CHAPTER ELEVEN

Alliance and Enmity

 

 

First light was breaking through the windows of Anaise’s chamber as Konstantin entered the room. He bowed low before his sister, then bent down upon one knee at her bedside.

“My heart is gladdened to have you back safe in our midst. I give thanks to Sigmar for your safe return.” He took his sister’s hand and stooped to kiss it.

Anaise lay sprawled upon the bed, still clad in her battle-robes. A faint, sardonic smile crept across her face.

“Do you truly?” she asked. “Your concern touches me, brother.” She pulled back her hand. “Careful,” she chided. “It would not do to soil your lips with the filthy spoils of battle.”

She rolled to one side, turning her back to her brother. “Gods know,” she said. “I could sleep for an eternity.”

Konstantin moved away from the back, back towards the threshold of his sister’s chamber. “If you wish to bathe, then I will have water drawn ready.”

Anaise sighed, and turned over again. The clean white linen of the sheets was already soiled a rusty red from the blood caked upon her garments.

“Does my appearance so disgust you?” she asked. “For it is only an honest reflection of my endeavour. Or would you rather not know about that?” she demanded, peevishly. “No, spare your precious water.”

“I’m sorry that your return finds you in such poor spirits,” Konstantin replied, his tone now similarly curt. “I wanted only to learn what fruits your labours have borne.”

“You see the fruits before you,” Anaise said, indicating her torn and bloodied tunic. “The servants of Chaos were intercepted and destroyed. Their story ended.”

Konstantin cleared his throat, awkwardly. “And what,” he went on, “what of the other matter that we spoke of?”

Anaise raised herself up on the pillows. “Mielstadt? The problem has been dealt with, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said.

“Then,” Konstantin went on, tentatively, “they have come around to the True Path?”

“I told you,” Anaise snapped. “The problem has been dealt with. Do you want me to give you the details?”

“No,” he concluded. “I don’t need to know.”

“No,” Anaise repeated. “Of course you don’t.” She yawned. “And now, dear brother, I must rest. My righteous deeds have exhausted me.” She frowned, vexed that her brother seemed unable to take the hint. “You don’t mind?”

Konstantin nodded, but made no move to leave. “Sister,” he said at last. “There is something you must know. It cannot wait until you are rested.”

Anaise read the expression in her brother’s eyes. She sat bolt upright. “You’d better tell me, then,” she said, measuring her words with care.

Konstantin closed the door behind him. “Whilst you were gone, a prisoner was brought to Sigmarsgeist,” he began. “He has the look of a man, but I sense a darkness within him.”

“How so?” his sister asked. “In what manner?”

“This is a creature the like of which I have never seen in all my lifetime.” Konstantin lifted the sleeve of his robe, exposing his arm. “Upon his flesh, just here, his skin crawls with living images—tiny likenesses: pictures of wars, histories unfolding. It seems as though each person who looks upon the images sees something different.”

Anaise was giving him her full attention now, all trace of weariness vanished. “And what did you see, brother, when you gazed in this dark mirror?”

“I saw Sigmarsgeist, our glorious citadel,” Konstantin replied. “I saw myself. And I saw you, sister, at my side.”

Anaise stood up, and started to pace the room. “This is a sign,” she proclaimed, excitedly. “A sign that all we have planned for will come to pass! A sign that, truly, the time of our destiny is upon us.”

Konstantin clutched at his sister, forcing her to stop and turn towards him. “Anaise,” he said, firmly. “This is surely the creature that Stefan told us of. The mutant that they have been hunting since Erengrad.”

Anaise pulled herself free. “What of it?” she asked. “The great powers that even we cannot comprehend have brought them all here, to Sigmarsgeist. This is our story, brother. Stefan and his friends are only players within it.”

“That may be so,” Konstantin agreed. “But we should still tell—”

“Wait a moment!” Anaise interrupted him. “Who else knows of this?” she demanded.

Konstantin shook his head. “No one, as yet. Aside from Rilke and a handful of his chosen men, this is a secret known only to ourselves. But,” he persisted, his voice taking on a firmer tone, “now that you have returned, we should tell Stefan that his quest is ended. Here, in Sigmarsgeist.”

“There is no hurry for that,” his sister replied. “Stefan Kumansky is wounded. He should be left in peace a while yet, to rest.”

Konstantin appeared shocked. “You did not mention this before,” he said.

Anaise smiled. “You did not ask,” she replied, sweetly. “And you do not need to. There is no need for concern. Kumansky will survive,” she added, matter-of-factly. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.” She began to peel off the blood-stained tunic. “I must see this man, this creature, for myself,” she began, then paused. “Who did you say brought him to Sigmarsgeist?”

“A bounty hunter,” Konstantin said. “A man full of stories, all lies, I fancy. Of course, he wanted money for his goods.”

“And you paid him,” Anaise asked, “and sent him merrily on his way?”

Konstantin’s composure was briefly broken. For an instant he glowered at his sister. “Don’t treat me as a fool, Anaise. The man had spent days, or possibly even weeks in the company of this hideous creature. I could not vouch he had not himself been tainted with the poisons of Chaos.”

“So he has been detained,” Anaise said, approvingly. “For his own good.”

“For his own good,” Konstantin confirmed. “And ours.”

Anaise stepped towards her brother and lifted her face to kiss him lightly upon the cheek. “Forgive your sister and her acid tongue,” she murmured. “As ever, you are the wise one, Konstantin. You guide and lead us all.” She smiled, and pulled away from her brother’s embrace. “And now,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind leaving me. I think I shall bathe after all.”

 

Stefan surfaced from his unconsciousness like a swimmer rising slowly from the depths of a dark lake. He had no clear memory of how he had fallen into the deep pit of sleep, nor how long he had remained there. But, as the light of day reached into his waking eyes, he knew that he had been somewhere, far away, and for a very long time, so long that the intensity of the light was at first unbearable. He screwed his eyes shut again to protect himself from the glare. When finally he was able to open his eyes and focus upon his surroundings, he found Bruno standing over him, his arm around Bea. Both of them looked worried. Stefan assumed he was the cause of their concern. “Where am I?” he managed to say at last. “Mielstadt?”

“Mielstadt?” Bruno exchanged puzzled glances with Bea. “Taal’s breath, Stefan, you must remember. You’re back inside the palace. In Sigmarsgeist. They brought you back here, after you were injured in the battle.”

“How long?” Stefan asked, his tongue thick, his voiced slurred and heavy. “How long have I been lying here?”

“Probably a day or more,” Bruno told him. “And this time, I’m not joking.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Stefan replied. He tried lifting his head, and quickly realised he was not quite yet ready for that. He lay back down, giving himself a few more moments. He felt as though he had been drugged, or had had his head slammed against something solid and hard, or both.

Bea placed a cool hand upon Stefan’s forehead, and held it there a few seconds. “You were running a fever,” she said. “Your body was burning up when they brought you back. I had to find something to give you.”

Stefan let his eyes drift closed again. The light was still barely tolerable. “Is that what’s making me feel like this?”

“How do you feel?” Bea asked.

“Terrible. Like I’ve drunk the Helmsman dry then been sleeping it off for a week.”

“Nothing so convivial, I fear,” Bruno said. “You’ve taken quite a pounding, by all accounts.”

Stefan groaned, and forced himself to sit up. He peered at his companions through half closed eyes. “You said something about ‘brought me back’,” he said to Bea. “What do you mean—back from where?”

“Gods preserve us,” Bea exclaimed. “He’s lost all memory of the last days.”

“You rode out with the hunting party,” Bruno said, insistently. “To find the Chaos marauders. You must remember that.”

Stefan cursed the confusion swilling inside his mind. He sifted through the jumbled memories, trying to make some order from them.

“I do recall the battle,” he said at last. “We were heavily outnumbered, but we destroyed the forces of Chaos all the same. At least—” he said, uncertainly, “I think that’s what happened. Is that where I was injured? Struck down in the battle?”

Before Bruno could answer, the door opened and a third person entered the room. Stefan caught a glimpse of a stark red uniform, and a face that, though familiar, he struggled to name.

“Your injury came later, Stefan,” the newcomer explained. “Whilst we were pursuing the last of the marauders. You were unlucky.”

“But we got them all,” Baecker continued. “Every last one. Our mission was successful, Stefan. Once again, you come to Sigmarsgeist a hero.”

“I can’t say I remember much of the getting here,” Stefan said. He turned his head, experimentally. The slightest movement corresponded with a bolt of pain, but it was becoming steadily more bearable.

“You were struck down from behind, Stefan,” Bruno told him. “One of the Norscans, I think?”

Baecker nodded in confirmation.

“A last desperate act. Luckily he managed only to catch you a glancing blow, or the damage could have been worse. Don’t worry,” he assured Stefan, “our Norscan friend was paid in full for his trouble. I cut the vile brute down myself.”

Stefan looked around the room, his eyes now growing more comfortable with the light.

“In that case,” he said to Baecker. “It seems I owe you a debt. I’m only sorry I have no memory of your bravery.”

Baecker grinned broadly. “The main thing is, you are safely returned, and your wounds will mend.” He glanced at Bea. “He is mending, your patient, isn’t he?”

“The blow he suffered did more harm than I would have expected,” Bea said. “But, gods be thanked, he is through the worst of it now.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Baecker replied. “I’ll leave the three of you in peace. But you must rest. Stay here.” He saluted Stefan smartly. “Someone will come for you when it is time.”

Stefan waited a few moments after Baecker had left the room. “Is he gone?” he asked at last.

Bruno checked the passage. “I think so,” he said, and frowned at Stefan, slightly perplexed. Bea came and seated herself next to Stefan, and touched her fingers against his forehead again. “Have you truly no memory of what happened once the battle begun?”

“Not a lot,” Stefan confirmed. “The things I can remember seem broken up—as though they don’t fit together properly. Everything seems mixed up with the dream.”

“The dream?” Bea asked.

“The dream about your village, when you were child?” Bruno interjected. “Have you been dreaming of Odensk again?”

“Yes, there was something like that,” Stefan began, then hesitated. There had been a dream, a dream of darkness and smoke, of houses burning. It was the same dream he had been having since before even they had arrived in Sigmarsgeist. And Bruno was right, it was like the old dream that haunted him, the dream of Odensk. Except that something was different. Except that it wasn’t Odensk. And that was what was troubling him.

 

The pieces of memory were gradually coming together. It was starting to make sense now. He had been in Mielstadt again, he remembered that now. And there was something else, something lurking just in the shadow of memory that he was clutching for, as well.

“What was his name,” he demanded, suddenly sitting up. “Bea, the graf of Mielstadt. What was his name?”

“Sierck,” Bea replied, puzzled. “Augustus Sierck.”

Now Stefan saw him. The pompous dignitary strutting around his office. And the frightened man upon his knees in the town square. Two different occasions, but the same man: Augustus Sierck. As Stefan made the connection, he knew then that Baecker had lied. There had been no Norscan, no savage attack fended off by Baecker’s avenging blade. But important though it was, this wasn’t the detail that was occupying Stefan now. He was back with the dream, with the fires and the screams of the dying. He thought the gods had been taking him back to Odensk, but they hadn’t. It was somewhere else.

“Bruno,” he said. “What was the name of the village? The name I said we must hold in our hearts?”

“The village?” Bruno asked, confused. “You mean Grunwald, the one that had been destroyed by the mutants?”

“Grunwald, yes,” Stefan replied. With the name came the answer to a puzzle. Something that had been gnawing at him incessantly, whispering a warning that he only now began to understand. Now, he knew what the dream had been telling him.

“It wasn’t the mutants who destroyed Grunwald,” he said.

“But,” Bruno protested, “we found a body there.”

“We did,” Stefan agreed. “But the mutant didn’t die fighting the villagers. And, unless I’m badly mistaken, the villagers didn’t die fighting the mutants, either.” He got up, ignoring the pain still throbbing inside his head.

“Throw me over my boots,” he said to Bruno. “We need to get moving.”

“Just a moment,” Bea interrupted. “You won’t be in a fit state to go anywhere for a while yet.” She looked to Bruno for support. “Bruno, tell him.”

But Stefan was already on his feet, fastening his tunic. He looked around for his belt and sword. Neither of them were anywhere in the room.

“My sword,” he said to Bruno. “Was it with me when they brought me here?”

Bruno shrugged. “I’m sorry, Stefan. I didn’t notice.”

“What about you, are you armed?”

Bruno lifted his coat. His sword harness hung empty about his waist. “Stefan, Bea’s probably right,” he urged. “Maybe you should rest a while yet.”

Stefan seized hold of Bruno, and brought him round to face him. “If I’m right, then we may not have much time,” he said. “Bruno, you’re going to have to trust me on this. Please, go to the door, and see if the way is clear outside.”

Bruno hesitated for a moment, then did as Stefan had bid.

“There are guards at the end of the corridor,” he said, puzzled. “Two of them, and definitely armed.”

Stefan nodded. “I don’t suppose they’re there for our own safety,” he commented. He turned to find Bea. “We’re going to need some help,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Deep below ground, Alexei Zucharov prowled the airless gloom of his narrow cell, and cursed the trick of fate that had brought him to such a bitter end. In a fury, he beat against the granite walls until his fists were raw and bloodied, and strained with all his might against the irons that anchored his body to the bare stone floor. Kyros had promised him treasure beyond his wildest imaginings, a path to glory in return for his humiliation by the bounty hunter. Instead, he found himself trapped within a grey tomb, with only the tortured screams of the foul servants of Chaos for company. Was this how his life was to end, not with the thunder of battle, but with his body slowly rotting away, lost and forgotten in some Morr-forsaken hole?

Zucharov railed against the injustice, against the false god that had led him here. And he cursed the insidious power of the gold band that had lured and trapped him more surely than chains or prison walls ever could. But all his anger, all his rage was for nothing. As hour followed hour he remained as he was, alone in the darkness.

Finally, his rage was spent, leaving him with despair as his sole companion. Only then, finally, did Kyros come to him. Only then did the Dark Lord whisper to him of what would come to pass.

Your faith is barely tested, and yet you founder, Kyros chided. This is not strength.

“Set me free of this poisonous trinket,” Zucharov said out loud. “And I’ll show you what my strength can achieve.”

That will never come to pass. Only death will part you from the amulet now.

“Then let it be so,” Zucharov screamed out loud. Let death come, for he would rather die than live another day as a prisoner.

But death would not come, he knew that. Death would not take him, not yet, for there were tasks for him to fulfil before he left this mortal world. His life in service to the Lord of Change was only now beginning.

And as Zucharov sat within his cell he thought he saw the enveloping gloom start to lift, as though an unseen candle had been brought to light the darkness. He looked down at the gold band, glowing like cold fire upon his wrist, and at the black shadow of the tattoo. The disfiguring mark now covered all of his arm, and was already beginning to spread in a dark web across his chest. As he looked, the picture written in the tattoo started to move again. Zucharov sat, spellbound, and watched the story come alive. After a few moments the glow from the amulet faded, and Zucharov was alone with the darkness again. But he knew he would not be alone for long. He had read the future in the figures that crawled upon his skin. He waited. For a while there was nothing but the anguished wailing of the creatures chained in the blackness of their cells, a sound like a sea of torment rising and falling against the rocks of despair.

But then came another, distinct sound. Of footsteps, moving down the passageway towards his cell. Quick, purposeful footsteps. Zucharov knew where they would stop, and, when he heard the first of the keys grinding in the lock of the door, he was expecting it. He waited another moment, as the iron panel in the door was pushed back, and then looked up.

Someone was staring in at him, their face illuminated by the flicker of an oil lamp. As Zucharov met the gaze of those searching eyes, he smiled. They had never met before in this life, but it was a smile of recognition nonetheless. The time of waiting was almost over.

 

Anaise von Augen stood back, and waited whilst the door was hauled open. There was a few seconds’ delay whilst the first, and then the second locks were turned, and the bolts placed at intervals across the door drawn back. Then it was done, and she was standing upon the threshold of the cell, almost within touching distance of whoever—or whatever—the gods had seen fit to gift her.

The figure crouched in the darkness was fastened by chains attached to both his arms and his legs, chains embedded securely in the stone floor of the cell. There was surely no risk to her safety, and yet Anaise was trembling as she took a step further into the cell.

“Bring more light,” she commanded. “Let me see properly what we have here.”

Two guards followed her into the cell, each carrying a lantern.

“The prisoner is quite secure?” she asked them. And then, without waiting for the answer told them, “Put the lamps down upon the floor. Leave me with him for a while.”

A shiver of fear ran through Anaise as the door closed at her back. She took a deep breath, and pulled herself up to her full height. She would not let any creature of the night intimidate her, no matter how cruel or terrifying the disfigurement that Chaos had worked upon it. She folded her arms across her chest and took a step forward, remaining just beyond the prisoner’s reach.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked. The creature made no answer, but continued to return her stare with a steady, unblinking gaze. Anaise had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that she had somehow been expected. And the feeling that it was not she who was truly in control.

“You have been brought to Sigmarsgeist,” she continued, hurriedly, “and here you will be judged and your sins will be accounted for.” She lifted one of the lamps, so that a wash of light fell across the figure shackled before her. “What do you have to offer us, that might possibly postpone your miserable end?”

But she already had the answer to that question. There was no doubt that this was the fugitive that Kumansky and his friends had been pursuing. Her eyes took in the thickly muscled body of the warrior, the animal power barely contained by the chains. She saw the amulet, the polished gold shimmering in the light of the lamp, more wondrous than Konstantin had described it, impossibly beautiful. And below the beauty, the ugly stain: the tableau printed upon the flesh. The tattoo was surely the visible embodiment of evil, yet somehow impossibly intoxicating.

Anaise had been edging steadily forward towards Zucharov. She suddenly stopped short, pulling herself back. “You are an abomination of Chaos,” she declared. “A creature of darkness. You will die here in Sigmarsgeist, and your death will purge a blight from the world.”

Zucharov turned his head to one side, the same smile still playing across his face. “We have waited long for you,” he said at last. “Here our destinies intertwine.”

Anaise gasped. Part of her was outraged by the profanity she had just heard. But another part, hidden within her, had jolted in shock in recognition of the deeper truth.

“How dare you presume to speak to me as an equal!” she retorted. “I should order you to be hacked apart here in your cell, and your poisoned corpse fed to the rats.” She edged back towards the wall, a sudden wave of giddiness flooding through her.

“Whatever could link my destiny with a spawn of damnation such as you?”

By way of answer, Alexei Zucharov raised his arm towards the light. The tiny figures etched upon his arm began to twist and turn, moving in a slow dance amongst the shadows cast by the lamp. Anaise wanted to close her eyes, but she knew that she had no choice but to look. Zucharov flexed his arm, and opened his hand to Anaise like a flower coming into bloom. Anaise looked down, and saw the waters cascading down to the rocks below.

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.”