Through the long days of captivity, Alexei Zucharov had had at least one
thing in abundance. Perhaps for the first time in his life he had time to
contemplate his past, and his future, to search what memories remained of the
man he had once been and to explore the first stirrings of the creature that he
was to become.
He had time, too, to try and adapt to his captivity, an existence he never
expected to experience. Zucharov spent his waking days bound in heavy chains
constricting his body like an iron serpent. His nights he spent lost in a
wilderness of dreams, locked inside his own imaginings by potions fed to him by
his captor. Like a wild beast he was tethered and controlled. In his lucid
moments, amongst the fragments of his passing memories, he gazed in upon himself
with an unquenchable fury. The tattoo growing across his flesh chronicled his
downfall in every detail. Again and again he was forced to look upon his
surrender to the bounty hunter, disgust mingling with fascination.
And yet, stirred in amongst his rage there was confusion. At first Zucharov
had tested the limits of his captivity. He knew it was not beyond his capability to escape. The chains that bound him
were strong, but he would surely prove the stronger. Each day that passed found
him growing ever more powerful. Before long he would be able to snap the iron
links as though they were no stronger than gossamer. And yet, somehow, he knew
that he would not. There was a reason to his captivity, and a purpose to this
journey, that he did not yet understand. But he would learn. Most of all,
through the long days travelling across the forsaken plain, he would learn. He
would be a pupil, and the voice of Kyros, the dark echo forever inside his head,
would be his teacher. This was to be his journey. He must wait, and allow the
alchemy of change to turn defeat into lasting victory.
You are strong,
Kyros had told him.
Great will be your reward.
The decision had been simple enough. Stefan was not going to refuse the
chance to ride with the soldiers of Sigmar, to hunt down the mutant host, and
destroy them. It was a moment to forget doubts, and put aside questions. As
Stefan joined the men in scarlet riding on to the bridge across the ravine, he
was reunited with them in common purpose: to root out the spawn of evil, and
purge them from the face of the world.
So he rode, and rode gladly. But he rode without Bruno. The damage to Bruno’s
hand wasn’t serious, but it was enough to make his joining the hunt out of the
question. Instead of riding with the soldiers of Sigmar, Bruno had had to
content himself with joining the people lining the streets to bless the parting
hunters.
“Good fortune,” Bruno shouted through the din of the crowd. “And safe
return.”
“Be sure of both,” Stefan returned. It was an ill-timed misfortune, and his
comrade would be sorely missed, but Stefan was determined to make good the loss.
He vowed his sword would do the work of two men.
He had fully expected the squadron of riders to be led by Rilke. But although
there were two of the elite White Guard at the head of the twenty or so men in
red, neither was the man that Stefan was already coming to think of as his enemy. He wasn’t sure
if that was a good or a bad thing. If he had truly made an enemy of Rilke, then
perhaps it would be better if he were there where Stefan could see him. There
was no Rilke, but he had seen Hans Baecker, riding up near the head of the
column. The rest of the men were strangers, but if they acquitted themselves
half as well as their comrades, then they would not lack for valour.
The riders passed through the gates of the citadel, then halted. “What now?”
Stefan asked. “What are we waiting for?” By way of answer, one of the others
indicated back the way they had come. A single rider was approaching at speed,
beating a thunderous rhythm upon the ground. It was Anaise, dressed for combat
in a suit of mail and light armour, the insignia of a blood-red sword emblazoned
upon her white corselet.
“Surprised?” she asked Stefan as she pulled her horse level with his. There
was a slight note of teasing in her voice, a playfulness that Stefan had noted
at least once before. “Perhaps, amongst your people, women aren’t for fighting?”
she asked.
“Honoured, rather than surprised,” Stefan assured her. “I had been given to
understand that Rilke would be leading this mission,” he added.
“Rilke?” Anaise lifted her eyebrow just enough to hint at disdain.
“Konstantin’s pet,” she said. “He’s better off home with his master.” She lifted
her hand in a signal to the riders around her. The smile vanished, and with it
any light-heartedness.
“We have a great distance to make up upon our enemies,” she called out. “We
must ride hard. Ride like the wind!”
It had begun so promisingly for Koenig the bounty hunter. Just at the
critical moment the man had crumpled, brought to his knees as though struck down
by a blow from Sigmar himself. Lothar was able to claim his sword as easily as
prising a bone from the jaws of a sickly dog. The man’s eyes had blazed with
violent intent, but his body had nothing to offer. In that moment, Lothar had
given thanks to the gods for their gift. Now he was beginning to wonder if they had not played him the
cruellest of tricks.
The first task he had set himself, once his prisoner had been secured, had
been to part the gold band from the wrist of its owner. Lothar was no merchant—not in any other commodity than human flesh—and he couldn’t have put a price
upon the amulet. But he knew it would be worth a lot, the sort of sum that he
wouldn’t normally see in a season, let alone a single week. The sculpted gold
was thick and lustrous, and there was a rarity, and just a hint of darkness to
its strange design that would surely attract no end of wealthy suitors.
First he had to get it off his prisoner’s arm, pull it free of the ugly
flesh, the skin defaced by the livid colours of the tattoo. Lothar Koenig could
hardly bring himself to think of touching it, but he would have to if the amulet
was to be his.
He was not stupid enough to try and take it from the other man whilst he was
awake. Once, and only once Koenig had made to reach for the gold band in view of
his prisoner. The reaction had been instantaneous, the message unmistakeable:
Touch the amulet and I’ll kill you.
Lothar was sure that even bound in
his chains, Zucharov would somehow be capable of delivering on that unspoken
promise. The bounty hunter had quickly learnt to keep his distance. A boundary
was established, a set of rules between captor and captive. And whilst Lothar
kept to those rules, it seemed his prisoner would offer him no resistance.
But getting the amulet was another matter. There was only one time when it
would be safe to get close enough to take it, when Zucharov was unconscious,
knocked senseless by the potions Lothar dosed him with every night, though it
seemed to take ever-greater quantities of hempwort and camphor salts to affect
his prisoner.
That night, to be doubly sure, Lothar had administered more than double the
usual dose. From now on he would need to ration his supplies—or else dispose
of his human cargo before very long. At length, once he was certain that the
brutish warrior was far beyond consciousness, the bounty hunter made his move.
The gold metal of the amulet looked so pure. He imagined how it would feel in his hands, the caress of the
gold as he slid the band upon his own wrist. He already knew it would bring him
not only wealth, but power beyond anything he had dared to dream.
He crouched beside the other man, savouring the moment. Gingerly, he reached
out and made contact with the gold band with the gentlest of touches.
Instantaneously he was thrown backwards, as some unseen force punched into him
with the force of a battering ram. Lothar writhed upon the ground, screaming out
from the nauseous pain flooding through his body. Still in agony, he examined
his throbbing hand by the light of his campfire. The skin was blistered and red
raw, as though he had thrust his fist into the heart of a mighty fire.
Lothar cursed the gods, and sat rocking upon his heels, trying to cool his
burning flesh in the night air. It was some moments before he realised that
Zucharov’s eyes were open, watching his every movement with a blank,
expressionless gaze. Later, he would swear that the words he heard next were
spoken inside his head:
Next time we will give you no warning.
There wouldn’t be a next time. That much Lothar had already decided. The pain
was excruciating beyond all experience. He would not touch the amulet again. His
shrewd mind flitted through the alternatives. There weren’t many. Of course, he
could always cut the wretched thing from the creature’s limb. This might be
easier, but it would devalue his only other, human, asset. No buyer was going to
be interested in a cripple. Besides, what strength of narcotic potion would he
need before his prisoner succumbed to his dreams? Had he
ever
been truly
asleep? The thought chilled Lothar Koenig to the marrow.
From that moment on he turned his mind to finding a way of disposing of the
tattooed warrior, and earning whatever bounty he could. It ought to have been
easy. Every private army, every mercenary gang along the border with the Empire
would be looking for men like this, men with the grotesque musculature of a wild
beast, and an unquenchable thirst for slaughter to match. Men who killed with remorseless efficiency, only stopping when they themselves were
destroyed.
So Lothar Koenig plied his wares through the scattering of villages and towns
that covered the bare plains of Ostermark, winding a gradual, meandering course
back towards the city of Talabheim. Along the way, people stopped to stare in
wonder or disbelief at the two-horse train: the figure of the bounty hunter
leading the monstrous painted man. But few came close, even the simplest of folk
seemed able to sense the danger in Alexei Zucharov, and kept a wary distance.
But enough prospective buyers came to mind. Some the bounty hunter knew as
good men, some were scum, vicious parasites who terrorised their people and
robbed them blind. Frankly, Lothar couldn’t care less. Whoever was willing to
pay a reasonable sum for his prisoner was welcome to him, with or without the
amulet. He would let others worry about the consequences.
Zucharov put up no resistance as he was led, still enmeshed in his chains,
into the presence of adventurers, warlords and chieftains. Sitting, bound and
defenceless upon his horse, he was a picture of abject defeat, a beaten man
waiting to be sold into slavery. And yet, and yet… something of the menace
inside him still managed to communicate itself to his would-be masters. And the
message that was communicated was clear, and unambiguous:
I will destroy you.
The would-be masters were men possessed of arrogance, cunning and greed. But,
to a man, they read the message in Alexei Zucharov’s eyes, and backed off. By
stages, the asking price came down, and with it Lothar’s dreams of a comfortable
retirement. But still the message from the buyers was the same. Lothar Koenig
and his proposition were not welcome.
Finally, the price fell low enough for one small-time warlord to take a
closer look. Gunter Albrecht was the tin-pot tyrant who held villainous rule
over a stinking hovel of a town known as Stahlhof. Albrecht had a deserved
reputation for cruelty and violence, and imagined, with good reason, that there could be few men alive more dangerous or less trustworthy than
himself.
Zucharov was hauled off the horse, and thrown upon the ground for the
warlord’s inspection. Albrecht manoeuvred his heavy form into position over the
prostrate body. He aimed a kick into Zucharov’s gut, and waited for some kind of
response. When none came he grunted, dismissively.
“What’s the matter with him?” he demanded of Lothar. “Scared of what I might
do to him?” He kicked Zucharov again, considerably harder this time. Zucharov
still made no response, but raised his gaze to face the warlord.
“He looks the part, I’ll grant you,” Albrecht commented. “But a cur who lies
there without so much as a whimper isn’t going to be much use to me.”
“The gold band alone is worth more than I’m asking,” Lothar protested.
Gunter Albrecht tugged at his straggly beard, and regarded Zucharov and the
bounty hunter in turn, with equal distaste. “Maybe,” he conceded. “Maybe.”
“Loosen the chains, then you’ll see what he’s made of,” Lothar blurted out.
As soon as he had spoken, he was regretting the suggestion. But the idea had
taken root in his patron’s mind.
“Free his hands,” he commanded. “And stand him up.”
“On second thoughts—” Lothar began. A sharp dig in the ribs from a sword
wielded by one of Albrecht’s men cut him short.
“Get on with it,” Albrecht said, sourly. “I haven’t got all day.”
Two of Albrecht’s men pulled Zucharov up on to his feet. A third pushed
Lothar Koenig forward. The bounty hunter said a silent prayer. Through closed
eyes he saw exactly what would happen. He watched his own hands unfasten the
shackles that bound the prisoner’s hands. He saw Zucharov standing there, his
hands now hanging down free at his sides. There would be a moment of stillness,
of silence. Then Albrecht would break the spell, his patience exhausted, and
give the fatal order for his men to draw their swords.
In his mind, he saw Zucharov move. He would move so fast that Lothar would
barely have time to make sense of what had happened. Amidst the blur of bodies he saw Zucharov take hold of the
men either side of him, and lift them into the air as though they were dolls.
The first was impaled on the blade as it swung towards him. The second he hurled
through the air, slamming him into the body of the third man, knocking both
senseless.