02 - Taint of Evil by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead) Page A

road to a future he could yet barely imagine.
    And, as the living tattoo grew, so, in strange tandem, the memory of his
former life faded away. Faces, names and events were disappearing, vanishing
like the light fading from the dying day. Some things he still remembered, like
the name of a place, Altdorf, that had been his home. A name scrawled upon a
scrap of paper he had found in a pocket, a letter started and then abandoned, a
message never sent from a life that had ceased to exist. Natalia. Natalia, his
sister, from a time and place once long ago.
    Other names, other faces. Those he had ridden with into battle. Comrades from
home, from Altdorf. All of them would fade soon, fade and be forgotten. A part of Zucharov knew those names
were important, a part of his identity, and he struggled to hold on to them as a
drowning man clutches at flotsam. But he was locked in a new battle now, a battle
for the dominion of his very soul. Alexei Zucharov fought to hold fast to those
memories with the tenacity of a man who had never known defeat.
    And then, at other times, he saw that it did not matter. It did not matter
because his was a journey of transformation, and all the names and places of
fading memory were nothing more than broken fragments, the debris of a life that
had been transcended. He was on a journey to a new life, and he had a new
companion, a mentor to guide him upon that journey. A voice that spoke to him
inside his head. A voice that told him of his history, and of his destiny yet to
unfold.
    The voice whispered to Alexei through the long waking hours and across the
troubled lands of his dreams. Alexei tried to banish it from his head, shut out
the incessant barrage of whispered words. But he could not. It was inside him.
It had become part of him. Soon, before long, it would become him, and he it:
inseparable, indivisible.
    The voice told him things he had never heard before. It explained to him the
true nature of man, and the struggle between light and darkness. It showed him
how, beneath that simplistic facade, there lay another battle, far older, far
more significant. A battle not between good and evil, but between the strong and
the weak. On one side, those vigorous and brave enough to transcend the shackles
that tethered man to his mortal misery. Pitted against them, those who would
drag mankind down: the weak, the sick and the lame. The indolent, duplicitous
parasites who fed upon the bounty gathered by the strong.
    Alexei Zucharov had always known he was one of the strong. Now the voice
inside his head would be his guide, and his counsel, upon the long road to the
final battle-ground.
    Over time, Alexei grew accustomed to the sound of his mentor, cajoling him,
driving his tired flesh onward through day after endless day. He learned his name: Kyros, all-powerful
disciple of the great Lord of Transformation, Tzeentch, almighty God of Change.
Kyros had plucked Alexei Zucharov from the fields of war and blessed him with
the gift of Chaos. Zucharov was to be his champion, his servant upon the mortal
world. Through him, the strong would conquer all.
    First, Zucharov had had to get out of the city. He had ridden hard from the
gates of Erengrad, across the borders of frozen Kislev and beyond, out into the
barren wilderness of the Ostermark. He rode with no knowledge of his
destination, only knowing that he was pursued. The men who once called
themselves his comrades had become his enemies, and they would pursue Zucharov
to his grave if they could. They were the champions of lesser gods: the jealous,
covetous gods who laid the shackles of callow mediocrity upon the spirits of
men. They were the gods of humility and feeble ambition, the humble, chastening
gods of the weak. Kyros would defeat them, and Zucharov would destroy all who
took arms against him.
    But his champion was not yet ready. The seeds of Chaos had yet to blossom in
the soul of Alexei Zucharov. Until then, Kyros