[Stefan Kumansky 02] - Taint of Evil Read online

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  TAINT OF EVIL

  Stefan Kumansky - 02

  Neil McIntosh

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendent of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hunter’s Moon

  Lothar Koenig tugged back on the reins with a practiced ease, bringing his horse to a rapid halt upon the stony path. With the pounding of the hooves suddenly stilled, the land seemed improbably, unnaturally quiet. Lothar sat motionless in the saddle, head tilted towards the sky, scanning his surroundings. It was a cold, crisp night, poised on the cusp of autumn. Up above, the sibling moons Mannslieb and Morrslieb shone like newly minted coins in a star-flecked sky, dappling the rolling hills with a pale silver light.

  In that moment everything looked so pure and untainted. The world, Lothar reflected, could be a cruel and deceitful place. And lonely. Here, on the edge of the mountains, within sight of the great river that snaked its path from the borders of Kislev to the very heart of the Empire, a man might well believe that he was the very last soul alive upon the face of the world. But he would not be alone. Not for much longer.

  Lothar Koenig kicked in with his booted heels and drove his mount forward, on towards his destination. He rode quickly, threading a path through the barren forest that skirted the edge of the hills. He would leave nothing to chance. Not now, when he was so near.

  Soon he reached his vantage point, a narrow ledge hidden within a cluster of trees which overlooked a second, better-trodden path that ran through the base of the valley some twenty yards below. Lothar pulled a spyglass from the pocket of his padded hide jerkin and scanned the length of the valley. At first he could see nothing beyond a tar-like blackness tinged at its extremity by the moonlight. Koenig cursed, cupped a hand around the lens so as to shade it from the prying moons, and tried again. Now he could see the outlines of the trees lying directly below. The rising profile of the mountains stretched out like a boundless ocean of blackness, in each direction as far as the eye could see. The expanse of land known as the Ostermark was vast, vast enough for a traveller to lose himself in utterly. But Lothar Koenig was not lost. He was exactly where he needed to be.

  He made use of the few moments that remained to take stock of his tools in trade. Neatly stowed about the saddle of his horse were all the means by which he earned his living: a sword, light but honed to a keen sharpness, always ready: a length of rope, and a shorter length of linked metal chain wound tightly around a wire net strong enough to hold the wildest of beasts; a glass bottle, tightly stoppered, containing a potion capable of subduing a man in seconds and a short steel knife, useful only for close combat, the sort of combat that could only end in death. This was Lothar’s tool of last resort. He was a bounty hunter, not a killer. If death was to be the only currency, then he could deal it as well as any man. But his clients generally paid better money if their prizes were delivered alive, not dead. What happened to them after that was another matter, and one that Lothar was careful never to pry too far into.

  He shivered, aware as if for the first time of the biting chill held in the still night air. Cold or not, he would have to wait for as long as it took. Patience. He must have patience. That was a quality that his trade depended upon.

  He lifted the spyglass again, tracking back along the length of the path below. Not long now, surely, if his calculations were correct. Soon his quarry would emerge from between the hills into the bottleneck of the valley below. Then the familiar ritual would begin again. Sometimes it ended in death. And eventually, he reflected, the Gates of Morr would open for him too. He lowered the glass, contemplating the prospect of his death at the hand of an as yet unknown opponent. It would probably come in a place such as this, a vast expanse of wilderness in a distant part of the Empire. His body would fall and rot amongst the trees, unnoticed by all except the devouring worms. No one would miss him, no one would mourn his loss. Such friends as he had ever known had gradually melted away, and his wife and child lay long dead in the cold earth.

  For a moment something akin to self-pity washed over him, a bittersweet savouring of loss and a life that might have been. Lothar allowed himself the moment of weakness then crushed the emotion down, locking it away with the impatience, the fear and the weariness that lay heavy in his bones. This job called for a clear head and a cold, empty heart.

  Patience, patience. His calculation had been exact. They would appear along the path below any minute now, emerging into the bright moonlight. He thought again about his target, the man who would put enough money in his purse to spare Lothar the need for these nocturnal adventures for many a night to come.

  The man he was waiting so patiently for was a bandit, a common cut-throat set apart from his peers by his singular reputation for cruelty. A man who plundered lives and property indiscriminately, for gain or for fun, as it suited him. Normally, and—from Lothar’s perspective—thankfully, their paths would not have crossed. But this particular cutthroat had gone too far. He had kidnapped a girl, noble-born, a proctor’s daughter from Talabheim. The ransom demanded had been paid, but it hadn’t ended there. It seemed the kidnappers hadn’t known where to stop with their fun. Things had gone too far. Now the girl was dead, and her captor had a price upon his head, a generous purse laid by the grieving father.

  There was no doubting that his quarry was a loathsome and despicable man, but Lothar Koenig carried no especial hatred in his heart. He thought of his target dispassionately, perhaps, even, with a strange affection. It was through men like this he earned his living, and for that Lothar gave thanks. He looked skywards and said a prayer to whatever gods might bless him this night.

  Carl Durer was not a complex man. He rarely had room in his head for more than one idea at the same time. Tonight his mind was upon hunting, not being hunted.

  They had picked up a trail a little way west of Baumdorf—a lone rider, heading south. These days few travellers were stupid or foolish enough to travel the mountain trails alone at night. People were running scared—though scared of what Carl Durer was never quite sure. There was vague talk of trouble brewing, of war beyond the border, of strange beasts and mutants stalking the land.

  None of it much interested Carl Durer. All he knew was that merchants and traders rarely ventured out other than in convoy now, and pickings for men like him were growing thin. But this one, this one was surely a beauty. Durer and his men had followed him from the outskirts of the village, a single horseman
oblivious or indifferent to the perils of the Ostermark. The bandits followed at a distance at first, content to let their victim run awhile. A few miles ahead the path narrowed, then dropped down into a valley. The only way out was up a steep climb at the far end. That was where they would take him and whatever treasure he carried.

  Durer enjoyed the anticipation almost as much as the kill. As the four of them closed in on their prey, he started to think about the sport ahead. Usually they put up a bit of a fight, at first. If they did, so much the better, Carl enjoyed a fight. Then, when it became obvious they weren’t going to escape, they would beg, beg for their lives to be spared. Sometimes—often, in fact—Carl would silence the begging with a blade through the guts, and keep twisting it until the wretch shut up. Other times, if he were in the mood, he might listen to what they had to say. They might have a bit extra to offer—money stashed away where Carl might not have thought to look. He enjoyed watching wealthy gentlefolk grovel at his feet, on their knees, pleading for their lives to be spared. Carl thought about it and laughed. It made no difference, really. He killed them all in the end.

  Soon they’d reach the valley. He spurred his mount on, ready to overhaul the horseman ahead, and glanced around at the riders on either side of him. Filthy Erich Wahl: as fat and gluttonous as a pig a man who would watch his mother starve if it meant he could feed his belly. His brother Kurt, who’d killed more men than he could remember, most for no particular reason. And the strange, whey-faced boy, a northerner known only as Lief, with a deep, unfathomable something about him that scared even Carl. They were Durer’s men, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think they were his friends. In truth he despised the lot of them, and they’d knife him in the back as soon as he would them—which was soon enough. But so long as they were useful to each other, then they were in it together.

  Right now they probably hated his guts, blamed him for the foul-up in Talabheim. That business with the girl had got out of hand. They should have got out as soon as they had the ransom, but Carl had wanted a bit of fun, and then it had gone too far. That didn’t matter in itself—nobody gave a damn about the girl. But even Carl hadn’t reckoned on the little whore’s father being such a vengeful bastard. Carl wasn’t used to being a fugitive, and it didn’t much agree with him. The hungry ache in his belly agreed with him even less. It was time he lived off the fat of the land again.

  As they crested the top of the valley Carl looked down to see the other rider barely fifty yards ahead of them. He was either deaf, had no sense of instinct, or both, or he would have had some sense of the riders behind him by now. But the horseman varied neither his speed nor his course, just kept on at the same steady pace, riding bolt upright in the saddle, staring out at the night ahead.

  He was a tall man, Carl noted. Tall, and heavily built with it, the sort who might give a good account of himself. So be it. All the better in fact. Carl Durer enjoyed a decent scrap, so long as the odds were good. In any case—he glanced round at his comrades again—more than one of these scum were dispensable now.

  Any man out on the trail in these parts had to be heading from somewhere, to somewhere. And they had to be carrying something too: money, silver, gold, whatever. It would do. Carl met Lief’s wall-eyed stare and grinned. He could almost smell the blood.

  How to deal with Durer’s gang was a problem that had been playing on Lothar’s mind for most of the day. There had been no chance of taking him on his own. It had taken Lothar long enough to pick up the bandits’ trail after Talabheim, and since then it seemed Durer was rarely if ever alone. Lothar would have to wait for his opportunity, then make the most of it.

  He had slipped quietly and unobtrusively into the gang’s wake just outside Baumdorf. He had weighed his chances of taking Durer—dead or alive—with three other armed men in tow, and decided that his best chance was to wait, staying just in touch, until they struck camp. An hour, two hours passed in stealthy pursuit. The sun had drawn down its light below the distant mountains, and still Durer and his men gave no sign of breaking their journey. The bounty hunter had grown anxious. If the bandit gang were to reach the forest under cover of nightfall it would be all too easy to lose them forever.

  Then he had seen the fifth rider, the single horseman, bearing south-west at the same, unvarying pace, with Durer and his savage disciples slowly closing in. Then he knew that the bandits would not head into the forest. They would chase this unwitting rider down into the Ostravska Gorge, rob him and murder him. And whilst Durer’s gang were busy with their butchery, Lothar would have the element of surprise on his side. If he was lucky, the traveller might manage to wound or kill some of Durer’s men before he himself was killed. At worst, the gang would be distracted for a few precious moments. It might be the only chance he would get.

  It had taken him only a moment to make his decision. He would ride ahead, to the far end of the gorge, then double back on them from the south. The strategy wasn’t without risk. But then, he had told himself, everyone had to die sometime.

  The lone horseman pressed on into the valley, shadowed by his four pursuers. Keep going, Carl thought, with quiet satisfaction. Soon we’ll have you exactly where we want you. He looked around, taking in the physical dimensions of the valley. To his left and right, towering walls of rock. Ahead, the path snaked through the valley before exiting in a steep, winding climb that would take an agile rider at least half an hour to navigate. No way out of here in a hurry. Like a cork into a bottle. We’ve got you trapped now, my friend.

  Carl Durer started to relax, settling into an old and comfortable routine. No harm now in making sure their quarry knew they were here. He slackened off the pace and bellowed out a command: “Hey, you up there. Turn about!”

  The words echoed off the facing cliffs, filling the valley. But the horseman made no acknowledgement of the summons, nor varied the steady pace of his horse by as much as a step. If he was aware at all of the riders closing in on him, then he remained completely indifferent to his fate. A surge of anger welled up inside Carl Durer. The horseman—trader in trinkets, courier or whatsoever he was—would pay dearly for his insolence. Any lingering thought in Carl Durer’s mind that he might allow the man a mercifully quick death was now forgotten. No, he’d let the boys play a while with this one, practise their carving skills. It was remarkable how much pain you could inflict and still keep a man alive.

  Durer looked left and right, and signalled to his men, initiating a familiar manoeuvre. The Wahl brothers spurred their horses on, leaving Lief at Durer’s side. The two riders steered out left and right, moving to overtake the horseman on either side. Carl watched them speed past their target, the blades of their swords glinting in the moonlight. If their victim had been oblivious to his fate before, he wouldn’t be now. And yet, still the solitary figure did not deviate from his path through the valley. The same, steady pace. The same, unswerving direction. Well, let him enjoy his little game, Carl thought. Soon enough, we’ll be enjoying ours.

  Fifty yards on, the two bandits pulled up, dragging their horses around in a cloud of dust and stones. Now they faced the oncoming rider, blocking off any escape from the valley. Carl Durer looked on with satisfaction as, finally, the horseman checked his speed and came to a gradual halt.

  Durer slowed his own horse to a gentle trot until he was within hailing distance of his men.

  “Mark him all you want, boys. But keep him alive for me. I want some time with this one.”

  Still the rider sat, immobile on his towering steed, gaze fixed ahead as if only seeing the path that led out of the valley.

  “Turn about,” Carl commanded. “Turn around so I can take a look at you.” After what seemed a long time the horseman finally turned, slow and ponderous, until he was facing Durer.

  The rider was half in shadow, but Carl Durer caught a glimpse of a weather-beaten face framed by a shock of unkempt, jet-back hair. A pair of eyes the colour of night itself stared directly through him without any acknowledgement of his ex
istence. For the briefest of moments he looked like a statue carved out of living stone, rather than a mortal man. In the same moment a thought raced, unbidden, through Carl Durer’s mind: This is a mistake.

  Absurd. Imagining things. Carl swept the thought aside and tugged his sword out from its harness. The other man, he noted, had made no attempt to draw his own sword yet. Maybe he knows it’s hopeless, Durer reckoned. Or maybe he’s one of the ones who think they can talk their way out. Well, let him talk. They’d have him singing before they’d finished with him, but all the pretty tunes known to the gods weren’t going to save him now.

  Durer nudged his horse forward so he could get a better look at their prize. He was big all right—thickly muscled and stockily built, but that was of no concern whilst they were four to one. Carl sliced the air with his sword a matter of inches from the other man’s face. The rider didn’t flinch, but kept his dark eyes fastened on Durer. There was no hatred there, but no fear either. He was looking through him, not at him, Carl realised. As if he didn’t exist at all.

  Maybe the man had gone mad, wandering the plains of the Ostermark for days or weeks on his own? Well, he had some company now, and they’d see if they couldn’t waken him up a little. He reached for the flask inside his tunic and drained its contents into his mouth, swallowing them down in one gulp. It was the last of the rotgut brandy, the last of their provisions. But it was enough to get the blood-fires boiling inside him, and not so much as to dull the killing edge. He tossed the empty flask away, the battered pewter clattering on the hard flint ground.

  “Give us your money,” Durer demanded. He could sense the other men around him growing impatient, eager to get on with their handiwork. “Give us your money, and we’ll let you be on your way,” he lied. The other man looked around him, slowly, seeming to take in Durer and his three henchmen for the first time.