02 - Taint of Evil (22 page)

Alexei Zucharov saw the expression upon her face change. He nodded, in
confirmation, and spoke the words that Kyros had placed upon his lips.

“Tal Dur,” he whispered to her. “Tal Dur.”

The guards drew their swords as soon as Bea emerged from the room and stood
with blades pointed toward her, barring the way. “You’re supposed to stay in
there,” one told her. “Get back inside.”

“But his fever is getting worse,” Bea protested. “I need your help, or else
he may die.”

A sound of moaning came from the room behind Bea, followed by a louder cry of
pain. The two guards exchanged nervous glances and took a few tentative steps
forward.

“Come quickly, please,” she implored. “There may not be much time.”

The first guard hesitated then followed Bea into the chamber, with the second
some distance behind.

“What’s going on?” the first man demanded. He looked around the chamber,
taking in the scene. Bea stood in front of them, a look of fearful dread on her
face. Bruno was seated anxiously by the side of the single cot, and Stefan lay
upon the bed, the sheet drawn up to his chin, his body twisted and hunched.

“His fever has returned,” Bea told them. “He’s burning up. We must get help.”

The first guard took a step toward the bed. Gingerly, he peeled back the
sheet a few inches then touched his hand against Stefan’s forehead.

“Doesn’t seem to be anything wrong to me,” he commented. “Anyway,” he looked
round at Bea. “You’re the healer,” he said, a note of suspicion creeping into his
voice. “Can’t you help him?”

Before Bea had time to answer, Stefan had his arm around the guard’s throat,
wresting him down towards the ground. Before the second man could react Bruno
was onto him, the two of them battling for control of the weapon. Stefan was
struggling to keep his arm locked around the first guard’s head. The soldier was
strong, and heavily built. On a good day Stefan might be a comfortable match for
him, but this, he was quickly discovering, was not a good day.

Stefan pulled himself back, and managed to aim a series of punches to the
man’s midriff, hoping to wind his adversary rather than do him any serious harm.
But the Red Guard had recovered his poise, and was fighting back powerfully.
There was a splintering of wood as a table broke beneath them and the two men
fell to the floor. The guard shrugged off Stefan’s hold and swung a blow at him,
and then another. Stefan was first to his feet, but now it was he who was having
to defend himself. He glimpsed a flash of steel, and realised that the guard had
drawn a knife. The soldier lunged, and narrowly missed, the blade slicing
instead through Stefan’s tunic. All Stefan’s concentration was now on getting
hold of the knife. He was convinced the guard was going to kill him if he could.

As his opponent drove at him with the blade for a second time, Stefan caught
hold of his hand, and held on for dear life, ploughing all the energy he could
muster in turning the sharp steel away from his body. For a moment the two men
tottered across the room in tandem, their faces only inches apart. The other
man’s face was an angry, purple mask as he matched his strength against
Stefan’s. The pair staggered forward, then fell back, and Stefan felt something
warm streaming down his hand. The look in the other man’s eyes changed from rage
to disbelief. Stefan lost his grip upon the other’s wrist, and the two broke
apart. The guard staggered back. The red of his tunic was stained with the
darker hue of fresh blood. He dropped the knife, and clamped his hand to his
stomach, trying to stem the flow from the wound.

On the far side of the room, Bruno finally wrested the sword from the second
guard. The guard looked to his fallen comrade, and the bloodied figure of Stefan
standing over him. He made a final, futile attempt to clutch at the sword, then
turned towards the door. Bruno aimed the sword carefully, and struck the guard
behind his head with the flat of the blade. The second man staggered forward a
few steps further, then collapsed.

The eerie silence hanging in the room was broken by Bea.

“Stefan,” she said. “I think he’s dead.” Her voice sounded numb, disbelieving
of what she had just witnessed.

Stefan dropped down upon one knee, next to the fallen man. “I didn’t mean to
kill him,” he said, fighting to regain his breath. “As the gods may judge me, I
was trying to take the knife from him.”

“The other’s still breathing,” Bruno announced. “But he’ll be out for a
while.” He went to Bea, and drew her into his arms to comfort her. Stefan read
the look written on his friend’s face, the message clear:
You’d better be
right about this.

“We need to get moving,” he said to Bruno. “We don’t have much time now.”

Bruno lifted Bea’s face towards his own. Her cheeks were lined with tears.

“It’s not going to be safe here,” Bruno told her. “Come with us.”

Bea shook her head in confusion. “I can’t,” she said, her voice choked with
sobs. “I have to stay,” she said at last, more firmly now. She looked at the
second guard, lying crumpled in a heap by the doorway.

“I’m a healer. I have to stay, and do what I can for him.” She put her arms
about Bruno. “It’s all right,” she said. “They won’t hurt me. I know that.”

Stefan looked to Bruno. “There’s no guarantee that she’ll be any safer with
us,” he said. “It might truly be best if she stayed.”

Bruno stood facing the two of them, battling his emotions. “Shallya watch
over you,” he said at last to Bea. “We’ll come back for you. As the gods are my
witness, I promise we will.”

Stefan took Bea’s hand. “I’m sorry this is happening,” he said. “There isn’t
time to explain now. But you must believe me. There’s something very wrong about
Sigmarsgeist.”

Bea regarded him without judgement, and forced a smile. “Go now, hurry,” she
urged. “And the gods grant you luck.”

They gathered up the weapons from the fallen guards. “Where to?” Bruno
demanded, breathlessly.

“The cells, I think,” Stefan replied. “I want to see what else they’re keeping
down there. We must make all speed.”

But whatever luck the two comrades had been granted had already expired.
Stefan and Bruno had barely descended a single flight of steps from their
quarters when they were met by Hans Baecker, a quartet of armed men at his heel.

Baecker drew out his sword smartly and greeted Stefan with a thin smile.

“Stefan,” he said. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to take my advice about
resting. I’m afraid I must insist that we return to your chambers.”

Stefan looked down at the men below, one hand upon the sword now buckled at
his waist, weighing the odds. Baecker plucked the question from his mind, and
answered it unequivocally.

“You’re excellent swordsmen, both of you,” he said. “You might stand a chance
of overpowering us.” He cast a glance over his shoulder. “But you should know
that Rilke is waiting in the courtyard below with a dozen or more men. I’m sure he’d like the
chance to put your resilience to the test.”

Baecker took another step up towards Stefan and Bruno. He smiled again, but
there was no warmth in his eyes now. He extended his hand.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said. “The swords, please.”

They were taken to the chamber of the High Council, back to the place where
they had first met with the Guides. It was where their encounter with
Sigmarsgeist had begun, and where, Stefan now feared, it might now end. This
time there were to be no speeches of welcome. This time the soldiers lined
around the walls had a very different role.

Most of the places around the great table were empty. Whatever judgement
would be reached here today would be reached without the wisdom of the council.
Stefan wasn’t expecting much in the way of justice.

Konstantin von Augen sat at the head of the table, staring impassively at
Stefan and Bruno. To his left, Hans Baecker, the same thin smile still playing
about his lips. On his right, Rilke, his stone face revealing no hint of
emotion. Of Anaise, there was as yet no sign.

When Konstantin finally spoke, his voice was filled with an angry sadness.

“You have betrayed us, Stefan,” he said. “You have betrayed our trust, and
murdered one of our brothers. Every soul of Sigmarsgeist is treasured, you must
know that. We opened our gates and our hearts to you, and you have repaid us with treachery.”

Stefan stood in silence for a few moments. Konstantin sounded truly wounded,
a righteous man who had been wronged. For a moment Stefan had found his own
anger punctured, tempered by something very like guilt. Could it be that he had
made a mistake? Perhaps the blow that he had suffered had impaired his thinking.
Perhaps, truly, he had got things badly wrong. If Konstantin von Augen was only
acting a role, then he was playing his part exceptionally well.

“The girl, Bea, had no part in this,” Bruno said firmly. “However you choose
to judge us, she is free of any guilt.”

Konstantin’s eyes narrowed. “That is a view shared by my sister,” he replied,
coldly. “But we shall find the truth of that in due course.”

“Where were you going, Stefan,” Baecker interjected, “when we found you upon
the stair?”

Stefan looked to Bruno. There seemed little point in subterfuge now. They
would know the truth of this one way or another, and then learn the
consequences.

“To the cells,” he said, simply.

Rilke raised an eyebrow, and flashed a brief, ironic smile. “I dare venture
that your wish will be accommodated,” he said, dryly.

Konstantin leaned forward, perplexed by Stefan’s answer. “We held nothing
back from you,” he said. “Why were you intent on going back? Why did you kill a
man for so little gain?”

“I wanted to see who else had found their ways to the dungeons of
Sigmarsgeist,” Stefan said. He took a deep breath. “I’d got things wrong,” he
said, looking directly at Baecker. “The night we met you we had come from a
village. Its name was Grunwald, though no one will ever have cause to speak it
now. There must have been forty or more souls living there. By the time we
arrived they were all dead—butchered and burned.”

“We took it to be the mutants,” Bruno interjected.

“We assumed they had destroyed Grunwald,” Stefan continued. “Our assumption
was wrong.”

“Why are we wasting our time with this nonsense?” Baecker blurted out,
angrily.

“Indeed,” Konstantin concurred. “It is you, Stefan Kumansky, who stands
before me accused. Do you think that you can deflect that accusation by in turn
accusing us?”

“I only ask to be heard,” Stefan replied, determinedly. “I ask that you hear
me out.”

“You will be heard,” Konstantin granted him, coldly. “And then you will be
judged.”

To his right, Rilke sat strangely silent, his eyes fixed all the time upon
Stefan. Stefan turned his gaze from Konstantin back towards Hans Baecker.

“What had those people done to anger you?” Stefan asked him. “Was the toll
they had paid for your so-called ‘protection’ not enough? Or had you just
stripped out all you could? Was that why you attacked Mielstadt? Was that why
the people of Grunwald had to die?”

Baecker stood up and flung his cup to the floor, the clay smashing on the
hard ground. “We have heard enough of this insolence!” he roared. “Will you let
this man—this
murderer
—speak his slander against us?” he demanded of
Konstantin.

Konstantin reflected, his face an inscrutable mask.

“I will not countenance lies,” he said, quietly. “But I will hear you answer
his question.”

“The mutants had been to Grunwald,” Baecker said. “Someone there had chosen to
give them succour—food, shelter—who cares? It’s all the same.” He fixed
Stefan with a disdainful stare. “They gave succour to evil, and suffered the
consequences.”

“There were no mutants in Mielstadt,” Stefan retorted, furiously “But that
didn’t save the people there.” He turned his gaze back upon the Guide. “You know
what your people have done!” he shouted at Konstantin. “Or is it simply that you
choose to be blind to their deeds?”

lust for a moment, Stefan thought he saw a glimmer of doubt in the Guide’s
eyes. Then Konstantin seemed to banish the thought, waving it away with a
gesture of impatience.

“Baecker is a loyal servant of Sigmarsgeist,” he proclaimed. “I am satisfied
that he speaks the truth.” He spread his hands, drawing the matter to the close,
and sighed, deeply.

“I thought Sigmar had delivered us a great gift in you, Stefan Kumansky,” he
said. “And in you, too, Bruno. Perhaps I allowed myself to see what I wished to
see, rather than the truth that is now laid before me.” He closed his eyes, and
sat for a few moments in contemplation.

“Is there anything more?” he asked Baecker. “Anything at all you have not
told me?”

“My lord, every deed I have ever done has been for the glory of
Sigmarsgeist,” Baecker replied. “You know the power that evil has. You know that
it can take the most innocent of forms.”

Konstantin lowered his head, and deliberated. When he raised his gaze once
more, any doubt or pity had been swept aside.

“You have betrayed our trust, and betrayed the cause of Sigmarsgeist,” he said
to Stefan and Bruno. “The clear penalty for such deeds is death.” He looked to
his two lieutenants. “Unless you find argument to the contrary?”

Baecker shook his head. The faint, almost cruel smile had returned, and he
was looking directly at Stefan. Stefan could scarcely believe this was the same
man he had been glad to call comrade. To the right of the Guide, Rilke at last
broke his silence.

“Death would be more than they deserve,” he said. “It is of little
consequence to me, but I would put them to work in the mines, or upon the walls.
Let them give their blood to atone for their crimes. After all,” he said to
Konstantin, “once they have given their all, they can still be put to death.”