[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  Besides, Varik reasoned, if Rosporov had succeeded in taking the city from within, might he not be tempted to claim the prize for his own? How could he be sure that the crippled nobleman would hold to his side of the bargain, and not attempt to bar the gates of Erengrad when the conquering force arrived?

  He could not be sure. And so he had planned for this contingency also.

  Behind the massing ranks of mounted knights and foot-soldiers, a line of covered wagons carried the provisions of war: food, weapons, and armour. Three of the wagons were loaded with barrels packed with the most precious commodity of all, silver fire-dust from the merchant traders of Cathay. Enough to blow the gates of Erengrad apart, and reduce the surrounding walls to rubble. Rosporov might betray him, but the purging fire would surely not. And if the count was as good as his word, well then, Varik still saw no harm in stamping his mark upon the city.

  But, before that, there was another death that he—they—would take pleasure in above all others. Somewhere amongst the stinking horde that would lay their puny might against his, Kumansky waited for him. Images from a near and distant past flickered in his mind: the wretched peasant-boy in Odensk, the knife hidden in his hand, and the arrogant swordsman in the tombs of Middenheim, the mercenary who had taken him to the very Gates of Morr.

  Stefan Kumansky. Nargrun might not recognise him now, but Varik surely would. Two burning insults would be avenged as one. And, before he died, Kumansky would know who it was he had dared to defy.

  Petr Kuragin waited until there was nothing more he could do for Lensky. Then he covered the face of the dead man with the bloodstained blanket and went from the cellar out towards the street above. He emerged into a city that he barely knew. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of burning: wood, molten tar and the sickening sweet smell of charred flesh. People picked their way through the smoke-filled streets, their cries of anguish and rage filling the air. It was no longer a matter of friend versus foe; there were no sides now. The wretched survivors of the rioting fell upon each other indiscriminately, lunging at each other with clubs fashioned from twisted iron bars, fragments of wood, or anything else that came to hand. Many of those left without opponents turned upon themselves, tearing at their hair and clothes with their bare hands. One such man, his eyes blown wide with madness, saw Kuragin and rushed at him, wielding a lethal axe. Kuragin sidestepped the madman’s blow, then cut him down with a single stroke of his sword.

  He knelt at the fallen man’s side. He had been old; old enough almost to have been Petr’s own father. Kuragin laid a hand upon the body and said a silent prayer. To think that Rosporov, casting the seeds of insanity throughout the city, could have brought Erengrad to this. To think that he, Petr Kuragin, could have been brought to this. To be able to strike down his own kind, almost without thought or feeling. Petr Kuragin tried to find his sense of shock and shame, but his emotions, like his bruised and battered body, were all but exhausted.

  He was shaken from his gloomy reverie by the sounds of marching feet: a company of men approaching from the far end of the street. Kuragin stood and peered, bleary-eyed, into the smoke-hazed gloom. They numbered twenty or more, all wearing identical black sashes tied across their bodies. At their head a man in military garb, a plumed and crested silver helm set upon his head. For a moment, Kuragin wondered whether the militia had not indeed broken through from the south of the city. For a moment, the hope that had stubbornly refused to die burned in his chest once more. Then, as the troops got closer and the smoke from the fires briefly thinned, he recognised the leader. It was Count Vladimir Rosporov.

  Kuragin looked into the face of the man who had driven the city over the brink of madness. He was heavily outnumbered by Rosporov’s men. In a few moments he was going to die, but, by the wrathful gods, he would extract a price first. Somewhere from deep inside himself, Petr Illyich found a last reserve of strength to draw upon. A last, deep-buried well of adrenalin to fuel his dying deeds. He stepped into the middle of the street and stood, feet set square and apart so that his presence could not be missed. Then, sword raised aloft, he hailed his nemesis.

  “So, the fake citizen would now be a fake warlord, would he?” he bellowed. “Come on then, Rosporov! Test your mettle against this steel!”

  Rosporov clearly hadn’t seen Kuragin before he stepped from the shadowed side of the street. Kuragin had the pleasure of seeing his opponent’s face momentarily register fear and surprise, as the Lord of Erengrad reared up before him, sword in hand. But within a moment Rosporov had composed himself; the mask of noble hauteur settling upon his features once more. He drew out his own sword but fell back, allowing the men around him to take the lead.

  “You see the true enemy of Erengrad before you,” the count shouted at them. “He has the blood of the people on his hands. Bring him to my justice!”

  The armed men surged forward. Kuragin scanned their faces. One or two he thought he recognised, but these were not simple townsfolk whose ideas had been twisted by Rosporov’s serpent tongue. Their faces, sepulchral and hungry for yet more slaughter, belonged to creatures long since lost to Chaos. There would be no reasoning with them.

  Petr Kuragin charged at Rosporov and his men. His blood was fired with the righteous fury of every good soul that had perished since that long night had begun. He screamed out his rage, and the rage of Martin Lensky and countless others like him. He fell upon the black guard, reaping a furious harvest with his sword; soon the street was running with blood.

  But they were too many. Gradually their swords found their mark as the blows rained down upon the Kislevite noble. Kuragin urged himself to fight on, but his strength was fading. A blade sliced across his face, narrowly missing his eye. Another blow knocked the sword from his hands. Suddenly he was on his knees, struggling to stay upright, the cobblestones beneath him now slick with blood. Another blow, then another and another. Kuragin heard a voice cry out in pain and desperation: his voice. The smoke and figures above his head seemed to darken and dissolve, then he toppled forward, face down in the street.

  He was unconscious for only a few moments. A flask or bucket of water thrown across his face brought him back to the terrible reality. The Scarandar clustered around him, looking down upon his body, slavering like animals. Their breath reeked with the stench of the charnel-house. Then the crowd parted and Rosporov appeared amongst them. His face was blank, inscrutable, seemingly untouched by the horror that had consumed the city. He reached down and ripped open Kuragin’s tunic at the collar. Petr tried to lift an arm to fight him away, but found that his arms no longer moved. Rosporov fastened his fingers upon the chain around Kuragin’s neck, and tugged. He pulled the silver icon free and held it up to the light, inspecting it with quiet satisfaction.

  “You should have listened to me when I was prepared to be reasonable,” he said at last. “Your futile gesturing has only delayed the inevitable.”

  “Go rot in the Pit of Morr,” Kuragin spat at him.

  Rosporov laughed. “I’m sure I will,” he said. “But not just yet. You, I think, will be first to make that journey.”

  Kuragin struggled to lift himself up, to find some way yet of striking back at his adversary, but he was pinned down by at least half a dozen swords, and his body was beaten and broken. He coughed, a painful, wracking cough, and blood filled his mouth.

  “Kill me if that’s your intent,” he said. “I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

  Rosporov stepped closer to Petr, close enough for him to smell the lavender-scented polish upon the leather of his boots. Rosporov lifted one foot and brought it down upon the side of Kuragin’s face, crushing it against the ground as the black-sashed soldiers of the Scarandar looked on.

  “Oh, that’s my intent all right,” Rosporov affirmed. “But I think such an event deserves a better audience. Don’t you?”

  It was not until they had saddled up and were riding from camp that Stefan finally caught up again with Elena. She was riding alone for now, no si
gn of Schiller. Both she and Stefan were buckled into their armour and carrying shields bearing the crest of the double-headed eagle. Riding side by side into the gathering storm they could have been comrades-in-arms or lovers. Stefan was no longer sure which was true.

  “This is the first time we’ve spoken since last night,” he began. Elena smiled and laughed, but her laugh sounded brittle and anxious. “Let’s hope it’s not the last time as well,” she said. Stefan looked across at her, trying to measure her mood.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. Elena nodded, but her expression was more ambiguous. “I think so,” she said. “You tell me. Am I all right?”

  Stefan took her hand briefly as they rode. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “By the end of the day you’ll be home.”

  Elena laughed again, this time with some bitterness. “Home? Erengrad? I suppose that’s what I shall have to call it.” She pulled back from Stefan’s grasp and wiped her hand across her face. “What about us, Stefan?”

  “I don’t know,” Stefan replied. “You’ve been avoiding me all morning. There hasn’t been a chance to talk.”

  Elena cast her eyes down. “It isn’t you I’ve been avoiding,” she said. “It’s me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, supposed to feel any more. But what happened last night was very real for me, Stefan. You must believe that.”

  “I do believe it.”

  “But this is real too,” Elena said, indicating the sea of riders around them. “Last night was about me and you. But this is about me and Erengrad, and Kislev and—”

  “I know,” Stefan said. “I understand.” Yet in truth, he did not fully understand. He felt as though he had at last stepped beyond a line he had never before allowed himself to cross. In his heart he knew that to be with Elena was one world. A world that part of him yearned to taste again, and perhaps remain a part of forever. But being here, amongst the army riding to save Erengrad, belonged to another world. And he did not know whether those two worlds could ever truly meet. Somewhere up ahead, he reminded himself, the paths must divide.

  “We are in the care of the gods,” he told her, raising his voice against the growing clamour. “If we offer our prayers they will deliver judgments. But I believe in my heart that, whatever their judgment, the gods will look kindly upon Elena Yevschenko.”

  Elena smiled, this time without taint of bitterness or sorrow. “And upon you, Stefan Kumansky,” she said.

  Franz Schiller rode up abreast of them, flanked on each side by Bruno and Tomas. He hailed Stefan and bowed his helmed head in deference to Elena.

  “I suggested to your comrades that we might ride together,” he said. “I hope you’ve no objection.”

  “None at all,” Stefan replied. “Indeed, you honour us.”

  Franz nodded. “The honour’s mine,” he said. He looked to Elena. “Your ladyship,” he said, “I’ve assigned a dozen of my best men to escort you. Once we near the battle—”

  “I know,” Elena interrupted. “Once we near the battle, they’ll try and keep me out of harm’s way.” She smiled at Franz and the others. “I am beginning to understand,” she said. “I’m important.”

  “That you are,” Franz affirmed. “Very important indeed.”

  All five spurred up their horses, picking up the quickening pace of those around them. Stefan cast his gaze about for Zucharov. Although one of the tallest men on the field, there was still no sign of him. “Have you seen Alexei?” he asked of Franz. Schiller nodded in affirmation.

  “He wants to be first to the kill. He insisted upon riding with the spearhead,” he said, and laughed, incredulously. “Almost as if he’s worried he might miss out!”

  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty to go round,” Bruno observed, coolly.

  “That there will,” Schiller agreed. “But he’s a fearsome man, your Zucharov, no?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Stefan said, “I’d rather be with him than against.”

  The massed ranks of horsemen rode north-east, across thin scrubland mottling the earth beneath them a pale, malnourished green. After a while the bushes gave out and they were left upon the open plain, the barren land stretching out flat before them. In the far distance Erengrad was visible now, a jagged line of smoking towers against the horizon. And there, upon that same horizon, a blurred smudge of charcoal grey, indistinct but visibly moving, like a low cloud of insects converging upon the city. With every moment that passed, the mass ahead of them seemed to grow larger, more numerous. Fanfares rang out across the ranks, raising the alarm.

  “It’s them,” Schiller called out. “The Chaos army.”

  This is it, Stefan thought. He drew a deep draught of Kislev air, cold and deceptively pure, down into his lungs, and prepared to ride towards the future.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Black Leaves Falling

  The force led by Gastez Castelguerre met the army of Kyros five hours after dawn, three leagues south of the city of Erengrad. Rain was falling from the skies as the enemies converged, lashing down upon ally and foe alike. The land that was to become the field of battle was quickly awash, a mass of churning, liquid clay.

  Stefan knew that Castelguerre meant to cut across the path of the Chaos hordes, to slice through their ranks and sever the head of the army from the rump of troops following behind. The enemy force trapped between Castelguerre’s men and the city walls would be too weak to threaten Erengrad alone. Castelguerre would then turn his forces first upon the larger body of men and mutants remaining on their south-western flank. Superior in numbers they might be, but split off from their leaders they would be no match for the allied force.

  That much Stefan understood. The plan was sound enough. But as he looked upon the vast expanse of enemy troops now massing ahead of them, he could not help wondering whether it was not they themselves who would be cut off. Now the time had come when they would find out.

  The distance between the two armies was eaten away with each passing second. So far the Chaos force seemed to have taken no account of Castelguerre’s men. In a sudden and decisive moment, all of that changed. As Stefan pressed his horse forward the air around him seemed to fill with the sound of a thousand sighs. The sky above darkened momentarily, then shafts of fire started to fall amongst them, flaming arrows dropping from the heavens with the rain.

  Many of the shafts fell harmlessly upon the ground, or were deflected away by mail or steel plate. But, amongst the deluge, others inevitably found their mark. Despite the rain, fire was spreading quickly from the arrowheads, flames catching hold even upon armour. Stefan watched as dozens around him fell from their horses, struggling to rip the blazing shafts from their flesh. Many more who did not die from the arrows perished upon the ground, crushed into the mud beneath the horses.

  A cry ran along the lines of mounted riders, picked up and passed from one to another.

  “Shields!”

  Stefan lifted his shield high in the air, then brought it tight up against Elena’s and others close by. The leaf patterns now found their purpose, the sculpted metal edges mating as part of a larger pattern, bonding together to form one huge, overarching shield above their heads. The burning rain beat down upon them in torrents, but the steel canopy held firm.

  “Keep moving forward!” Stefan shouted to his comrades. “We’ll be amongst them in moments.” As they passed inside the ring of fire marked out by the range of the arrows, they lowered shields and drew swords ready for combat. Stefan said one last, silent prayer before battle was joined. He prayed for his brother Mikhal, at home in distant Altdorf, and prayed that their reunion would come to pass. He prayed for Elena, that she might complete her quest unharmed. He prayed for his comrades, for Bruno, Alexei and Tomas. And he prayed for Franz Schiller and all men of good heart who rode out on this day. Prayed that they might see out the day, to revel in the glory of another dawn. But he knew that the gods could not spare them all.

  The opposing force was no more than a spear’s throw in front of them.
Stefan stared ahead, expecting in some way to see the taint of Chaos written clear upon the faces and bodies of the enemy. But all he saw were hundreds upon hundreds of fighting men; men mounted upon armour-clad steeds, infantrymen on foot treading the perilous path between the horses, archers desperately trying to find space to launch their deadly weapons skywards. Friend and foe mingled in one confusing melee, a tumbling dance to the music of Morr.

  Soon the air was full of the sound of men screaming and steel crashing upon steel. Stefan stole a moment to look around for his comrades. Bruno and Tomas were still close by, turning their horses in to strike at the enemy ranks. Elena was already drifting far out of sight, flanked by Schiller’s men, moving away from the sea of steel now raging all around. He shouted her name a final time but his voice was drowned in the battle storm. Now he could have only one focus. He must fight to stay alive.

  He looked up to see a knight, a youth with flesh so pale as to be almost translucent. The rider bore down upon Stefan, sword already poised to strike at his head. For a moment they were looking directly at one another. The black, unblinking eyes of the other rider radiated a cold evil, yet there was something else in that fragment of a moment that Stefan saw, a ghost of some other life that this boy might have led before Chaos claimed him.

  The blow fell, fast and heavy. Stefan parried it with his shield, then forced his attacker back, throwing the ghostly warrior off-balance in the saddle. Before the Chaos knight could recover, Stefan had struck again. His sword ripped through the knight’s milk-white flesh below the mail corset. A well of dark ruby blood sprang from the wound. The knight raised his sword arm ponderously a second time, and Stefan hacked it off below the elbow. The knight tumbled from his mount into the tangled mass of fallen men below.