And yet, stirred in amongst his rage there was confusion. At first Zucharov had tested the limits of his captivity. He knew it was not beyond his capability to escape. The chains that bound him were strong, but he would surely prove the stronger. Each day that passed found him growing ever more powerful. Before long he would be able to snap the iron links as though they were no stronger than gossamer. And yet, somehow, he knew that he would not. There was a reason to his captivity, and a purpose to this journey, that he did not yet understand. But he would learn. Most of all, through the long days travelling across the forsaken plain, he would learn. He would be a pupil, and the voice of Kyros, the dark echo forever inside his head, would be his teacher. This was to be his journey. He must wait, and allow the alchemy of change to turn defeat into lasting victory. You are strong, Kyros had told him. Great will be your reward.
The decision had been simple enough. Stefan was not going to refuse the chance to ride with the soldiers of Sigmar, to hunt down the mutant host, and destroy them. It was a moment to forget doubts, and put aside questions. As Stefan joined the men in scarlet riding on to the bridge across the ravine, he was reunited with them in common purpose: to root out the spawn of evil, and purge them from the face of the world.
So he rode, and rode gladly. But he rode without Bruno. The damage to Bruno’s hand wasn’t serious, but it was enough to make his joining the hunt out of the question. Instead of riding with the soldiers of Sigmar, Bruno had had to content himself with joining the people lining the streets to bless the parting hunters.
“Good fortune,” Bruno shouted through the din of the crowd. “And safe return.”
“Be sure of both,” Stefan returned. It was an ill-timed misfortune, and his comrade would be sorely missed, but Stefan was determined to make good the loss. He vowed his sword would do the work of two men.
He had fully expected the squadron of riders to be led by Rilke. But although there were two of the elite White Guard at the head of the twenty or so men in red, neither was the man that Stefan was already coming to think of as his enemy. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. If he had truly made an enemy of Rilke, then perhaps it would be better if he were there where Stefan could see him. There was no Rilke, but he had seen Hans Baecker, riding up near the head of the column. The rest of the men were strangers, but if they acquitted themselves half as well as their comrades, then they would not lack for valour.
The riders passed through the gates of the citadel, then halted. “What now?” Stefan asked. “What are we waiting for?” By way of answer, one of the others indicated back the way they had come. A single rider was approaching at speed, beating a thunderous rhythm upon the ground. It was Anaise, dressed for combat in a suit of mail and light armour, the insignia of a blood-red sword emblazoned upon her white corselet.
“Surprised?” she asked Stefan as she pulled her horse level with his. There was a slight note of teasing in her voice, a playfulness that Stefan had noted at least once before. “Perhaps, amongst your people, women aren’t for fighting?” she asked.
“Honoured, rather than surprised,” Stefan assured her. “I had been given to understand that Rilke would be leading this mission,” he added.
“Rilke?” Anaise lifted her eyebrow just enough to hint at disdain. “Konstantin’s pet,” she said. “He’s better off home with his master.” She lifted her hand in a signal to the riders around her. The smile vanished, and with it any light-heartedness.
“We have a great distance to make up upon our enemies,” she called out. “We must ride hard. Ride like the wind!”
It had begun so promisingly for Koenig the bounty hunter. Just at the critical moment the man had crumpled, brought to his knees as though struck down by a blow from Sigmar himself. Lothar was able to claim his sword as easily as prising a bone from the jaws of a sickly dog. The man’s eyes had blazed with violent intent, but his body had nothing to offer. In that moment, Lothar had given thanks to the gods for their gift. Now he was beginning to wonder if they had not played him the cruellest of tricks.
The first task he had set himself, once his prisoner had been secured, had been to part the gold band from the wrist of its owner. Lothar was no merchant—not in any other commodity than human flesh—and he couldn’t have put a price upon the amulet. But he knew it would be worth a lot, the sort of sum that he wouldn’t normally see in a season, let alone a single week. The sculpted gold was thick and lustrous, and there was a rarity, and just a hint of darkness to its strange design that would surely attract no end of wealthy suitors.
First he had to get it off his prisoner’s arm, pull it free of the ugly flesh, the skin defaced by the livid colours of the tattoo. Lothar Koenig could hardly bring himself to think of touching it, but he would have to if the amulet was to be his.
He was not stupid enough to try and take it from the other man whilst he was awake. Once, and only once Koenig had made to reach for the gold band in view of his prisoner. The reaction had been instantaneous, the message unmistakeable: Touch the amulet and I’ll kill you. Lothar was sure that even bound in his chains, Zucharov would somehow be capable of delivering on that unspoken promise. The bounty hunter had quickly learnt to keep his distance. A boundary was established, a set of rules between captor and captive. And whilst Lothar kept to those rules, it seemed his prisoner would offer him no resistance.
But getting the amulet was another matter. There was only one time when it would be safe to get close enough to take it, when Zucharov was unconscious, knocked senseless by the potions Lothar dosed him with every night, though it seemed to take ever-greater quantities of hempwort and camphor salts to affect his prisoner.
That night, to be doubly sure, Lothar had administered more than double the usual dose. From now on he would need to ration his supplies—or else dispose of his human cargo before very long. At length, once he was certain that the brutish warrior was far beyond consciousness, the bounty hunter made his move. The gold metal of the amulet looked so pure. He imagined how it would feel in his hands, the caress of the gold as he slid the band upon his own wrist. He already knew it would bring him not only wealth, but power beyond anything he had dared to dream.
He crouched beside the other man, savouring the moment. Gingerly, he reached out and made contact with the gold band with the gentlest of touches. Instantaneously he was thrown backwards, as some unseen force punched into him with the force of a battering ram. Lothar writhed upon the ground, screaming out from the nauseous pain flooding through his body. Still in agony, he examined his throbbing hand by the light of his campfire. The skin was blistered and red raw, as though he had thrust his fist into the heart of a mighty fire.
Lothar cursed the gods, and sat rocking upon his heels, trying to cool his burning flesh in the night air. It was some moments before he realised that Zucharov’s eyes were open, watching his every movement with a blank, expressionless gaze. Later, he would swear that the words he heard next were spoken inside his head: Next time we will give you no warning.
There wouldn’t be a next time. That much Lothar had already decided. The pain was excruciating beyond all experience. He would not touch the amulet again. His shrewd mind flitted through the alternatives. There weren’t many. Of course, he could always cut the wretched thing from the creature’s limb. This might be easier, but it would devalue his only other, human, asset. No buyer was going to be interested in a cripple. Besides, what strength of narcotic potion would he need before his prisoner succumbed to his dreams? Had he ever been truly asleep? The thought chilled Lothar Koenig to the marrow.
From that moment on he turned his mind to finding a way of disposing of the tattooed warrior, and earning whatever bounty he could. It ought to have been easy. Every private army, every mercenary gang along the border with the Empire would be looking for men like this, men with the grotesque musculature of a wild beast, and an unquenchable thirst for slaughter to match. Men who killed with remorseless efficiency, only stopping when they them
selves were destroyed.
So Lothar Koenig plied his wares through the scattering of villages and towns that covered the bare plains of Ostermark, winding a gradual, meandering course back towards the city of Talabheim. Along the way, people stopped to stare in wonder or disbelief at the two-horse train: the figure of the bounty hunter leading the monstrous painted man. But few came close, even the simplest of folk seemed able to sense the danger in Alexei Zucharov, and kept a wary distance.
But enough prospective buyers came to mind. Some the bounty hunter knew as good men, some were scum, vicious parasites who terrorised their people and robbed them blind. Frankly, Lothar couldn’t care less. Whoever was willing to pay a reasonable sum for his prisoner was welcome to him, with or without the amulet. He would let others worry about the consequences.
Zucharov put up no resistance as he was led, still enmeshed in his chains, into the presence of adventurers, warlords and chieftains. Sitting, bound and defenceless upon his horse, he was a picture of abject defeat, a beaten man waiting to be sold into slavery. And yet, and yet… something of the menace inside him still managed to communicate itself to his would-be masters. And the message that was communicated was clear, and unambiguous: I will destroy you.
The would-be masters were men possessed of arrogance, cunning and greed. But, to a man, they read the message in Alexei Zucharov’s eyes, and backed off. By stages, the asking price came down, and with it Lothar’s dreams of a comfortable retirement. But still the message from the buyers was the same. Lothar Koenig and his proposition were not welcome.
Finally, the price fell low enough for one small-time warlord to take a closer look. Gunter Albrecht was the tin-pot tyrant who held villainous rule over a stinking hovel of a town known as Stahlhof. Albrecht had a deserved reputation for cruelty and violence, and imagined, with good reason, that there could be few men alive more dangerous or less trustworthy than himself.
Zucharov was hauled off the horse, and thrown upon the ground for the warlord’s inspection. Albrecht manoeuvred his heavy form into position over the prostrate body. He aimed a kick into Zucharov’s gut, and waited for some kind of response. When none came he grunted, dismissively.
“What’s the matter with him?” he demanded of Lothar. “Scared of what I might do to him?” He kicked Zucharov again, considerably harder this time. Zucharov still made no response, but raised his gaze to face the warlord.
“He looks the part, I’ll grant you,” Albrecht commented. “But a cur who lies there without so much as a whimper isn’t going to be much use to me.”
“The gold band alone is worth more than I’m asking,” Lothar protested.
Gunter Albrecht tugged at his straggly beard, and regarded Zucharov and the bounty hunter in turn, with equal distaste. “Maybe,” he conceded. “Maybe.”
“Loosen the chains, then you’ll see what he’s made of,” Lothar blurted out. As soon as he had spoken, he was regretting the suggestion. But the idea had taken root in his patron’s mind.
“Free his hands,” he commanded. “And stand him up.”
“On second thoughts—” Lothar began. A sharp dig in the ribs from a sword wielded by one of Albrecht’s men cut him short.
“Get on with it,” Albrecht said, sourly. “I haven’t got all day.”
Two of Albrecht’s men pulled Zucharov up on to his feet. A third pushed Lothar Koenig forward. The bounty hunter said a silent prayer. Through closed eyes he saw exactly what would happen. He watched his own hands unfasten the shackles that bound the prisoner’s hands. He saw Zucharov standing there, his hands now hanging down free at his sides. There would be a moment of stillness, of silence. Then Albrecht would break the spell, his patience exhausted, and give the fatal order for his men to draw their swords.
In his mind, he saw Zucharov move. He would move so fast that Lothar would barely have time to make sense of what had happened. Amidst the blur of bodies he saw Zucharov take hold of the men either side of him, and lift them into the air as though they were dolls. The first was impaled on the blade as it swung towards him. The second he hurled through the air, slamming him into the body of the third man, knocking both senseless.
He saw Albrecht turn to flee, already too late. Zucharov stepped forward, snapping the chains around his legs in a single move. In three strides he had seized hold of the warlord and lifted him clear of the ground. Lothar counted the blows as Zucharov fastened a grip upon the warlord’s leathery neck, then smashed his head down, two, three times, hammering it upon the ground in a fury, until his skull had been rendered into a bloody pulp. Then, finally, when it was done, he saw Zucharov turn, and come for him.
Lothar opened his eyes. His body was trembling like a leaf, but he was too scared even to feel shame. Nothing had happened. No one had moved. Zucharov stood before him, a terrifying statue carved from human flesh, the shackles still fast upon his wrists.
Gunter Albrecht was still very much alive, but he looked as though he had been to the gates of Morr and back. The blood had drained from his face, and from the corner of his mouth a drool of spittle ran unchecked into the matted tangle of beard. Lothar looked at him and knew at once that he had seen the same vision he had. They had all seen it, Lothar, Albrecht, and all of his men. The warlord turned to the bounty hunter and spoke in a voice that was thin and cracked.
“Get out of here,” he said, quietly. “Take that abomination from my sight, and don’t ever come back.”
The bounty hunter left without protest, without saying another word. Once he was well away from Albrecht’s men he stopped, dismounted, and found every last piece of rope and wire that he could to add to the chains already fastened around Zucharov’s body.
He tried to believe his prisoner was secure, at least for now, but in his heart he knew he was only deluding himself. He had been deluding himself all along about the true nature of the spawn of darkness that had come into his keeping. Whatever was holding this man captive, it was not the puny bonds of rope and metal that were placed around him. A power way beyond Lothar’s own feeble imaginings had brought him to this point in time, shaped his choices and steered him upon his course. The same power now spoke to Lothar, sweeping away the fear and confusion in his mind. In a moment of stark clarity, he saw what he must do, and where he must go.
Now there were no more choices. Now, a single destination beckoned.
The company of twenty rode out beneath the lonely skies, with the far hills and the green blur of forests the only punctuation within a barely changing landscape. This was a land that could swallow up a hundred men as easily as a handful. The band of Chaos renegades had last been seen crossing the border from Kislev a full five days past. Could they truly still hope to intercept their enemies in such a vast and empty place?
If any amongst the twenty had doubts, Anaise von Augen was not one of them. From the moment that they had ridden from the citadel, she had not wavered in her conviction that the Chaos warband would be found and destroyed. The open spaces of Ostermark were vast, but they were not without boundaries. The mighty river that marked the land between Ostermark and Talabecland was one. The Chaos warriors were riding south. When they reached the tributary of the great River Stir, they would have to head either east, into the forsaken lands of Sylvania, or cross the river into Talabecland, there to lose themselves in the forests until they could re-group. But there would be no escape, Anaise had promised. Long before they crossed the river, the soldiers of Sigmar would be amongst them.
At first there had been no signs, no trace of their enemies’ path. But finally the pursuers came upon a village, a handful of houses clustered around a shrine. They were not the first to have visited. The Chaos riders had been there too, and not long before. They had stamped their mark upon the village in blood and fire, killing every living thing and levelling the simple homes in an orgy of senseless destruction. Anaise rode through the ruins without stopping, looking down upon the terrible carnage.
“Their lust for blood has betrayed them,�
�� she commented, quietly. “Now we know we are close.”
They rode on, faster now, fuelled by anticipation and a righteous anger. Barely two miles beyond the village, they sighted their enemy for the first time.
“There!” Hans Baecker shouted. “Crossing the brow of the hill right ahead. By Sigmar,” he exclaimed, “there must be at least fifty of them!”
Stefan looked to the horizon. From a distance the other riders were dark specks silhouetted against the hillsides, and looked little more than slow crawling ants. The word that had reached the citadel had said thirty. But there were at least fifty, possibly more. The men of Sigmarsgeist were seriously outnumbered. But Anaise left them in no doubt, there would be no turning back from battle.
“Whether they are five or five hundred, it makes no difference!” she exclaimed. “They shall not escape us, not now.”
The line of riders broke forward, a wave of red pouring across the open plain. Ahead of them the soldiers of Chaos, a jagged line of riders following the green ribbon of the river that divided the land. A mile or so more and they would come to the bridge at Bahlkurk. Once across, the dark forests of Sylvania beckoned. They must not get that far.
Stefan pressed on, his heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline flushing through his body. Ahead lay uncertainty: death, or glory. And in that heady moment he embraced them both.
The Chaos force had superiority in numbers, but the pursuers had surprise and speed on their side. The distance between the two was narrowing quickly. Stefan and his comrades were travelling as light as distance would allow. The horses bearing the Chaos riders were weighed down by their riders’ heavy armour and, the plunder of their bloody, merciless conquest. The moment of crisis was near.
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