stench of decay, but something quite different: a sweet, animal scent, earthy and cloying. The smell of both fear and desire, of dread, and of anticipation. Anaise flinched away, but drank it down all the same. She edged closer, and looked inside.

  Crouched upon the floor of the cell were two or more bodies, their smooth skins glistening in the gloom. Their bodies were intertwined, in some kind of grotesque embrace. Sensing Anaise, they broke apart. One of the creatures stood and turned to the door. The figure was slender and quite hairless. Neither quite human nor animal, neither male nor female. Its body was covered with what at first looked like wounds, a scattering of swollen, cherry bruises all across its arms and chest. It peered out at Anaise, its pale, almond eyes holding her in its liquid gaze. The bruises swelled and parted, splitting open like ripe fruit. A dozen miniature mouths opened in a facsimile of a smile; tiny tongues forking through needle-pointed teeth. Anaise pulled her gaze away but stayed fixed by the door, breathing in the musk-drenched odour of the cell.

  “My lady.” She turned at the voice of the guard, standing several steps behind her in the passageway. The white-clad soldier stood waiting for instruction, his face blank of emotion. “My lady?”

  Anaise cast a final, long, look at the apparition. She shivered, then looked away. “No,” she said to the guard. “Not this time. Let us away.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Well of Sadness

  “Your comrades have found these things shocking, Stefan. I understand that. But you must try to understand us, understand our purpose. The forces we will face in that final battle recognise no fairness, no noble ideals of honour. They will use every opportunity, every cruel turn of fortune against us. If we are to survive the coming storm, then we must be prepared to do likewise. We must fight fire with fire. There is no room in our armou
ry for compassion.”

  Konstantin von Augen waited to see how his words would play with Stefan. His worn but still vigorous face betrayed no hint of guile or duplicity. Stefan had no doubt that he meant every word of what he said with a passion and a conviction that could only be admired.

  For all that, Stefan was feeling less at his ease in the Guide’s presence that morning. He had become uncomfortable with Konstantin’s zeal and certainty, and uncomfortable, too, with the thought that he had found himself so readily seduced by it. There was no disputing that there was much in what he had seen and heard that found a place in his heart. In so many ways, Sigmarsgeist offered a vision of the world that he had been unable to find anywhere else in his years of searching. He should feel at home here. And, the gods knew, he had waited long enough for that.

  But instead, Stefan was feeling vaguely troubled. Something was worrying him, some nagging memory that lay just out of reach. Had he found what they had seen, deep below ground, shocking? Stefan would not have thought it possible. All his life, since the night of childhood when life changed forever, Stefan had lived to see the world purged of the forces of Chaos. Anything, surely, that led along that road must be right, must be honourable? And yet, and yet…

  Konstantin read the doubt clouding his features. “What is it, Stefan? You must tell me honestly what is in your heart.” The Guide cast his eyes around the small chamber. “It’s all right,” he added. “We speak privately here. Whatever you have to say to me goes no further.”

  “I don’t know,” Stefan told him. “Perhaps I’m just tired, that’s all.” It was true, he was tired. He had slept badly, the night hours punctuated by dreams of running through the streets of a village, between houses wracked with flame, thick, oily smoke pouring from every window. In the dream, Stefan had been chasing someone, a person who always kept ahead of him, just out of sight. That in itself did not perturb him much. Dreams of smoke and fire had been his nocturnal companions on countless occasions since that night in Odensk, and given what had happened in the last few days it was perhaps little surprise that they had returned to haunt him now.

  “You look tired,” Konstantin agreed. “There is something lacking in your quarters, perhaps?”

  “No, no,” Stefan assured him. “It’s just—” he paused, searching for the right words. “I’m just wondering whether soon we must take our leave of Sigmarsgeist.”

  Konstantin nodded, sympathetically. “I know, you have a quest to fulfil,” he said. “I would be the last to stand in the way of that. But do you truly know where that quest will take you from here?”

  “No,” Stefan answered him, truthfully. “I do not.”

  “Then why not stay?” Konstantin urged. “Sigmarsgeist is still young, Stefan. What you have seen is only the birth, the seed that has yet to grow into a mighty tree. You could be part of that.” He placed his hands firmly upon Stefan’s shoulders. “We have great need of men such as you, Stefan. Your skills would be prized here.”

  “Maybe so,” Stefan conceded. “But my life belongs upon the road, I think. I’m happier seeking out trouble than waiting for it to find me.”

  It was a good answer, and not without truth. Over time he could have chosen any number of well-paid, and probably comfortable, lives as a bodyguard, armed retainer or chief of a private militia. And before he left Erengrad, Gastez Castelguerre had made him a better offer yet. To join the secret few, the men known as the Keepers of the Flame, pledged to stand in eternal defiance of the forces of darkness. Then, as now, Stefan had been honoured. But he had said no, as surely he must now. It was his destiny to be the restless soldier, always on the move. And as long as Alexei Zucharov and his kind were waiting, somewhere in the world beyond, it would have to remain that way.

  Konstantin sat weighing Stefan’s words, and considering his response. “Of course,” he replied at length, a knowing smile upon his face. “You must leave whenever you see fit. But if your thirst must have you seek out evil, then you need seek no further than here. Evil is all around us, Stefan, it is everywhere.”

  “I understand,” Stefan told him. “I appreciate what you believe you must do for the coming time. But I’m not sure I can wait that long.”

  “No,” Konstantin said, gravely. “You do not understand. We are not simply sitting here waiting, waiting like sheep in the field for the wolf to come. We are taking our struggle to the acolytes of darkness, Stefan. Seeking them out. Destroying them wherever we find them.”

  Stefan had experienced most of his life as a series of clear decisions. Often life or death had hung upon the outcome, but the way had always seemed clear. To find himself torn between two paths was something new, unusual. Instinct told him that they had already spent too long in Sigmarsgeist, that they should be back upon the road before they outstayed a generous welcome. But something urged him still to stay. It was true: what he had seen in the dungeons of the citadel had troubled him. The rules of conflict by which he had lived most of his life had been turned upside down.

  “What you stand against is clear,” the Guide said. “You stand against all evil, against the foul, corrupting tide that threatens to engulf our lands. I give praise for that. Would that there were more like you.” He paused, letting the silence add weight to his words. “But let me ask you this. Can you tell me what you stand for? What causes will you champion? Where will your road lead you?”

  Stefan said nothing. In his heart, he knew he had no answer to give.

  “Join us,” Konstantin entreated. “Join with us and share our goal, our vision of the world to come. You belong here, Stefan. You are as one with us.”

  The words struck a chord with Stefan that could not be denied. Here, in Sigmarsgeist, he had no need to try and explain himself. No need to justify his driven, single-minded quest. No need to explain why he could not rest whilst the followers of Chaos still hid within the shadows of the Old World. No need, because that was exactly the spirit that had given birth to the citadel. He could never go home from Sigmarsgeist, Stefan reflected, because he was already there.

  “I’ll need to confer with my comrades,” Stefan replied at length, conscious that he was only buying time by such an answer.

  “Of course,” Konstantin agreed. He truly seemed to have no wish to pressure Stefan into a decision. But the look on his face signalled his belief in what the answer would be. “I promise you,” he said, “joining the True Followers of Sigmar will be the defining moment of your life.”

  Stefan bowed, and turned to leave. He opened the door to find himself face to face with Rilke, the White Guard who had spoken against them at the meeting of the council. The look on the other man’s face suggested that nothing had softened his opinion of the newcomers, and Stefan had the distinct impression that he had been standing by the door for quite some time. Rilke stood staring at him for a moment, quite unembarrassed to have been discovered. Somewhat grudgingly, he moved aside to let Stefan pass. Stefan didn’t move.

  “You should have come in,” Stefan said. “That way you’d have better heard what passed between the Guide and myself.”

  Rilke held Stefan’s gaze, unflinchingly. There was no humour or apology in his eyes. “I hear everything I need to hear,” he said, acidly. “Nothing you do or say is likely to escape me.” He made to push his way past Stefan, who was now barring his way into Konstantin’s chamber. “Let me pass,” he demanded. “I have urgent news for the Guide.”

  Stefan held steady, keeping his body as a barrier between the man in white and the door. “You and I seem to have got off on the wrong foot,” he commented. “I hope it proves to be just a misunderstanding.” He barely caught Rilke’s muttered reply.

  “There is nothing to understand,” he said. “I have a duty to do, and I’m going to do it.”

  Bruno had risen early with the idea of exploring Sigmarsgeist on his own. Although it was still barely past dawn, the heart of the citadel was already busy. Bruno stepped from the quiet of the palace on to streets full to overfl
owing with people going about their work. He had no particular direction or destination in mind, although a part of him was still reluctant to believe that in all Sigmarsgeist there wasn’t a single beer-house or tavern. And if there was even one, then he would find it.

  He emerged from the palace gates and started to walk down the broad avenue that passed directly through the heart of the citadel. Bruno’s sense of direction was good and it was no idle boast that he would only need be taken somewhere once in order to commit it to memory. So he followed the same sequence of streets that they had passed along in the carriage the previous day, this time taking in his surroundings at his own leisurely pace.

  After an hour, he was lost. None of the streets he now passed through seemed to bear any resemblance to those he had seen the day before. Bruno couldn’t fathom it; he was sure that he had followed the same precise route, street by street. But it didn’t worry him unduly. Before long, he was sure, he would recognise a landmark. If not well then, there was no shortage of people to help him find his way.

  In the meantime, he took good note of what he saw around him, and what he didn’t see. No inns or beer houses, for sure, not a single one. And no dwellings, at least none resembling the haphazard, ramshackle collections familiar from home. When he at last came to the residential quarter, it resembled nothing he had ever seen before. Instead of single houses there were great misshapen stone edifices, each large enough to house a dozen families or more.

  Bruno gazed up in wonder at the carved facades, each with its array of tiny windows. He stood for a few moments, marvelling at the strangeness of it all. People, men, women and a few children poured from every doorway in a steady stream whilst those returning from their labours were coming the other way, ready to take their place in the communal homes.

  Like a nest of termites, Bruno caught himself thinking. The comparison seemed harsh, but somehow apt. To a man, the workers were immersed in their daily routine, those now leaving the houses hurrying to relieve the workers returning home. But all seemed to Bruno to be in good heart, and, if most ignored him or greeted him only with the most cursory of nods, then he guessed it was because they were focused upon the day to come, or else the rest that would be their reward for their labours. He stood a while longer taking in the extraordinary scene, then walked on.