[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  In the confusion of the next few moments as he lay bleeding upon the wet earth, only Stefan’s experience told him what must be happening. His attacker had ridden past him; the sound of the hooves upon the ground receded, stopped, then grew louder once again. He’s turned around, a voice in Stefan’s head told him. And now he’s coming back to kill you.

  Stefan staggered to his feet and drew his sword, all too aware of how poor his chances were against a heavily armoured foe on horseback. As his vision cleared he saw the monstrous figure bearing down upon him. The face beneath the helm was masked behind a visor. The creature closing upon him roared, an animal scream which dripped with hate and rage.

  In that same instant there came a second, answering cry. Stefan looked round to see Tomas Murer cutting across the attacker’s path at speed, sword held aloft in his outstretched hand. In that moment all Stefan could think of was Tomas practising his swordplay with Alexei Zucharov. How, against the odds, he had somehow managed to get the better of the bigger, stronger man.

  The two riders collided, flesh upon bone and steel upon steel in a single, sickening crash. For a second it looked almost as though Tomas and the Chaos knight were embracing, so close and so still did they seem to hold together upon the field. Then the Chaos warrior pulled his sword clear, and the blade dripped red with blood freshly drawn. With his other arm he swiped Murer away, and Tomas tumbled from his horse like a discarded rag doll.

  Even before his comrade struck the ground, Stefan was running. He must have shouted for Bruno to surrender his horse to him, because suddenly the saddle was empty and Stefan was vaulting up. All the time he felt the eyes of the Chaos warrior upon him, fired with a hungry hatred that, Stefan sensed, burned for him alone. Fear not, he vowed, for you will have your fill of me now.

  He turned Bruno’s horse about and charged full on against the creature that had struck Tomas down. The two horses closed upon one another. At the moment of intersection Stefan swung his sword, and held his shield braced to receive the answering blow. Metal met metal and a shuddering jolt ran the length of Stefan’s body. He had just enough time to see the visored helm of his adversary as the warrior thundered past, already wheeling around to launch another attack.

  Stefan took rapid stock of his situation. He still had his sword, but the blade had come off the worst from the last exchange, and the cutting steel was now pitted and bent out of true. His shield had probably saved him from greater harm, but it too had taken damage, and had been ripped open from its centre almost to the far edge. So far he had suffered no wounds, but he knew already that this was no ordinary adversary. The warrior bearing the serpent crest was stronger than any mortal man he had encountered, bigger and heavier by far than Stefan.

  Stefan pulled his horse about. His opponent had already begun his charge, heading directly at Stefan at a furious pace. The Chaos knight had now swapped his sword for a heavy, steel spiked mace which he swung from his left hand as though it were a toy. But Stefan knew it was no toy. If it made contact it would smash his armour like the shell of an egg. Stefan raised the pace of his horse until it matched that of his opponent. Once again, the two riders closed upon one another with frightening speed. Stefan jinked to the left, taking up a position identical to the first pass. He saw the Chaos knight swap the mace to his right hand, ready to strike.

  Stefan watched the gap between them narrow. Sweat drenched his body and his muscles tightened to steel knots. One second too soon, or too late, and he would be dead. And he would get only one chance at this. At the moment before the riders met, Stefan tugged back furiously on the reins, steering to the right, across the path of the oncoming horse. The Chaos knight lashed out with the mace but could not connect. As Stefan passed behind him he stabbed home with his sword. The blade missed his enemy’s body but lodged itself amongst the fastenings of his breastplate, dragging him back.

  The sword was almost pulled clean from Stefan’s grip, but he held on, two-handed, for grim life itself. His opponent’s horse reared up, wild-eyed; foam flecking the corners of the creature’s mouth. The Chaos knight hesitated, torn between catching hold of the reins and trying to strike at Stefan with the mace. The indecision cost him dearly. Before the Chaos warrior could regain control, Stefan channeled all his remaining energy in one last desperate burst. He hauled back upon the still entangled sword, and dragged the knight from his horse.

  Stefan sprang from the saddle. His opponent was already rising from the ground, but Stefan’s speed gave him the upper hand now. He launched a well-aimed kick at the Chaos knight’s head, sending the warrior sprawling back into the mud. Before his adversary could rise again, Stefan had the tip of his sword at his throat. He pushed it home firmly, pinning his opponent upon the ground.

  Stefan’s lungs pumped in spasms as he fought to find his breath. He knew that his strength was all but spent. He must finish this, finish it now. But first, first he had to know. He lifted his sword away from the knight’s throat and on to the helm, and prised the visor open. A scarred, milk-white Norscan face stared back at him through a single, unblinking eye. He seemed to register Stefan, and his expression filled with loathing.

  Stefan did not recognise his enemy, but something akin to memory stirred within him. An instinctive memory, a memory that smouldered deep, and painful. A memory that would not let him rest. The Chaos warrior seemed to see the unease written on Stefan’s face, for at that moment his expression changed and he smiled, a smile borne of a lifetime of cruel plunder. His lips moved around a single word: “Odensk.”

  Stefan felt something well up inside of himself, something burning, and sorrowful. An ache that he had never been able to lose now suffused his whole being. As he lifted his sword over his opponent, a picture of his dead father came into his mind. He visualised him as he never had before, at rest in a distant place. Stefan looked down again, into the single eye of an enemy who would know no second resurrection.

  Now it was he who smiled.

  He expelled the breath from his lungs, releasing at last a howl born of old, unending anguish. He drove his sword down, deep into the throat of the Norscan. As the light fled from the single, baleful eye Stefan cast his own gaze aloft.

  “It is ended, father,” he said. “May you rest in eternal peace.”

  With the warlord dead, Stefan’s first thought was for Tomas Murer. But, by the time Stefan had pushed his way through the crowd gathered around his fallen comrade, it was already too late. Tomas would never now taste the fruits of victory that his valour had helped win, nor would he ever again look upon another dawn. He had died where he had fallen, face down upon the bloody soil of Erengrad.

  Stefan cradled his comrade’s head in his hands, but Tomas’ eyes were already as cold and as dead as his father’s, all those years past in the grey dawn light of Odensk.

  “The blade cut through his heart,” he heard Bruno’s voice saying. “There was nothing we could do for him.”

  Stefan drew down the lids of Tomas’ eyes and lay his head back upon the ground. “They have taken our brother from us,” he said, “but they cannot take our memories of him. Tomas will live forever in our hearts. He shall never grow old.”

  He felt a touch, light upon his shoulder. Stefan looked up and saw Elena standing over him, Franz Schiller and two of Castelguerre’s lieutenants at her side.

  A great weight seemed to lay upon her shoulders, but with it a quiet dignity he had not seen before. “Apparently,” she said, “the situation in the city has deteriorated.”

  “The battle here has swung in our favour,” Schiller explained, “but we’ve had word that the city itself could fall to the rebels at any time. If Elena Yevschenko is ever to return to Erengrad to claim her birthright, then it must be now.”

  Stefan got to his feet, slowly, his gaze upon Elena. Tears were welling in her eyes. “This is the end for us, too, isn’t it?” she said.

  Stefan took her hand. “When I lead you through the gates of the city it must be as Petr Kuragin’s bri
de,” he replied.

  Elena forced a laugh that choked into something like a sob. “We don’t even know if Petr Kuragin is still alive,” she pointed out.

  “No,” Stefan agreed. “But we must complete our journey with faith in our hearts that he is. For all of our hopes are rested in him,” he said. “And, in you.”

  Elena let go Stefan’s hand. She seemed about to pull away from him. Then she turned, and looked directly into his eyes. They moved together into a lingering embrace. Stefan clasped her to him, drinking in her warmth and her scent, trying to sift them away them like treasure inside of himself. “Maybe we could—” he began, but Elena cut him off.

  “Don’t say it,” she implored. “Don’t say anything. Just be with me now. Stay by my side until the journey is ended.”

  Stefan held her for just a few seconds more, then pulled away. Franz Schiller and his men stood facing them, waiting.

  “We’re ready,” Stefan told them. “We can leave at once.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Poison in the Stream

  Even before Stefan Kumansky had plunged the killing blade into the body of the emissary, Kyros had sensed the tide of war begin to turn against his servants. The image of the fire-powder flash had seared itself upon his soul at the moment the merciless, blistering wave of flame swept across his forces, decimating his army at one fatal stroke. Kyros sensed their deaths as he might sense sand slipping from between his fingers. Individually, like single grains, their loss did not matter. But as hundreds ran into thousands, as the fire and the battle raged, the Chaos Lord knew that victory upon the field would not now be his.

  He had granted Varik a final chance, a final redemption. Again his emissary had failed him. There would be no further failure. There would be no further redemption. Kyros dwelled upon his acolyte’s final agonies with a cold impassivity, a silent observer upon Varik’s passage from life into death. Varik was of no further account to him now; he was just another grain of fallen sand.

  Of more account was the fate of Erengrad. Whatever happened now inside the city, the attempt to storm it from without would be lost. No sleight of calculation could disguise that. Part of him had expected as much; did not his own master pour scorn upon the crude orchestrations of the children of Khorne? Brute strength alone could always be undone by guile.

  Kyros was servant to a subtler, more powerful god. Tzeentch, the Lord of Change, dark master of transfiguration. Long after the rage of war had been spent, the engines of Tzeentch would still be turning, invisible to the mortal eye. Defeat was apparent, but it was only a mask. Behind that mask, Kyros knew, one such magnificent transformation bided its time, waiting to be revealed.

  Alexei Zucharov rode through the desolate fields of battle, picking a path through the bloody debris of slaughter. His own sword had paid fulsome tribute to the toll. He had long since lost count of how many of the enemy—men, mutants, orcs and even beastmen—had fallen beneath his blade that day. And yet, somehow, no matter how many the final tally, it was not yet enough. He had plundered freely from those he had vanquished, but the spoils had been meagre. A ring, a locket cast in bronze, a battered ceremonial dagger. None of them were worthy of him.

  Something inside still smouldered; restless, yearning. A hunger which would not be sated, no matter how many foes he dispatched. Alexei knew that he could not rest until it had been satisfied. And he knew, too, that, somewhere upon the field of battle, resolution awaited.

  He had been far away from the wagons when the detonation lit up the sky. He had felt the fury of the fires upon his skin and the earth shuddering beneath him, and had guessed the course that the battle would now run. He rode amongst the vanquished now. The knowledge fortified him even as it sapped the strength of his enemies. He felt all-powerful, immune from harm.

  Smoke from the explosions drifted down across the battlefield like an autumn fog, tainted and impure with the wicked stench of death.

  Zucharov knew how quickly the course of a battle could alter. It was no surprise to him that the meshing, desperate crowds of barely an hour before had now all but disappeared. The battlefield around him had become almost empty, eerily quiet in the false twilight.

  Zucharov reined in his horse and turned around, performing a full circle to survey the remnants of the battle. Nothing stirred within his field of vision. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, a rider emerged through the haze, riding slow out of the enemy line like a ship cut adrift upon an ocean. Zucharov drew his sword and wiped the crusted blood from the blade until it gleamed anew. The steel was still sharp and fresh; like him it did not seem to tire. He was not done yet, not done by half.

  The other rider sat statuesque and slightly lopsided upon a towering black stallion. By now he must have seen Alexei, yet he kept riding directly towards him at the same, slow pace. Whoever he was, he seemed either oblivious or indifferent to Zucharov’s presence. As the servant of Chaos drew closer, Alexei saw his face for the first time. A face disfigured by images and runes that twisted and writhed with each animation of the creature’s features. With a jolt, Alexei realised that every inch of the Chaos warrior’s face was covered with what seemed like moving tattoos.

  Zucharov was seized with a sudden unshakeable certainty. This was the moment of resolution he had been searching for. He touched the hilt of his sword to his lips.

  “Do not forsake me now,” he whispered. He sensed destiny unfolding. He would not let it slip from his grasp.

  The battle that raged beyond the walls of Erengrad had turned a decisive corner. The Chaos horde still remained in number, but increasingly, they looked a spent force, leaderless and without direction.

  As the tide had swung, so the black alliance had crumbled as old, warring hatreds resurfaced. Skaven turned against beastman; the followers of Khorne against those of Slaanesh. The greatest number, soldiers of Tzeentch in the service of Kyros, turned against all their former allies without discrimination, bitter in their quest to find blame for their failure. Some still marched towards Erengrad, hopeful yet of conquest or even sanctuary. But most now knew the city for what it would surely prove to be: their tomb. They fled in ever growing numbers, away from the city, back towards the north, the avenging legions of Castelguerre’s army at their heels.

  Stefan and his comrades were riding east, a fast-moving squadron with Elena Yevschenko at its heart, bound for Erengrad, their final destination. As they got closer, the great city began to reveal its scars. Fires burned unchecked upon many of the ramparts. From inside the walls, ominous plumes of dark smoke snaked upwards into the now cloudless sky.

  Stefan had been wondering how they should breach the city walls; whether forces loyal to Kuragin and Kislev would have managed to hold the gates, or, conversely, whether they would have to fight their way in. To his astonishment, he realised that the threshold could be crossed unopposed. The great gates lay open, unguarded, a gaping fissure in the mouth of the city. And, through that fissure, men, women and children now streamed, refugees fleeing Erengrad for whatever fate might await them beyond.

  The trickle of refugees became a flood as they neared the walls. Soon it was impossible to ride any faster than walking pace, so dense was the human tide flowing against them.

  Elena gazed down upon her people with horror and alarm. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Why are you abandoning your homes?” Few even looked up at her. Most of those who did met her with a dismissive shake of the head. “We have no homes,” one woman told her. “We’ll take our chances out here.”

  Stefan was trying to decide what this meant for the state of the city within. When his questions, too, met with no response, he sprang from his horse and plucked a man at random from the exodus, blocking his path.

  “Who is defending the city?” he asked. “What has happened to the militia?”

  The man looked up at Stefan with weary, bloodshot eyes. His expression spoke indifference and disdain, but an instinctive deference still brought him to reply. “No one
is defending the city,” he told Stefan. “There’s nothing left to defend. And we haven’t seen the guard since the sun last set.”

  “Cowering in their holes,” another added, bitterly. “Cowering or running, tails between their legs, soon as they got the chance.”

  “What of Petr Illyich Kuragin,” Elena demanded. “Do you know of him? Has he been seen?”

  “Know of him,” the first man replied. “But don’t know where he is now. The Kuragin mansion was razed to the ground, along with all the other fancy palaces?” The man shrugged. “Dead or dying, I expect. The count’s calling the tune now.”

  “The count?”

  The man began to struggle free of Stefan’s grasp. “Rosporov,” he said, and spat upon the ground. “You may judge his kindness by what you see around you.” Finally, he shrugged Stefan off. Within moments the man had disappeared, lost and anonymous amongst the flow of human misery seeping away from the city. Stefan turned to Elena.

  “Rosporov. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve heard the name,” Elena replied. “From what I can recall, I don’t suppose they’ll be dedicating a Temple of Shallya to him.”

  “I doubt it too. Time may be short if we are to find Petr Kuragin alive.” He turned to the others. “I’ve vowed to Elena that I will be at her side until this is done, for better or for worse,” he said. “None of you is under that obligation. There is still work to be done out here; the battle is not yet won. No less credit would fall to any of you if you chose to stay outside the walls.”

  Bruno smiled. “I’ve never seen Erengrad,” he said. “It would be a shame to come this far and not have that pleasure.”

  “That goes for me, too,” Franz affirmed. “Count us both in.”

  “I’m heartily glad to,” Stefan said. “Gods grant only that we are not too late.”