[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  Elena’s attempt at a laugh choked in her throat. “But the dead can’t do us any harm, can they—I mean it’s not as if they’ll be—”

  “Armed?” The priest hesitated as though burdened with some very bad news indeed. Stefan spared him the need to answer Elena’s question.

  “If I understand it correctly, it would be the custom to bury with the dead along with the tools of their wrongdoing,” he said. “In which case…”

  “Armed,” Bruno affirmed.

  A sound like a great door being broken apart filled the chamber. Stefan turned back to Father Andreas. “Is there anything you can do?” he asked. “Any prayer, or incantation that might reverse this?”

  “The prayer of transfiguration,” Andreas replied. “Offered by the graveside to speed the soul on its journey to the kingdom of Morr. But I don’t know whether—”

  “In the name of the gods, do what you can,” Stefan exhorted, drawing his blade. “The power of prayer may prove as mighty a weapon as the sword now.”

  The sounds around them were growing louder by the moment. “It looks as though we’ll soon have the chance to put those weapons to the test,” Bruno commented, grimly. “How are you supposed to kill a man who’s already dead?”

  A good question, Stefan admitted. “We’ll find out,” he told him. He held his sword steady and stood his ground. Wherever Alexei Zucharov was, right at that moment Stefan was cursing him.

  The first warning of the attack came as a gust of air expelled from each of the six passageways surrounding them. But this was no cooling breath of life, but the very stench of death itself, foul and corrupt.

  A bitter bile rose in Stefan’s throat as the putrid draught invaded his lungs.

  “Stand your ground!” he shouted. “Mortal or not, they’ll still yield to our blades.”

  Now that the moment was finally upon them, any fear inside Stefan dissipated. The sword in his hand became an extension of his body. He knew he would wield it to savage and merciless effect. He forced down a deep breath, and, as he did so, the first opponent emerged from the mouth of the passage ahead of him.

  It was a being that had rested long in the embrace of the dread Lord of Decay. The bleached ivory bones protruding from the tattered remnants of clothing marked the figure as once human, but no longer. The flesh upon the corpse’s face and arms had been replaced by the same blood-red worms that had feasted upon it. Its jaws hung slack open, and a foul yellow pus dripped from the remnants of its mouth.

  The creature plunged at Stefan, one maggot-arm fastened around a sword encrusted with the filth of the grave. Stefan met the sword stroke with an upward thrust from his own. He pushed the attack away, then swung the full weight of his blade down, slicing the creature’s body in half across the waist. A sea of writhing worms spilled across the marbled floor of the tomb as the creature disintegrated before him.

  Stefan had barely a moment to savour his victory before two more of the undead were upon him. He found himself under attack by what, once, would have been a young man. The cadaver’s face was bleached to a green-ringed white, but its skin was still smooth and unbroken. In its face, Stefan saw the vestiges of the kind of a man with whom he might have shared ale and stories around a tavern table. He did not let such thoughts deflect the purpose of his sword. His parrying stroke slipped through the creature’s guard and slit open its head from throat to forehead. Like his ghastly comrade, the cadaver crumbled upon the ground.

  Stefan had destroyed two of the undead in quick succession, but it did not lessen the resolve of the others still pouring from out of the tombs. It seemed that they who had no life could have no fear of death. A third assailant was upon Stefan now, forcing him to retreat from the sheer ferocity of the attack. Stefan stared into the face of the dead man. The eyes bulged, bright and clear, in the creature’s otherwise decaying face. But they did not seem to see Stefan, or even to be aware of his existence. Some malign force was turning the carcasses to its will, animating the rotting bodies like grim marionettes.

  Marionettes or not, the creatures could still wield a sword to deadly effect. Stefan lost his balance momentarily and had to roll sideways across the floor of the tomb to avoid the chasing sword of the undead. As he looked up, he saw Elena dispatch the creature with a double-handed stroke. She was covered in all manner of filth from the battle, but she drove on with her blade as though possessed with an avenging energy more than equal to that of her opponents.

  The moment’s respite gave Stefan a chance to take stock of the turmoil raging around him. Father Andreas was upon his knees before the table, the sceptre of Morr held out before him. His eyes were fastened and his lips were moving, endlessly repeating the words of a prayer. Stefan’s other comrades were holding fast in the thick of battle; no one yet had fallen. But Elena now had a clutch of attackers upon her. Lisette was huddled at Elena’s feet, her body drawn up in a ball. She held her hands tight over her ears, as though trying to block out a deafening noise. The undead creatures appeared to take no notice of her, but were drawn like flies towards their pursuit of Elena.

  Stefan rushed forward but found his way blocked by at least three more of the creatures. He caught sight of Bruno on the far side of the chamber and shouted his name, trying to alert him to Elena’s plight. After a split second that seemed like an eternity, Bruno broke away from the combat, saw Stefan, then turned toward Elena.

  Hurry, man, Stefan implored, beneath his breath. They’ll cut her to pieces. Bruno beat a path through with his sword until he stood but a few paces short of Elena and her attackers. Blood was trickling down her face from a cut across her forehead. She was fighting with the courage of a warrior, but the strength and number of her adversaries would inevitably overpower her.

  As Stefan regained his feet he saw Bruno lunge forward as if to thrust his sword into the midst of the cadavers bearing down on Elena. And then, for no apparent reason, he stopped. Bruno was standing fixed to the spot, as though his body had suddenly been cast in ice.

  Stefan screamed out his comrade’s name again, but this time to no effect. The sword was knocked from Elena’s grasp. As the creatures closed upon her, Stefan saw Tomas clamber to his feet and lurch unsteadily towards the ring of attackers. He was barely conscious, but his clumsy sword bought some precious respite.

  Stefan now wielded his blade in a fury, dispatching each successive cadaver that moved in to block his path. Butchered limbs still writhed and twisted upon the ground where they had fallen, and eyes rolled in the sockets of severed heads, but they would do no more harm. A gore-spattered apparition staggered in front of Stefan, a sabre rammed into the bloodied stump of one flailing arm. Stefan thrust his sword to the cadaver’s gut, releasing a cloud of winged insects that glittered in the lamplight before falling to earth. Stefan kicked the tottering corpse aside and reached Elena, drawing her in behind the protection of his sword.

  “Thanks,” she said. Her body was shaking. “Thank you, both of you,” she said to Stefan and the still dazed Tomas. Stefan looked around for Bruno. Like a clock that had been rewound, he was fighting again as though nothing had happened, beating back more of the undead.

  Father Andreas had not moved. He still knelt before the stone table, holding the sceptre of Morr aloft.

  “Our lord of all souls,” he intoned. “Grant these your children their eternal rest.” He intoned the phrase over and over, the words gaining intensity with each repetition.

  A shadow fell across the priest where he knelt as something emerged from the mouth of the passage in front of him. Stefan gazed at the creature in disbelief. He doubted whether it could have ever have been human. It stood head and shoulders above the tallest man, and was so broad that it completely blocked out the passage from which it had emerged. A gangrenous pus leaked from the weeping sores upon its body, and horns of blackened bone could be clearly seen budding on top of its swollen head.

  “Our Lord of Souls,” Andreas repeated. “Grant these your children—”

&nbs
p; Suddenly, the giant cadaver seemed to falter, swaying as though overcome by some mightier power. As the monster fell back, it lashed out at Andreas, raking his face and body with yellowing claws. The priest dropped face down upon the ground, and did not move again.

  Several things now seemed to happen at once. Stefan and Elena rushed forward as one, Elena to tend to the fallen Andreas, Stefan to press home the attack upon the monster which had fallen back upon its haunches at the mouth of the passage. As the huge creature sank to the ground, so the parody of life that had been animating the cadaver army seemed to ebb away. Bones splintered and cracked, flesh peeled away from bones. Heads drooped and hung slack as the light retreated from dead eyes.

  Lisette had spent the last minutes cocooned in a ball upon the ground. Now she suddenly leapt to her feet, and raced ahead of Elena towards Andreas as though her very life depended upon it.

  For a moment the two women were jostling for space over the priest’s prostrate body. “Please, I beg you, mistress,” Lisette entreated. “I have the power of healing. I may be able to help him.”

  Andreas seemed to hear, and opened his eyes momentarily. “I am beyond help now,” he mumbled, pain blurring his words.

  Elena looked at Lisette for a moment then stood back. “All right,” she said. “Do what you can.” Lisette bent low over the priest, and lay her hands upon his body.

  “The prayer,” Andreas whispered, “did it work?”

  “It worked,” Stefan affirmed. “Hold on. You’re going to live.”

  The priest smiled briefly. “No,” he said, his voice now growing weak distant. “But fear not for me. Soon I shall journey to meet an old friend.”

  Lisette continued to work desperately, as if unwilling to accept that her healing could not prevail. At the last Andreas opened his eyes and found Elena.

  “May all the gods bless your journey,” he whispered. As his head slid to one side his gaze fell upon Lisette. As the priest looked upon the girl his eyes widened. A final urgency suddenly seemed to grip the priest. He started to raise his head, and his mouth opened and closed, desperately trying to form around the words.

  “Peace!” Lisette implored, her hands pressing the sick man down. “Peace!”

  “He’s trying to tell us something!” Elena shouted. She pulled Lisette back. “Andreas, what is it?”

  A convulsion shook the priest’s body, then his head dropped back against the ground. Elena stared for a moment at the priest’s body. Lisette was still crouched over the dead man. She seemed either not to have heard or heeded Elena’s words.

  “In the name of Taal, get away from him!” Elena commanded. Lisette turned a baleful stare upon her mistress and, finally, backed away. Stefan took hold of Elena, and pulled her gently away from the priest. “It’s too late,” he said. “We’ve lost him.” He turned towards Bruno. “What happened back there?”

  “What do you mean?” Bruno responded.

  “You froze,” Stefan said. “Elena nearly died.” He stood staring at Bruno, waiting for some kind of explanation. Bruno shook his head. He looked confused, uncertain.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Everything went blank. I don’t remember anymore.”

  “You’d better start pulling things together,” Stefan said, his anger cooling. “You’re not going to survive for long like that.” He looked round at Tomas, leaning upon Elena for support. “For your part, well done,” he said.

  Tomas’ face was a mask of blood, and a heavy bruise was starting to swell above one eye. “It was nothing,” he said.

  Stefan fixed the wounded man with a stare and then smiled. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t nothing by a long way.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Reckoning

  Varik surveyed the carnage of battle through the unblinking eyes of Haarland Krug. He gazed upon the dead with equanimity. He had not chosen to count the number fallen, but knew that it was many. It mattered not. It was of no consequence to him whether he had lost ten of his men or a hundred, so long as he had resources left to finish the job.

  And he had. A dozen or more of the Scarandar, the youngest and sturdiest of the crop, were gathered round him at the entrance to the tombs. They had borne their share of wounds inflicted by the Kislevite and her mercenaries, but their lust for blood was undiminished. They would not have long to wait.

  On the open field their quarry had proved elusive; fast on horseback and—Varik was forced to concede—skilful with the sword. But now, in seeking refuge below ground in the tombs they had allowed themselves to be trapped. There was, he knew, just a single way in—or out—of the tombs. The iron door was still secure, but not for much longer.

  He would gain entrance to the tombs by the simplest of means.

  The emissary sank down upon one knee and squeezed shut his eyes. His mind floated free of the shackles of its human form. He had not far to reach out; it took but a moment to touch the tortured soul sitting alone amongst the exhausted mortals below ground. It took but a moment to utter the command. And this time the command was straightforward: Open the door.

  The emissary rose to his feet, and waited, his ears attuned to the slightest of stirrings below ground. There were footsteps upon a stone stairway, deep beneath him still but growing ever closer.

  Varik shouted a command and had three of the men around him ready to haul upon the iron doorway set into the ground at their feet. The footsteps grew louder until they had all but reached surface level. The emissary listened to the sound of a key turning inside a heavy lock, and smiled as the lock sprang open.

  The Scarandar seized the door and freed it from the earth. Varik stepped forward and stared down into the vault. The expression on the face looking back up at him was both terrified and expectant.

  Emissary Varik moved down onto the first step, a chosen dozen of his men close behind.

  “Yes,” he affirmed, in answer to the unspoken question. “You have done well.”

  Deep below ground, Elena sprang round in sudden alarm. “Fathers of Kislev,” she cried, “What was that?”

  “The door,” Stefan shouted. “They’ve breached the door above us.”

  He looked around desperately for some means of barring the passageway leading to the great hall, but knew it was almost certainly already too late. The chamber echoed with the sound of the Scarandar descending from above. They would pour into the tombs like water through a breach in a dam.

  “We’ll have to stand and fight them here,” Stefan declared. “I’ll kill the first that dares to show himself. And we’ll take it from there.” It wasn’t much of a plan. But, right then, it was the only plan he had. He braced himself at the sound of footfalls upon the steps.

  The sounds from above had reached the bottom of the shaft. Now their pursuers were in the short tunnel that led to the great hall. If they are to take us, Stefan vowed, then it will be at a handsome price. As he raised his sword to deliver the first blow, two figures emerged out of the gloom of the tunnel.

  “No!” Elena shouted. “Wait!”

  Stefan’s blade hung poised in mid-air. In front of him stood a huge, bear-like man with a pock-marked face like a battleground. Somewhere, Stefan knew, he had seen him before. But it was the figure being held captive by the giant that really caught Stefan’s attention. Lisette’s face was white with fear, her trembling frame dwarfed by that of her captor. The man looked directly at Stefan and spoke in a voice that seemed somehow not to be his own.

  “Behold,” he said. The man’s face was immobile, yet the voice was full of mocking laughter. “Your faithful thief is returned to you.”

  Elena stretched out a hand towards her maidservant, then hesitated, confused. “What is he talking about?” she demanded, of Lisette, of anyone.

  “Lisette took the key from the priest as he lay dying,” Stefan said. “She’s our traitor. The one that Andreas tried to warn us of.”

  “It can’t be true,” Elena cried. But they could both see, from the look in Lisette’s e
yes, that it was. For a moment, Stefan actually experienced relief. The dark, almost unbearable suspicions about Alexei, even about Bruno, were suddenly washed away. Then he found himself facing the Bretonnian girl again, and his question echoed that voiced out loud by Elena.

  “Why?” She gazed at Lisette in stunned disbelief. “Why have you betrayed me?”

  Tears were streaming down Lisette’s face. “I’m powerless against them,” she sobbed. “It’s like there’s someone inside my body, someone evil. And the voice—the voice inside my head. I can’t get rid of it. It tells me what to do. I have no choice but to obey it, mistress, I have no choice.”

  The man shoved Lisette forward, roughly. Light glinted off the blade of a knife that he had pressed close to the girl’s throat. As they moved into the chamber, more of the Scarandar followed in behind them.

  “We are here for the Star,” the man said, speaking again with that strange, disembodied voice. “We have no other interest in any of you. Surrender the two parts that you have, and it’s over. Otherwise—” He traced a gentle line along Lisette’s throat with point of his blade. “Otherwise we start here.”

  “Give them the Star and they’ll let us live,” Lisette said, desperately. “I’m sorry mistress, with all my heart, I’m sorry.”

  Elena struggled with the emotions warring inside her, anger battling with pity. “I can’t let him kill her in cold blood,” she said finally to Stefan. “Whatever she’s done, I can’t let that happen.”

  “They’re going to kill us all anyway,” Stefan said, quietly. “They just want us to surrender the Star before the butchery begins.”

  “The Star will be of no use to you,” Elena told the man wielding the knife. “Killing Lisette or the rest of us will bring you no closer to its power.”

  “I’m waiting,” the man said, the voice cold and emotionless. “Surrender the Star and we’ll leave you alone.”

  “Mistress, I beseech you,” Lisette begged. “The Star is all they want.”