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

would nurture his champion,
nurture and protect him whilst he grew in mind and in body. Until he was ready
to fight, and to destroy. For only when all else was laid to waste, when the
decaying cities of man had been brought down, only then would the purging fires
of Tzeentch work their miracle of transformation, and make the world anew. A
world where only the strong would survive.
    So he rode, always keeping ahead of the shadows that snapped at his heels.
Sometimes he would still rage against the voice that whispered so sweetly inside
his mind. But with each day that passed, he was succumbing to the seduction of
its sweet music, its quiet, unyielding logic.
    Change is inevitable, it is the very wheel of life. From change comes
strength, comes opportunity.
    I am strong, Zucharov told himself. And I am master of my own destiny.
Neither god nor man can subjugate my will. I am free.
    His answer would come as laughter, the laughter of Kyros, and of his master,
the Dark Lord of Change. Freedom is nothing but illusion. The consolation of
the weak.
     
    Once beyond the borders of Kislev, the land opened out, and the world became
a vast and empty place. Soon Zucharov was travelling both day and night, resting
only when the massive horse that carried him could give no more. He rode until
he came, at the dying of the day, to a path that snaked along the spine of a
narrow valley. The sun set below the hills and a great shadow fell across the
land.
    Zucharov rode on in solitude. The gods had sucked all sound, all life, from
the dark hills and left them quiet. He slowed his pace, waited for the word. But
the silence of the hills had penetrated his mind. For the first time in as long
as he could remember, the voice inside his head was stilled. Now the silence was
absolute, his mind an empty, becalmed sea. Alexei Zucharov was alone.
    But not for long. As he held the same slow, unchanging pace, two riders
overhauled him, one on either flank, cold moonlight glinting on the steel of
their drawn swords. The sound of horses pounding hard upon the trail told him of
others, too, bringing up the rear. Alexei Zucharov remembered his time as a
warrior. The besieged quarter of his mind that was still the soldier took stock,
making order out of the mayhem around him. He was under attack. He pulled his
horse to a halt, scanning thevalley, the dark cradling hills.
    Four riders had surrounded him. One of them was shouting, trying to draw his
attention. Zucharov heard them as he might hear the distant buzzing of insects,
a drowsy burr of sound. He listened only for the voice of Kyros, and, when still
nothing came he decided at last to ride on, on through the far side of the
valley and up the steep incline that led back onto the plain. As he moved
forward, two of the riders converged towards him, attempting to block his path.
Now, at last, the whisper came. The murmured words of the one who would be his
master; part direction, part permission.
    Alexei heard the voice, and smiled. He turned to face the oncoming riders,
and was at once upon familiar ground.
     
    He was going to die. Lothar Koenig was sure of it. The bounty hunter had made
a mistake, he had let greed, or need, get the better of him. There must have
been a point where escape still remained a possibility. A point where he could
have leapt back upon his horse and fled back up the hillside out of the valley.
However powerful, however demented the tattooed warrior, there must have been a
chance that he could have outpaced him. Forget the butchered body of Carl Durer.
Forget his bounty, just get out.
    But he did not turn, and he did not flee. Instead Lothar Koenig stood,
transfixed by the beauty of the gold band, by the images that danced upon the
other man’s flesh, and by the terrible power of the warrior himself. Now there
would be no escaping. He watched the sword lift into the air above his head as
he might watch an execution from afar, noticing how the