“Now you are evenly matched,” Anaise said to him. “Now we shall find out
where the gods have invested their true power.” She looked from Stefan to Alexei
Zucharov, and spread her arms wide. “Now, my glorious champions. Let the contest
begin.”
The lattice of tangled paths and bridges looked too frail to bear Zucharov’s
weight. Stefan heard it groan and crack as the man who was now his adversary
advanced across it towards him. He sized up his options. If it came to a trial
of brute strength, then he did not doubt for a moment that Zucharov, with his
greater height and bulk, would prevail. Stefan would have to make the most of
the advantages that he possessed—agility and speed. The brittle structure
spanning the gap between the domes looked precarious by any standards, but, in
the circumstances, it might offer Stefan his best hope of equalising the terms
of battle. He took a deep breath, and, balancing his sword in his hand, stepped
off from the edge of the parapet, and out into the unknown.
Immediately, he could feel it. It was nothing he could see or touch, but
Stefan was immediately aware of its force. Something was leaking out of the
depths of the ground, oozing from the very fabric of the buildings themselves.
An invisible tide of energy, funnelling up into the space between the walls of
the palace. He felt it in the shuddering pulse that ran, like a second
heartbeat, through his entire body. And he felt it inside his head, an
omniscient presence sitting in judgement on the struggle about to commence.
As Stefan stepped forward the walkway shivered and flexed below his feet,
rolling like a boat upon the water. He now guessed that the structure was not
made from stone at all, but from a substance more like bone, a living, growing
substance like the frame of a great skeleton spreading itself across the city.
Just for a moment, Stefan held the thought of turning back, but he knew that
this remained his best, perhaps his only chance. He was committed now.
The two warriors made their way towards each other, across the skewed and
twisting maze that was their battleground. Twice, three times, Stefan lost his
footing as the walkway dropped away or twisted suddenly to one side. But step by
fateful step, across cracks that widened without warning to yawning chasms,
Stefan and his nemesis edged ever closer to their confrontation. At last, all
that separated them was a single span of bridge, a brittle ivory spine no more
than twelve feet across. Alexei Zucharov took two steps out upon it, and from
the other side, Stefan matched him pace for pace. The two were now little more
than a sword’s length apart.
Stefan weighed the sword in his hand, calculating the angle and speed of his
attack. Yet in his heart he was still not ready to believe his comrade had
totally surrendered his soul to Chaos. He could not believe there was not still
some flickering of humanity remaining somewhere inside Zucharov. He called
Alexei’s name a second time, and a third, hoping against hope that somehow he
could yet connect with the man he had once called his friend.
Zucharov stopped, midway across, his sword frozen in mid-air. The fragile
bridge rolled drunkenly under his weight, the whole structure poised between
suspension and collapse. Zucharov shifted his balance, settling the bridge. His
eyes fell upon Stefan, and recognition flickered, a last guttering flame of
kinship between the two swordsmen, then he struck. The big man sprang forward,
lithe and supple, quicker than Stefan could possibly have anticipated. Not only
was he bigger and stronger than before, but he was also much faster. The one
advantage Stefan had held over his former comrade had evaporated before he had cast a single blow.
Stefan retreated under a torrent of strokes from Zucharov’s sword. Before he
could attack, he had to defend. All his skill was being channelled into simply
staying alive. Zucharov’s blade slashed through the night air, carving splinters
from the shuddering bridge. In no time at all, Stefan had fallen back to the
edge of the parapet.
His mind raced through possibilities that grew more limited by the second. He
thought about fighting Zucharov on the parapet, with solid ground beneath his
feet. But there, with nowhere else to turn, he would surely be quickly defeated.
So, with Zucharov still pressing down upon him, Stefan took the only option
left, he mounted the side of the bridge, and leapt.
He fell ten feet or more, crystalline filaments shattering beneath his weight
before something solid broke his fall. Stefan rolled, and pulled himself quickly
upright. Zucharov stood on the bridge above, looking down at him, his face
impassive. Then, slowly, methodically, he began climbing down through the
labyrinth, scything a path through fibre and bone. Stefan found a place where
his footing seemed secure, on a looping segment of path that rose and fell like
a serpent’s back. This was where he would make a stand. This time the initiative
would be with him.
Zucharov dropped down onto the path and charged at Stefan, equally determined
that the battle should be ended on his terms. He attacked with the ferocity of a
madman, heaving a massive, two-handed stroke that would surely have cut Stefan
in two had it connected. But it did not connect, the blade missed its mark by a
hair’s breadth, and suddenly Stefan had the opportunity to strike back. He
dropped his shoulder and aimed a blow through his opponent’s open guard.
The sword struck Zucharov at an angle, just below his ribs, but just bounced
off. Zucharov barely reacted other than to redouble his own efforts, drawing
upon an apparently bottomless well of strength. Stefan found the space for
another strike, and again his sword grazed his opponent’s tough, leathery flesh and flicked away without appearing to inflict any lasting
harm.
Now Stefan was forced back onto the defensive. Under pressure, he managed to
hold his ground, trading blow for blow with his adversary as Zucharov tried to
power his way through. Stefan was holding him, but knew he could not continue to
do so indefinitely. The fifth hammer-blow from Zucharov sent a Shockwave of pain
flooding through his body. The sixth prised the sword from out of his hand, and
sent it sliding away out of reach.
Zucharov took the briefest of pauses then advanced on Stefan to finish
things. Stefan glanced over his shoulder only to see that the path behind him
had disappeared. There was no escape route. He was trapped between the void and
the murderous blade of his opponent.
For the first time, Zucharov smiled. It was a smile devoid of all warmth or
human feeling. He lifted his sword to despatch the final blow.
Stefan understood little of the following moment, other than that the world
had turned upside down. He was aware of falling through space, and reaching out
blindly to clutch hold of something—a strut, or a length of rope—that
arrested his fall. By the time he realised that the walkway had spun right over,
he was hanging, suspended in mid-air from what was now the underside of the
path. He was clawing with his hands, trying to get a grip on anything that could
support his weight. But everything that he touched felt white hot, burning with
a fierce, unbearable heat. Stefan managed to hold on for a few seconds more,
then, with a single scream of agony, he fell.
He fell through clear space for what seemed like an eternity before his fall
was broken. The pain of the impact made Stefan want to curl his body into a
ball, but he knew he must get on his feet as quickly as he could. He scrambled
to his feet, desperately trying to orientate himself, and locate Zucharov. He
had no idea how far he had fallen—twenty feet, or a hundred—but he had
landed on a wide, circular platform, slightly concave in shape, which had
nothing linking it to any other part of the structure. Nothing above or beneath looked familiar, except for the dark outline of the courtyard some
distance below. He swung around at the sound of a footstep, and found himself
staring directly at Alexei Zucharov. It was impossible. The big man could not
have fallen that distance and landed so close by, without Stefan being aware of
him. But there was no mistake. There Zucharov was, sword still firmly clamped in
his hand, moving forward slowly, purposefully, to complete his task. The turmoil
of the last few moments had changed nothing, Stefan was back where he started.
As Zucharov closed in on him, Stefan grasped hold of the only object within
sight, a length of railing hanging down just in front of him. As Zucharov struck
Stefan hauled himself up into the air and kicked out with both feet. The blow
connected cleanly, striking Zucharov high and square in the chest. Zucharov was
caught off-guard, the blow knocked him back, off-balance. The floor of the
platform bowed and flexed beneath his crashing weight, before springing back
into shape with a supple elasticity. Almost instantaneously, Zucharov was
propelled back onto his feet, and Stefan’s gain was short-lived. But, whilst he
held the advantage, he made it pay. He flung himself at Zucharov in a desperate
attempt to wrest the sword from out of his grip.
He threw all his weight behind a punch into Zucharov’s face. The big man gave
a short grunt of pain, and Stefan knew that he had finally managed to hurt him.
He punched again, and a third time, getting his blows in faster than Zucharov
could respond. Blood began to flow, a dark red stream trickling from the corner
of Zucharov’s mouth. But it still wasn’t enough.
The wounds that Stefan had inflicted served only to fuel the cold, relentless
rage driving Zucharov. He pulled free of Stefan’s grip and lashed out, swiping
Stefan aside like an insect. Stefan fell heavily, reacting only just in time to
roll to safety as the sword scythed down yet again, cracking the bone floor of
the platform.
Stefan looked around in desperation for some means of turning the unequal
struggle. All the while he was being forced back towards the edge of the
platform.
Just when it seemed that Zucharov had him finally trapped, Stefan saw his
salvation. A set of steps, like a ladder, zig-zagged out haphazardly from the
rim of the platform. He was sure they hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t sure
he could believe what he saw now, but, suddenly, there was perhaps a chance to
gain some respite. The ladder looked filament-thin, yet when Stefan stepped back
onto it the structure bore his weight without so much as bending. He retreated
as fast as he dared, as Zucharov rushed towards him. As the big man set a foot
upon the ladder, the brittle surface seemed to shimmer and melt away, and
Zucharov was plunged into darkness. Stefan saw him clutch at the edge of the
platform like a drowning man. He was holding on, but couldn’t pull his body back
up.
Stefan was still able to stand firm on the solid section of the ladder. He
looked down where the structure had broken apart. Long, ivory shards like spears
splayed out at every angle. Stefan leant forward, and broke one off. It was as
sharp as any blade. Now he had the weapon, and it was he who had the advantage.
Zucharov stared up at him, his eyes a blaze of anger and confusion. He clawed
frantically at the edge of the platform, but could not get enough grip to haul
his bulk back up.
I can end this now,
Stefan realised. J
have been gifted the power.
Somewhere in the darkness above, he was aware of Anaise, her expectant gaze
fixed upon the confrontation. He raised the jagged blade, and aimed the point at
the base of Zucharov’s throat. He stared into his eyes, deep into those dark
pools, searching for any last vestige of the man he had once known.
Then a man’s voice filled the night air with an angry shout of command. “Stop
this heresy!”
In the same instant, the ledge that Zucharov still clung to gave way beneath
him. On instinct, Stefan thrust out his hand, the makeshift sword falling from
his grip. He clutched hold of Zucharov as he fell, and held on.
For a few moments the two men were locked together, neither moving. Stefan
was only dimly aware of the guards climbing down towards them, and of the man’s face that had appeared over the
parapet above, next to Anaise.
Konstantin directed the full force of his anger at his sister.
“This abominable charade is now ended,” he proclaimed, furiously. “Seize these
murderous wretches,” he told the guards. “Secure them, and take them from my
sight.”
Konstantin waited until the last of the guards had withdrawn from his chamber
then he turned to face the only person left in the room, his sister. As he began
to speak, Konstantin realised that an anger that had been building within him
for days, or even weeks, was now finally finding its voice. He had meant to stay
calm; he took pride in his reason. But when he finally spoke, it was the rage
that won out.
“There must be an end to this madness,” the Guide thundered. “It must be
ended, all of it, now.”
He battled with the fury that burned in his heart, determined to have mastery
over his own emotions. Konstantin was a man who prided himself upon order and
structure. Everything he believed in, all that he strove for in the building of
Sigmarsgeist, was founded on that sense of order, and the need to preserve it in
the face of overwhelming odds. Now he saw that order beginning to unravel, being
torn apart by a force he could neither control nor comprehend. And his greatest
fear was that the locus of this great unravelling was none other than his own
sister.
“Madness,” he muttered again, to himself as much as to Anaise. “And I will see
that it goes no further.”
“Brother,” Anaise responded, gently. “There is no madness other than the anger
I see burning in your eyes.” She raised her hand to his face, and placed her
cool palm upon her brother’s cheek. “I fear you are being driven to a fever,
though none that I can feel,” she said. She tilted her head to one side, her
expression quizzical, probing. “There must not be strife between us,” she
continued. “If the Dark Ones can divide us, then they can destroy us, too.”