[Stefan Kumansky 02] - Taint of Evil

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  “I was searching,” she stammered. “Searching for you.”

  Zucharov nodded, an almost serene smile playing upon his hideous face. “I am glad of that,” he said.

  “Yes,” Anaise affirmed, more boldly now. She held the healer out towards him, as if in proof of her words. Bea screamed out and struggled to escape, but the Guide was deaf to her pleas.

  “See. I have the girl safe. I was bringing her to you. Now the time is come. Now Tal Dur is come.”

  Zucharov listened to her words, and, behind her words, heard also what was unspoken: the lies, the duplicity and the manipulation. Anaise thought she could use him, trick him. She was not so stupid as to try and directly oppose his will, not yet at least. But she still believed that Tal Dur could be hers alone. That delusion was her weakness. And there would be no room for weakness in the world that was to come.

  Immersed in his contemplation of the Guide, Zucharov only now noticed the third player in the scene as he advanced upon them. A voice, raised in warning or alarm, rang out, calling the healer’s name out loud. A figure came running towards the two women, sword held aloft. Zucharov edged back into the shadow and looked on. Memory stirred at the sound of the voice. An old, abandoned memory buried deep in the recesses of the mind of the man he had once been.

  It was him. Kumansky. The face from the past. And from the present. The more recent memory of the battle, bitter and rancorous, rose in Zucharov’s mind. Now he would finish it. Now he would be avenged.

  But he was mistaken. It was not Stefan Kumansky who was now sprinting towards the two women. Another face, almost equally distant, yet still familiar, swum into view. Zucharov trawled through the debris of that fading life, and seized upon the name: Bruno, Bruno Hausmann. Not Kumansky, but almost as good. Bruno, Kumansky’s oldest, most trusted friend. Killing him would be satisfaction enough, until the final reckoning came.

  At the very moment that the girl Bea tried to shout out a warning, Zucharov stepped forward where he could be seen, and drew out his sword. It seemed to take an age for the rushing swordsman to see him standing beside the women, and another for recognition to strike. But when it did, the effect was profound.

  “Alexei.” Bruno’s voice was quiet, almost stunned. He looked upon Zucharov, at the grotesque facsimile of what his former comrade had become. Fear, confusion and disbelief all met in his face. Zucharov read each separate, jarring emotion. Smelt them, and tasted them, as clear as he could taste the blood that was soon to flow.

  “Alexei,” Bruno said again, and then his expression hardened. He looked at Anaise and to Bea, still held firmly in the other woman’s unyielding embrace. Bruno hesitated, wavering for just an instant, then took his sword in both his hands.

  Now it begins, the voice whispered to Zucharov.

  “Alexei, I’m sorry,” Bruno shouted, then charged towards him. Zucharov saw at once in the speed and movement of his body, and in the way that he carried his weapon, that this opponent would be different. This was no red-shirted conscript, no wretched townsman fighting in a last, crazed defence of his home. He would be stronger, more skilful and more resilient than all but one of those that Zucharov had fought. But he would make the same mistake that others had made: Rilke, Baecker and the feeble bounty hunter who had served to bring him to Sigmarsgeist. Bruno would believe that he had enough skill, enough guile, and enough bravery to defeat him, and he would be wrong.

  Bruno fell upon Zucharov in a fury, his sword probing Zucharov’s defences. He was not a small man, but he was faster than most, certainly fast enough to catch Zucharov off-guard if he allowed his concentration to falter. For a while the two swordsmen circled each other, trading blow for blow. But each thunderous stroke from Zucharov drained away a little more of Bruno’s strength.

  He is already wounded, Zucharov noted, he cannot endure long.

  He swung his sword two-handed, aiming to smash his way through the other man’s guard. Bruno saw the blow coming and swerved aside. For a moment, Zucharov was left vulnerable. He saw the glint of steel and felt the cold stab of Bruno’s blade as it penetrated his flesh. The pain was vivid, brief; forgotten in an instant. He turned, with improbable speed, and met the second strike with his own sword. He caught Bruno just below the wrist, not where he intended. But it was enough to loosen Bruno’s hold upon his weapon. His opponent cried out in agony, dropping his guard momentarily. Zucharov struck out again, this time knocking the sword clear from Bruno’s hand.

  Zucharov experienced a sensation of disdain, almost disappointment. It had been easy, too easy. Just for a moment, he made the error of assuming the battle already won. In that same moment, Bruno threw himself at him, raining down blows with his fists in a last, desperate assault. In the tumult that followed, Zucharov’s own sword was dislodged, and parity restored.

  At least half of Bruno’s blows were finding their target, but it made no difference. To Zucharov they were little more than the fluttering of an insect upon his face. He hit back, battering his opponent from side to side, until blood was flowing from Bruno’s face. Bruno struck out again, with all that remained of his strength, but wide of the mark. Zucharov’s reply knocked the other man off his feet, and tumbling across the ground. By the time Bruno had regained his feet, Zucharov had recovered his sword.

  Bruno closed on Zucharov one final time, but the look in his eyes betrayed the hopelessness of his situation. Zucharov shrugged off the challenge, and pushed his opponent away. Then, as Bea screamed out in despair, he thrust out his sword, and drove the blade through Bruno Hausmann’s heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Wrath of the Gods

  What could Stefan hope to achieve with the small force now at his command? What little he knew of the Red Guard—so recently his adversaries—told him that they would give their all, but he had no idea whether that would be enough. He did not know if Sigmarsgeist could be saved, but the briefest tour of what remained of the citadel quickly confirmed that Baecker’s death had been in vain. All attempts to force a breach in the city walls had failed. More than two-thirds of the citadel was now below water, buildings and dwellings wrecked and submerged. Only the tallest of buildings still survived, those and a steadily diminishing island at the centre of the citadel, with the palace at its heart.

  But Stefan was sure of two things at least: he had to destroy the roaming gangs of Norscans that were feeding off the carcass of Sigmarsgeist, and stop Alexei Zucharov. That the two were inextricably linked, he had no doubt. Their fates, and his, were now intertwined. There would be no reasoning with the Norscans, no course of action open but to hunt them down, and then fight them to the death. He led his men on, out into the citadel, knowing full well that most would never return.

  The appearance of the guards upon the streets was greeted with commotion from the surviving townspeople. Word quickly spread of their arrival, and faint hope began to supplant the despair that had settled like a shroud across the citadel. But with the hope came impossible demands. Men and women cried to them from the roofs of flooded houses. Buildings were still collapsing into the swirling waters, creating mayhem. And those that had so far survived the worst were cold, hungry, and in urgent need of care. But Stefan could not help them. First he had to deal with the Norscans. Until then, anything else would be at best a postponement of the greater horror to come.

  The most important task now was to eliminate the Norscans, and find the man who led them. The man he had once known as his friend. For the moment the hopes of the people had to be ignored. In the end, it was their only true hope of survival.

  There had been no time for Stefan to win the trust of the men he now commanded. But the scarlet-clad soldiers had so far fought more bravely, more defiantly than he had dared hope. Their belief in the future that was to have been Sigmarsgeist might have been built upon a falsehood, but it was deeply held, and they would cling to that belief until every last drop of their blood was spilled.

  At the very edge of the flooded area, a group of wome
n had taken shelter in a chapel, a place of humble worship to the goddess Shallya. The women—twenty or thirty of them—had huddled together inside as the waters rose around them, united in their fear, and in their hope that the watchful goddess, and the very safety of their number, would protect them. The Norscans had fallen upon them like wolves, taking what pleasures they liked before slaughtering the women indiscriminately.

  Stefan and his men heard the screams from afar, the sounds guiding them like a beacon to that forsaken place. But by the time the Red Guard arrived, the grim deed was done, and the Norscans, clad to a man in mocking white, were spilling back out onto the street, already seeking the next diversion to feed their bestial greed.

  Stefan and his men saw to it that that they had all the diversion they could handle, and plenty more besides. They swarmed over the Norscans, the Red far outnumbering the White, totally overwhelming them. It was a small revenge, only a beginning, but victory tasted no less sweet for it. Stefan waded in amongst the clashing steel, and settled upon his target. A large, grinning Norscan was emerging from the chapel, tightening his breeches as he went. The man was oblivious to what was going on until it was too late. Stefan didn’t wait for the man to find his sword. Before the Norscan had even moved, Stefan took aim and plunged home his blade. A flower of dark blood blossomed out over the white uniform as the Norscan screamed out in agony. Stefan pulled the sword clear and, with the next stroke, sliced off the man’s head.

  He looked around for likely opponents, but with the Red Guard in the ascendant the battle was already all but won. A flash of movement caught Stefan’s eye. He turned, and saw a figure slip out from the chapel, running for cover. Another moment and the Norscan would be out of reach. Stefan pulled the knife from his belt and took careful aim before hurling the blade. The knife arrowed through the air before catching the Norscan below one shoulder. The Norscan slowed, stumbled, and fell.

  Stefan hurried across to the prostrate enemy. This one he would keep alive, for a while at least. He pulled the knife free then turned the Norscan onto his back. The pale face stared up at Stefan, defiance in his eyes.

  The man started to swear at Stefan, harsh curses from his barbaric land.

  Stefan slapped him hard across the face. “Be quiet,” he commanded. “Tell me about the mutant, the tattooed mutant.”

  The Norscan struggled, trying to break free, but Stefan held him down. The marauder glared up at Stefan. “The tattooed one? He’ll swallow you whole and spit your bones out into the water,” he sneered. “Head south if you’re in a hurry to meet your death.”

  “Get up,” Stefan said curtly, tugging the man to his feet.

  Weak from blood loss, the Norscan was unable to put up much resistance.

  Stefan wordlessly dragged his prisoner along behind him, back towards the chapel. The battle was over, all the other Norscans were either dead or dying. Of the Red Guard, all but three had come through the encounter unharmed. It was as good a start as Stefan could have hoped for, but now there were hard decisions to be made.

  “You’ve had a taste of what it feels like to get your own back,” he said to them. “I hope it tastes good.” His words were met by a chorus of cheers from the Red Guard.

  “You’ll have plenty more chances to enjoy that taste,” Stefan assured them. “But it’s not going to be so easy from here.” He looked round at the men, meeting the gaze of as many as he could. “There are Norscans everywhere,” he told them. “And doubtless things far worse than them, too, creatures touched by Chaos. We have to spread out, form ourselves into smaller units.” He took a breath, measuring up what needed to be done.

  “I need a few men to come with me,” he said, “five or six, no more than that. I warn you, mine will be the party at most risk. You others, form into three groups. My group will head south. The rest of you cover the other quarters of the city, as far as you can go towards the water line. Do what you can for your people, but your priority must be the Norscans. They must be destroyed at all costs.”

  “What about this one?” a voice from the back demanded. Stefan glanced around at his prisoner, seized the man by the scruff of the neck and threw him back towards the gathering of Red Guards. “Deal with him as you will,” he said.

  No longer would there be safety, nor security, in numbers. Stefan had left the gates of the palace at the head of a formidable force, a troop approaching a hundred men. For a short while, he had felt invulnerable. Now, he headed back across the dark, watery wasteland of the citadel in search of Zucharov with a bare half dozen guards at his side. Now he was both hunter and hunted once again.

  Still the exodus came, long lines of bedraggled people heading in the opposite direction, fleeing the merciless waters with whatever they could carry. Whenever he could, Stefan spoke to them, always with the same question. But none of the frightened refugees would admit to any knowledge of the tattooed mutant. Most would struggle past without making any response, and those few who did meet his eye only answered with a short shake of the head. Before long, even the last of the refugees had disappeared. Stefan and his men had reached the flood line and were wading in water that was knee deep and still rising. The citadel seemed to have emptied.

  Stefan looked around, increasingly convinced that the trail had led only to a dead end. Zucharov was not here. He would have no purpose in being here.

  As he searched around, desperately looking for any clue, his eye fell upon the remains of a house, its upper floor a jagged spur of stone and earth still standing above the waters. A face appeared briefly at a window, then pulled back hurriedly at the sight of Stefan and his comrades.

  “You in there,” Stefan called out. “Show yourself. We mean you no harm.”

  He stood waiting for a response. The face did not reappear. “We mean you no harm,” Stefan repeated. “You must leave your home,” he said, determinedly. “You will drown unless you leave now. Let us help you.”

  A few moments later the face reappeared, peering over the ledge of the window. “We cannot leave,” a voice, worn down with age and exhaustion, replied.

  “My men will help you to safety,” Stefan assured them. “We just want to talk to you first.”

  The old man extended his head from the window to take a better look at Stefan. He stared at him for a few moments, then said, “Who are you?”

  “I am Stefan Kumansky,” Stefan said. “And an enemy to your enemies.”

  The old man peered at him through the gloom. “You’re one of the ones who came to the citadel with the healer,” he said. “With the healer.”

  “I am,” Stefan affirmed.

  The old man disappeared back inside the room for a moment, then called down to Stefan, an urgency in his voice now.

  “Come up here,” he said. “Come quickly.”

  Inside, the house was dark and crumbling, the stairs disintegrating under Stefan’s feet as he climbed up. Whoever was still in the house only had a little time left to get to safety. Stefan climbed the stair quickly, but with caution. He had no idea what awaited him above. Reason told him that it could not be Zucharov, but he held his sword drawn ready nonetheless.

  As he reached the top of the steps he saw the old man who had been at the window sitting by the dim light of a spluttering oil lamp. Next to him a woman, her body wrapped in a heavy shawl to keep out the cold, was bending down over something or someone lying stretched out upon the floor of the tiny room. The light was too poor for Stefan to see clearly, but he felt his pulse suddenly begin to race.

  “What is it?” he demanded of the old couple. “Why are you still here?”

  “The healer loved him,” the old man said, sadly. “He went to her aid.”

  “But the dark one fell upon him,” the woman muttered. “The dark one was sent from Morr to claim him.”

  As Stefan stepped into the room, the bundle laid out upon the floor stirred slowly, and a voice, so weak as to be all but unrecognisable, called his name.

  “Bruno!” Stefan cried out. He fe
ll down upon his knees at his friend’s side, and took Bruno’s head in his hands. His comrade opened his eyes, and forced a semblance of a smile.

  “Zucharov,” Bruno whispered. “Sorry, Stefan. I couldn’t stop him.”

  “Here,” Stefan beseeched the old couple. “Give me some light.”

  The woman passed Stefan the lamp, and he bent towards Bruno’s chest, to see that his tunic was sodden and sticky with blood. Carefully, he prised the fabric apart, trying to get to the wound. His hand fastened upon the locket hanging from a chain around Bruno’s neck, the likeness of the goddess Shallya.

  “It’s all—right,” Bruno said, struggling to force out the words. “Our lady intervened to—spare me. See?” he gasped. “The icon—deflected the blade.”

  Stefan took the lamp in his left hand and looked closely at the wound. The talisman around Bruno’s neck was battered, almost folded in two by the impact. Clearly, it had taken some of the force of Zucharov’s sword. But the wound was still deep, and a thick, darkish blood was oozing from the jagged incision in Bruno’s chest. Stefan was no surgeon, but he had seen enough battle to recognise those who the gods would spare, and those that were bound for Morn The locket had not so much saved Bruno’s life, as prolonged his death. Stefan pressed his hand against the bloody gash, hoping against hope for his comrade’s survival, despairing in his own helplessness.

  “He loved the healer, with his life,” the old man said, solemnly. “And she was our redemption, our hope. We could not leave him to die alone.”

  “He’s not going to die,” Stefan retorted, defiantly. But his heart and his head were telling different stories. “I’m going to get you to safety,” he told Bruno. “Somewhere where we can take proper care of that wound.”

  Bruno’s eyes flickered open again. “No,” he said, a harder tone in his voice. “You must save Bea,” he said. “Zucharov—took her, with Anaise. Back to—the palace. To find—Tal Dur.” A violent cough shook through Bruno’s body, and spittle flecked with blood appeared at the corners of his mouth. “Stefan,” he urged. “Please. You must save her.”