CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The World Below

 

 

However reluctantly, Bea had taken heed of Anaise’s words. Her impulse at their last meeting had been to run from her chambers, run and keep running, until Anaise and every tangled, confused thought of Sigmarsgeist had been swept from her mind.

But years of surviving had taught Bea a measure of prudence. There was nowhere for her to go. Whatever Anaise’s motives, for the moment Bea was safer with the Guide’s protection than without it. After that last, troubling meeting, she had fled, but she had not fled far. And for the next day, Bea had confined herself to the areas of the palace where Anaise, alone, held jurisdiction. There, at least, she would be safe—if she felt anything but secure.

She had been waiting for what seemed like hours for Anaise to return. Early that morning, Anaise had gone, apparently in search of news of Stefan and Bruno. Bea had been left alone, waiting whilst the long hours of morning dragged on. Finally, when she thought that she must indeed have been abandoned, the Guide swept back into the room. Anaise glanced at Bea, but did not speak. Bea got to her feet and rushed after her, eager to hear any news.

“Have you seen them?” she asked, anxiously. “Are they all right? When can I go to them?”

Anaise placed her hands upon Bea’s shoulders, steering her gently back to her seat. “Peace,” she implored. “Patience, Bea. You have so many questions, I understand that. But remember that I am like you. I have gifts. But I can not work miracles.” She waited for Bea to compose herself, then sat down beside her.

“I have not seen them,” she began. Bea’s face fell, and Anaise quickly put a finger to the girl’s lips to cut short her protest. “No, Bea, I did not promise you that. But I did promise that I would speak to Konstantin, and that I have done.”

Bea leaned forward, anxiously. “And?” she asked. “What did he say?”

“He promised that Stefan and Bruno have not been harmed. He was minded to have them killed, but has been persuaded against that course for now.”

“Then when can I see them?” Bea demanded.

Anaise furrowed her brow in a frown. “You ask so much of me,” she sighed, as if in exasperation. “Very well—I’ll have to trust you. I’ve interceded on their behalf, I’m doing what I can. But you must understand that they killed a soldier of the Red Guard, which is a grievous offence.”

Bea nodded unhappily.

“I have convinced Konstantin that you played no part in any treachery. I have also convinced him that your gift of healing should not be wasted, and that you could be set to work tending to those who are building the citadel. Just like our soldiers, each one of them is valuable if the glory of Sigmarsgeist is to be realised.”

“I will do that work gladly,” Bea affirmed. “It is my calling. But—”

“Bruno and Stefan are to be put to work in the quarries and mines outside Sigmarsgeist,” Anaise interjected.

“In the mines? Will they be safe there?”

“Safer than being put to death by Konstantin’s executioner? I would say so, yes.” She looked at Bea and saw the anxiety on her face. Her voice took on a more conciliatory tone. “Look,” she said, “you’ll see them, soon enough. In the meantime, I am keeping them safe, as far as is possible. Bea, I am doing everything I can for you.”

Bea bit upon her lip. “I know you are,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.” She took a breath, then sighed. “And it’s some relief to hear that they are safe.” She smiled at the Guide, recovering some composure. “Thank you, Anaise,” she said. “I know that you have taken risks on my behalf.”

“I made you a promise, and I always honour my promises,” Anaise told her. She took Bea’s hand, and squeezed it gently. “But trust must run both ways,” she said.

“Now, you must do something for me.”

 

It was too cold in the cell for sleep, too cold for anything except to lie in the dark, nursing bruised and aching bodies. Finally, Stefan had dozed only to be woken minutes later by the sound of someone moaning in pain. He was lying on a hard stone floor somewhere within a cramped, lightless space. A thin blanket covered his body, but made little difference to the numb ache that had set deep into his limbs. His hands were shackled together with a short length of chain, anchored at the other end to the floor. Stefan tugged briefly at the metal links, expending only enough strength to be sure there was no prospect of escape.

He stretched out one hand as far as the chains would allow. Almost immediately it met resistance—a wall, coarse flint under his fingers, slightly damp to the touch. Stefan raised himself onto his knees and stretched out in the opposite direction until he found the opposite side of what he now understood to be a cell. The two walls were little more than the width of a man’s body apart. Stefan began to map the dimensions of the cell in his mind, since he could still see nothing through the blackness.

He remembered coming down from the ramparts with what by then remained of the work party. Around half the prisoners had not returned, and Stefan did not imagine for a moment that he would see any of them again.

He checked himself over as best he could in the gloom. Every muscle in his body ached, and his hands felt as if they had been scoured of skin. But he was intact; as far as he could tell no bones had been broken, and any blood from his scrapes and cuts had dried. So far, so good. Stefan didn’t expect it was going to get any better for quite a while.

Down by his feet, something rustled and stirred. Stefan stepped back quickly, aware that he would have to do any fighting equipped only with his bare hands. Through the gloom he made out something that looked like a bundle of rags moving upon the floor at his feet. The bundle coughed and groaned, announcing itself as Bruno. Stefan helped his comrade to sit up, and waited for his coughing to subside.

“Are you all right?” Stefan asked.

“No,” Bruno replied, shivering. “I feel like death.”

“Make the most of it,” Stefan said. “I imagine this is the only rest we’ll get.”

Bruno coughed again, a dry, rasping sound. “My throat feels like I’ve been drinking dust,” he complained. “Is there no water in here?”

Stefan explored the narrow cell in the darkness. Aside from the two thin blankets on the floor, there was nothing but themselves and four bare walls.

“Not so much as a drop,” he said. “But if they’re going to get any work out of us, they’ll have to bring us something.”

Sounds of life—or what remained of it—were beginning to drift from other cells nearby. Men crying out in pain, begging for food or, more often, simply water. Men pleading against their captivity, and cursing the name of Sigmarsgeist. There was no way of telling who or what they were. Half the cries sounded barely human, but that was hardly surprising. They might equally be friend or foe, but they had a new common adversary now. There was a bitter irony to the path that the fates had chosen for Stefan and his comrades.

After a while the cries ebbed away. There was a clattering of iron from somewhere outside the cells, as the gates by the entrance were opened. Footsteps followed—it sounded as if guards were moving down the length of the passageway, stopping for a few moments by each door before moving on.

“Food?” Bruno suggested, hopefully.

“Perhaps,” Stefan agreed. He tugged again at the length of chain shackling his wrists. “Whatever they’re up to, there’ll be little chance of escape until we can get rid of these.”

The footsteps reached the door of their cell. Light from a lantern flooded through the iron grille, washing the walls a sickly yellow. Stefan waited for something to appear through the narrow slit, some bread perhaps and—if the gods were merciful—something to drink. But instead he heard a key being turned in the lock, and then the cell door was pushed open.

Two figures stood in the open doorway. With the light of the lantern shining directly into his eyes, Stefan could not properly make out either of them. One—a man wearing the scarlet tunic of the Red Guard—was carrying what looked like a tray of food. The second man took the tray then turned to the guard.

“Leave us for a few minutes,” he said. “We’ll see whether a little honest work has loosened their tongues.” Once he had dismissed the guard, the second man stepped inside the cell, and drew the door closed behind him.

As the lantern was lowered to the floor Stefan looked up and saw that the man bearing the tray was Rilke. Among all the people he might have imagined, this was surely the worst.

“What’s this?” Stefan demanded. “Come to gloat?”

Rilke squatted down until he was face to face with Stefan and Bruno. There was a look on his face that Stefan had not seen before. Tentative, almost apologetic.

“Actually,” Rilke began, “I’m here to help you if I can.”

“Yours is the kind of help we can do without,” Bruno told him, coldly. “What did you have in mind? Poison in our food? Thanks, friend. We’ll take our chances in the mines.”

Rilke’s response was to lower his voice until it was barely a whisper. Without understanding why, Stefan realised that he was trying to make sure the guard outside the door could not hear him.

“I’m sorry,” Rilke went on. “Sorry that I didn’t come to you sooner. But I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”

“Trust us?” Stefan asked, incredulous.

Rilke got up and checked the door. Apparently satisfied, he turned back and sat down. Perhaps even close enough, Stefan noted, for him and Bruno to overpower Rilke, shackled or not. But something in Rilke’s tone convinced Stefan he should hear the man out. “I had to be sure that your story—Erengrad, and the aftermath—was true. I couldn’t risk revealing myself to you if it wasn’t.”

“Revealing yourself as what?” Bruno asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.

Rilke looked directly at Stefan for a few moments. “You said you had the confidence of the commander at Erengrad, Gastez Castelguerre. Did he mention a name to you, the name of an order pledged to wage a secret war against the hidden forces of Chaos?”

Now it was Stefan’s turn to hesitate. He knew the name. Castelguerre had spoken it to him in the last days at Erengrad. He had asked Stefan to join that order in their eternal struggle against the dark powers. Stefan had refused, not because that battle was not close to his heart, but because he had his own battle, his own quest that he must first complete. Since that day Stefan had uttered the secret name to no man other than Bruno. The last few days had seen plenty of unanticipated reversals. But to speak those words now, and to the one man that he had counted above all as his enemy, seemed an act beyond reason.

And yet there was something in Rilke’s voice, in the expression in his focused gaze, that Stefan could not bring himself to disbelieve. More to the point, if Rilke already knew of the existence of the order, then little harm could come from uttering its name now. Rilke waited, patiently. He seemed to understand the magnitude of the decision Stefan was trying to make.

“He mentioned a name,” Stefan said at last. “But I will not betray that confidence by speaking those words.”

Rilke nodded, and smiled. “I am glad to see your sense of loyalty undimmed.” He looked over his shoulder, scanning the corridor beyond the cell. Then let our transaction be that I speak that name unto you, Stefan Kumansky. The name of the order is the Keepers of the Flame.”

Stefan expelled a breath, heartened and astonished in equal measure by Rilke’s disclosure. “If you’re telling us that you are in some way connected to the order, then what in the name of the gods are you doing here?” Stefan demanded.

Rilke raised a finger to his lips. “quietly,” he urged. “All you need to know is that Konstantin and his sister came to the notice of the Keepers long ago. I was sent here to learn more of their plans, their intent. To do that, I had to be able get close to the Guides, and earn their absolute confidence.”

“You’ve done that, all right,” Bruno muttered darkly. “Why should we believe him, Stefan?”

“Whether you believe me or not, there’s no time to answer all of your questions now,” Rilke insisted. He glanced round at the door. “There’s no chance of your escaping from the cells,” he said. “Konstantin was adamant. Nothing I can do will get you out of here now.”

“So,” Stefan asked him. “What are you here for? Just to offer apologies?”

“Today you will be taken to the mines,” Rilke said, speaking quickly now. “They are a terrible place, and few who go there ever return alive.”

“More good news,” Bruno said, sourly. “Our path to damnation awaits.”

“But they can also be your salvation,” Rilke insisted. “The ore needed for the foundries is being exhausted faster than it can be dug out. The Guides are forced to mine ever deeper to find new seams. Far below ground, many of the shafts meet with ancient tunnels and passageways, part of the old city that existed long before. That is your chance of escape.”

Footsteps sounded again outside the cell. The guard was coming back.

“I will find you in the mines,” Rilke whispered. “Somehow I will fashion the opportunity to get you out. It may not come this day, nor the next. But you must be ready, for there may be one chance only.” He got up, taking the lantern from the floor.

“Wait,” Stefan whispered urgently. “You said you didn’t believe our story. What changed your mind?”

By the light of the lantern, he saw a terse smile pass across Rilke’s face. “The proof I needed is here,” he began, “It—” Before he could finish the door of the cell swung open. The guard eyed Rilke warily.

“You’ve been a while,” he said, natural deference weighing against the irritation in his voice. “Thought I’d best check.”

“Very wise,” Rilke said, patting the guard upon the shoulder. “But no need for concern. I’m finished with these wretches.”

He looked round, and kicked the tray of food further into the cell towards Stefan. “Enjoy the comfort of your cell whilst you can,” he advised. “I assure you, after an hour in the mines it will seem like paradise.”

 

The chart spread out in front of Bea mapped Sigmarsgeist in its known entirety. The healer looked at it one final time, then drew a deep breath and turned towards the dark mouth of the Well of Sadness. Within moments she was locked away in her private contemplation of a world invisible to the mortal eye. Inside her mind, she had flown the palace, flown from Sigmarsgeist, had been transported to a place where no living soul dwelled. A place where there was only light and dark, and the ebb and flow of pure energy. There was no judgement here, no right or wrong. Here the boundaries between good and evil were all but indistinguishable. The future presented itself to Bea as a churning, vacant sea. Everything was possible; no outcome was yet pre-ordained.

Bea focused her inner gaze, then imagined herself falling into the fathomless sea of light, searching for one single stream amidst the swirling flow of energies. She spread her arms wide and let the energy channel through; a bright, pure force surging into her, filling her with a divine, all-knowing power. Bea held on until she thought she could bear no more, then sprang back, her eyes wide open and her body locked tight.

Anaise stood over her, eyeing her like a predator watching its prey. There was a look of almost manic desperation on her face.

“Well?” she demanded. “What did you see? Did you find the source?” She caught hold of Bea, gripping her wrists so tightly that the girl cried out in sudden pain and alarm. Anaise backed off immediately, and allowed her features to soften.

“I’m sorry, Bea,” she said, contritely. “I’m letting my feelings take control of me. But I can sense that we’re so close now. So close to the source of Tal Dur. I must know what it was that you saw.”

Bea nodded, but took a few moments longer to compose herself. The power she had just experienced had shocked her. Whether for good or for ill, it was a raw, brutal force that would not be easily tamed. For a moment, she found herself wondering if, after all, the elemental powers of Tal Dur were a secret best left undiscovered. But that, surely, could not be so. Through all her life she had grown up believing in the redeeming waters. To deny that now would be like denying her very existence. She hesitated, looked up at Anaise, and smiled, apologetically.

“It was different this time,” she began. “Much more powerful.”

Anaise smiled. “And do you know why?” she asked. “It is because of you, Bea. You are the channel for the energy flowing back into the city.”

Bea pulled back, nervously. “No,” she said. “This is not my doing. I can sense the growing powers of magic. But I have not created it. This isn’t my doing.”

Anaise clasped Bea’s hand. “Do not deny your powers, nor your destiny,” she implored her. “The time is all but upon us. I must know what you were able to see.”

“I saw—something,” Bea said, tentatively. “Something very strong.”

“Go on,” Anaise urged her. “Was it here, beneath the citadel? Show me upon the chart.”

Bea looked down at the chart spread out below her. The lines drawn upon the parchment depicted lanes and streets, passageways and sunken shafts drilling down below the surface of the city. It was nothing but a visualisation of the known, material shell of Sigmarsgeist, and as such meant nothing to the healer. But whatever mystic force had touched her had gifted her with a temporary glimpse of second sight. Beneath the literal charts she saw another map, one that charted the flows of the unseen energies below. She passed her hand across the surface of the parchment, tracing the paths of invisible lines. Bea repeated and retraced the motions several times, before turning back to Anaise.

“There are lines that intersect deep below the citadel,” she said. “The waters that once flowed through their channels carry great magic energies.”

“The confluence,” Anaise whispered. “Tal Dur.”

“No,” Bea said, surprised by her own certainty. “The healing waters are close, very close. But I cannot sense them below Sigmarsgeist itself.”

Anaise bit upon her lip, and scrutinised Bea carefully. “Are you sure?” she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, “but if Tal Dur lies close, you could find it, couldn’t you?”

Now Bea hesitated. Part of her felt emboldened, blessed with a new certainty. Tal Dur had touched her; the waters had called to her, beckoning her to them.

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “Perhaps I can find it. Yes, give me time, and I can find it.”

“You’ll be given everything you need,” Anaise assured her. “We shall be sisters, you and I. Sisters bonded by the healing powers of Tal Dur. Together, there will be nothing we cannot achieve.”

Bea smiled, weakly. She had a sudden sense of something draining from her body. She clutched hold of Anaise’s hand to steady herself.

“Bruno,” she muttered, “and Stefan. I must see them.”

“And you will,” Anaise promised. “But first—” she held Bea out at arm’s length and stood back to appraise her. “Look at you. Your face is so drawn and pale. I’ve put you through an ordeal, it was selfish of me to push you so hard.” She drew her arm around Bea’s shoulder and started to lead her away. “I’ll find a way of getting you to your friends,” she said. “But first you must rest a while.”

She snapped her fingers. A maidservant appeared in the doorway.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Bea replied, wearily. “Perhaps I should rest?”

“Of course you must.” Anaise beckoned the servant into the chamber, towards Bea. “And don’t think of anything else until you have done so.”

As soon as Bea had been escorted from the room, Anaise closed the door behind her. She waited, alone, in the room for a few moments more, then summoned the waiting guard into the chamber.

“Get some men,” she said, simply. “We’re going to the cells.”

 

The food was as bad as could be imagined—rank rotten meat and a hunk of grey bread—with only a bowl of fly-specked water to wash it down. But Stefan and Bruno ate, and they drank, for neither knew when they might get the chance to do so again. They had barely finished when the guards returned to rouse the prisoners from their cells, to face whatever torments the day held in store.

A row of covered wagons was waiting in the courtyard above, pulled by braces of oxen. Stefan guessed that the wagons were intended to save time rather than spare the prisoners’ strength. The mines must lie some distance beyond the citadel walls. The prisoners climbed up into the wagons in pairs. Once they were all boarded, the guards moved amongst them, shackling each man securely to the next. There would be little or no chance of escape during this journey.

Stefan sat towards the back, trying to glimpse what he could of the world outside as their wagon rolled through the citadel towards the outer walls. It was still dark, the first rays of the sun’s light had yet to break above the hills that crested Sigmarsgeist. Even so, the streets were already brimming with people heading towards their day’s labour. None paid any heed to the passing wagons or their cargo. It was as though they had ceased to exist.

As night gave way to grey dawn, Stefan peeled back the edge of the canvas hanging over the back of the wagon to get a glimpse of what was happening outside. He saw little to give him comfort. Aside from the dozen guards sitting with the prisoners inside the wagon, there were at least a dozen more on horseback surrounding the wagons as they made their slow progress through the streets. He soon gave up watching the guards and looked instead at the citadel itself.

They were following the same route as they had taken the previous day on the way to the walls, and yet the place looked already altered. Buildings, houses and shops that had looked barely half-built only the day before now stood virtually intact, their construction completed with incredible speed. Then there were other buildings—those that had been already standing—that now appeared partly demolished, broken down for no obvious purpose other than to accommodate the new, partly-built structures growing up out of their midst. Some of the new structures were recognisable in shape. Others—bizarre lattice-works of alabaster marble twisting about one another like sleeping serpents—were not. Everything, every edifice, was competing with others for the increasingly precious space around the citadel.

“It’s getting out of control,” Stefan said quietly to Bruno. “The place is feeding upon itself. The growth can’t be contained.”

“Why do they keep building?” Bruno asked, awed and perplexed in equal measure. “They must see that they’re starting to tear the place apart?”

Stefan turned to his friend in the shadows of the wagon. “Who knows?” he said. “But my senses tell me that Konstantin and Anaise have unleashed something here that they cannot now undo.” He watched as the streets behind them receded into the distance. “Something which sprang from honour and virtue, and has become something other.”

The wagons passed beyond the city walls onto the open plains that lay beyond the citadel. A wan light began to penetrate the interior of the wagon, and Stefan was able to see the rest of his companions for the first time. Aside from Bruno and the guards, they shared the cramped space with twenty or so more prisoners. Their pale, emaciated faces looked battered and defeated. Flesh hung off their frames like empty sacks. Many were not long for this world, Stefan could see that. He wondered how much of this he could take before he, too, came to look like the same.

There was another hour’s journey beyond the walls before the wagons rolled to a stop, and the prisoners were ordered down into the pale morning light. The land around them was desolate and barren, hemmed in by bare grey hills stretching up towards a leaden sky. Some way in the distance, deep within the cradle of those hills, lay Sigmarsgeist. Stefan looked upon it, and saw it no longer as a jewel, but as a canker. A canker, steadily, remorselessly spreading.

Nearly fifty men in all were gathered by the wagons, shivering in the early dawn. Many of them flung back their heads to the open sky, drinking in the light as though it were for the last time. The guards allowed a moment’s respite, then marched the men towards a yawning fissure, a cleft carved in the rock like an entrance to a gigantic cave. In single file, and still shackled one to another, the men walked down a steep slope towards the entrance to the mine. With each step the air around them grew ever more stale and foetid. The dark mouth of the mine disgorged a steady flow of men, caked in filth, some hauling laden barrows and wagons, others with sacks loaded upon their backs.

Stefan gazed into their bruised and broken faces, and saw nothing but a vacant numbness written there. They were the lucky ones, Stefan supposed, men who were still able to walk from the mines on their own two feet. Piles of bodies lay stacked like so much ballast either side of the gravel path, awaiting disposal. The stench of death mixed with the odours of sweat and grime pouring off the exhausted souls trudging out of the mine.

All we are, Stefan realised, is more fuel for the furnace. Sticks of human tinder to feed the flames of Sigmarsgeist. His life was worth precisely the sum of the labour that could be wrung from it. No more and no less.

He was pulled back from his thoughts by someone—or something—barging into him from behind. He turned about and found himself staring into the face of a tall Norscan, a scar running the length of one cheek. The Norscan stared at Stefan, a murderous expression on his face.

“Erengrad,” the man said. “You were there. We don’t forget.”

“Neither do I,” Stefan replied. “I won’t forget Erengrad, or you and your kind, for as long as I live.”

“Which won’t be for long,” the other countered. Stefan braced himself, ready to fight there and then if necessary. But he wasn’t to have the chance. Two guards standing close by had seen the altercation between Stefan and the Norscan. Now they weighed in energetically, lashing out with their staffs, and pulled the two men apart.

“Save it for later,” the guard snarled. “First we want some work out of you.”

The Norscan backed off, but shot a look towards Stefan that clearly signalled his intent. A look that said, this is not over.

The guard at the head of the column of prisoners shouted for silence.

“Behold the Mines of Sigmar,” he announced to the waiting men. “Behold them, and despair. For those of you who work hard—” he looked around at the prisoners, and laughed. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find some food and rest as your reward at the end of the day.” The guard looked down the line, scanning the faces. “For those who don’t, take a good look about as you climb down the shaft.” He looked down, and spat upon the ground. “Because they’ll be your tomb.”

The guards standing to either side of the column of men cracked down upon their whips, and slowly, with something approaching dread, the line moved forward into the darkness.

“Gods spare us,” Bruno muttered. “The Gates of Morr themselves couldn’t be a crueller place.”

“Courage, my friend,” Stefan replied tersely. “The worst of this still lies ahead.”