by Warhammer
‘I am sure he will make a very large donation to the goddess,’ said Felix sourly. It seemed that even the supposedly independent and altruistic sisters of Shallya, helpmates to the poor and weak, were subject to political interference. He did not know why this should leave him feeling surprised and disappointed but it did. The woman caught his hard tone and her face became less friendly.
‘Can I look in on him now?’ he asked, forcing a smile. It was best not to antagonise the priestesses. You never knew when your own life might depend on their help. Their prayers and herbs seemed to have helped his own illness. He felt better now, even if he was not entirely healed.
‘If you wish, but be quiet. He is asleep, and he must rest to heal. And cover your mouth with a handkerchief. It would be terrible to have him recover from his own ailment only to be taken away by your flux.’
Felix nodded and walking as softly as he could, entered the sickroom. It smelled of mint and camphor and other herbs he remembered from his childhood when he had visited his mother during her last long illness.
Felix was shocked. Max had always been a powerful, energetic man. Now he looked pale and feeble indeed, as drawn as a consumption sufferer. It was such a dreadful change in so short a time. At least his breathing was deep and regular. Felix looked up at the dove icon on the walls, and offered a prayer to Shallya for mercy and healing for the wizard. If the goddess heard she gave no sign.
Felix turned to leave and heard a change in the wizard’s breathing. He turned to see that Max’s eyes were open wide, and there was a wildness and fear in them. His hand stretched out feebly and he whispered one word that sent a chill running down Felix’s spine.
‘Nagash,’ he said, and slumped back into unconsciousness.
‘Nagash,’ said Gotrek grimly. Even in the warmth of the tavern, surrounded by a hundred drunken warriors, the smell of beer and the sound of singing and dancing, the word was enough to chill Felix like the ague. He tried to tell himself it was his lingering fever but knew that this time it was not. The name conjured up an image of a remote time when dark gods wandered the world and slew entire kingdoms. Not even the cruellest of mothers would use it to frighten the most disobedient children.
‘A name of ill omen indeed,’ said Ivan Petrovich, sending another glass of vodka tumbling down his throat. His hand shook as he did so.
‘Snorri doesn’t like this one little bit,’ said Snorri, and for once Felix had to agree with him whole-heartedly.
‘So, our pet wizard thinks this talisman is somehow connected with the Great Necromancer, manling?’
‘We didn’t exactly discuss the matter. It was the only word he said before he fell back into a coma. It would explain why this Krieger was so keen to get his hands on the thing though.’
Felix considered this as he took another slug of vodka. The fiery liquid warmed his belly, but did nothing to remove the chill from his heart. The Great Necromancer, he thought. A being who had fought with the man-god Sigmar before the Empire was even founded and who, if dark legend were to be believed, was responsible for the slaying of an entire nation in the dawn ages of the world. Nagash was by all accounts the mightiest wizard the world had ever known, a necromancer who had mastered the darkest secrets of life and death. Who knew what instrument of ultimate evil he had been capable of creating? Whatever it was, it was now in the hands of Adolphus Krieger, or whatever his true name was. Along with Ulrika.
Felix did not want to consider that. He was having a hard enough time keeping the idea that Krieger was the blood drinker who had killed those women out of his aching head.
Felix shuddered. This was all they needed. Ulrika abducted, Max in a coma, the Chaos hordes on the march, and now an ancient artefact in the hands of a mad sorcerer. How could it get worse?
Adolphus felt better. It was night, and his skin was starting to heal. The moon’s eerie light gave the snow-covered landscape a spectral beauty and filled him with the urge to hunt. From the window of the hunting lodge he could see fat Osrik and his men approaching. There were a number of sleds and bodyguards. His keen eyes could make out the men and women wrapped in heavy furs. Doubtless they had not had trouble getting out of the gates. They were after all a pack of well-known local nobles, and if they were so foolish as to want to go on a hunting trip, no gate guards were going to contradict them.
He could see that the girl Ulrika was with them, her head leaning against Osrik’s fat shoulder. She was still stunned by the kiss he had given her last night. Adolphus was looking forward to another sip of her blood. It looked as if the plan had worked. They were all outside the city now, and preparations were being made for the trip to Sylvania. His coven had seen to it that he was well provided with everything he, Roche and the girl could need for the trip. They would all soon be ready to go.
He clutched at the talisman. It hung around his neck now. He could feel something in it, something that was responding to his presence. He put his hand on it just to feel the cool stone under his fingers. It was certainly a fascinating thing, at least to his kind, and that was what made it so dangerous.
Once he was back in his adopted homeland it would grant him power undreamed of over the aristocracy of the night. He would become the Lord of Vampires in truth, and his reign would be eternal.
Now it was time to go and greet the girl. Perhaps she might prove to be the one.
BOOK TWO
SYLVANIA
‘Winter was no time to travel in Kislev. The snow, the wolves, the unending tedium of sleigh travel made this journey even more miserable than my usual experiences when travelling with the Slayer. This was in no way helped by the recurring illness that plagued me, or by the general gloominess of my companions. Nonetheless, after what I experienced on arriving at our destination, I would rather make a hundred trips across the ice wastes of Kislev, than a single journey through the bleak pine forests of Sylvania.’
— From My Travels With Gotrek, Vol IV, by Herr Felix Jaeger
(Altdorf Press, 2505)
FIVE
‘How long have I been… ill?’ asked Max Schreiber. He felt weak, and there was a horror in his mind that had not been there before. He raised his hand. It looked more like a claw, all muscle and bone. His nails were long and untrimmed. The skin appeared near translucent. Moving it took so much effort.
‘Three days,’ said Felix Jaeger.
Max raised himself up in the bed and focused his eyes on the renegade poet. Felix did not look so good either. His eyes were red and he was unkempt and unshaven. Max could smell him from where he lay, a mixture of booze and unwashed clothing. He coughed hackingly into his bunched-up fist. Max attempted a smile. It felt as if the skin of his face would crack from the effort.
‘And you have been on a drinking binge all of this time, by the look of it.’
‘Near enough,’ said Felix. He sounded grim, and he looked even grimmer. There was a wildness in his eyes that had not been there before. He looked more like the Slayer than his usual amiable self.
The effort of sitting up had drained Max. He allowed himself to slump back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. It was whitewashed. The room smelled of mint and healing herbs. The walls were white as well. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a dove icon.
‘It pains me to be so clichéd, but where am I?’ he asked. He could guess the answer but he wanted to know for certain.
‘The hospice of the Temple of Shallya.’
‘I have been that ill?’
‘Yes.’
Max let out a long breath and tried to gather his thoughts. The last thing he could remember was the house of the nobleman Andriev. No. He had examined something, a talisman. After that, his memories were… confused. He could remember nightmares, a skeletal giant with a face of death and horror, teeth that grinned like those of a skull, flesh peeling away from the face, eyes that were pits of greenish putrefying slime. He remembered strange visions of a desert land and a huge black pyramid; of wars in which the dead fought th
e living and pale aristocrats drank blood from bronze chalices and practised dark sorcery to prolong their unnaturally extended lives. From his studies he thought he could put a name to that figure and to that distant dusty land of death. He did not want to. He found his thoughts shying away from those memories. There were things there he was not ready to deal with yet. Perhaps not ever.
He reached up with his hand and felt his face. His beard was long and unkempt. His cheeks felt gaunt. He touched his heart. It still beat. Somehow he had been afraid that it would not.
‘You look like a man who has seen a ghost,’ said Felix.
‘In a way, I think I have.’
‘When you were ill you were raving. You kept mentioning a name.’
Max could guess what that name was. He did not want Felix to say it, to remind him of the things he had seen. The man would not stop though.
‘Nagash.’
Max stiffened. He knew he would have to face the thing sooner or later. He had not become a master sorcerer through lack of a strong will. He forced himself to breathe normally, to control his racing heart, to ignore the cold sweat on his brow.
‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Nagash.’
Memories flooded back. There had been so much power concealed in that amulet, woven with such cunning and skill that Max could still not quite believe it. The thing had been trapped against just such an investigation as Max had attempted, and he had triggered the trap. It was a wonder that he had survived at all. He guessed he almost hadn’t. Nagash had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to protect his secrets but that was understandable. The Great Necromancer was hardly the only magician who had ever tried to keep his secrets from other mages. His protections has simply been more effective than most.
With just an instant’s warning Max had managed to shield himself against the brunt of the attack, yet still it had overwhelmed his defences. He knew he needed time now, to check for damage, to see if his mind had been tainted, if his memories were whole, if his skill…
Instinctively he reached out to grasp the winds of magic. Power flowed. He grasped at its flows and wove them into a probe; then, realising how weak he still was, he released the power. At least he could still work magic, he thought. His skills were still intact.
He realised that Felix was gawking at him and his hand was on his sword. ‘What is it?’
‘Your eyes started to glow and you sat directly up. From the look on your face I thought you might attack me.’
‘No. I was just testing to see if… if I was still capable of working magic.’
Felix nodded, although it was plain from his expression that he still did not understand. ‘What has Nagash got to do with the Eye of Khemri?’
‘He made it. He made it a long time ago, and with a specific purpose. I managed to divine at least that much before the trap was sprung.’
‘What does it do?’
Max thought about it. He was sure that he had known the purpose of the Eye, but it was buried in his mind now underneath the cascade of horrific dreams and visions. Given time, he would be able to put it all back together. Given time he would remember. At least he hoped he would.
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Yet?’
Max did not feel like explaining the whole situation to Felix at that moment. ‘Things are still a little confused in my mind. It will come back.’
Another thought struck him. ‘Where’s Ulrika?’
Felix’s reaction surprised him. If he had blasted the young man with magic he could not have looked more pained. Suddenly it occurred to him that there might have been a reason for Felix’s drinking, and his slow, hesitant tone of voice. ‘She’s not dead, is she? What happened? What happened in Andriev’s mansion?’
Felix told him. Max listened. What he heard did not make him happy. When Felix finished, he glanced around. ‘Where are my robes? I must be up and about. We must find her.’
Felix gave him an ironic grin. ‘How? Gotrek and I have walked our feet off looking for her. We’ve wandered all over the city, checked every graveyard, and followed every rumour of a magician’s presence. Nothing. Ivan Petrovich has had his men sweep the area around the city. Nothing. The duke has given Krieger and Ulrika’s description to every gate guard. Guess what? Nothing.’
Max did not like Felix’s tone or his appearance. ‘So after that you took to investigating every tavern and the bottom of every beer glass to see if you could find her there?’ he asked nastily.
Felix’s fingers whitened on the hilt of his sword then a guilty expression played over his face. ‘I could think of nothing more to do. I tried everything I could think of and nothing worked. I was hoping that you would be able to do something, when you recovered. That is why I was waiting here.’
He sounded so obviously distressed that Max took pity on him. ‘You did the right thing then. I can find her. At least I hope I can.’
‘How? Magic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you are better at this than half the diviners in the city.’
‘I have an advantage over them.’
‘What is that?’
‘I cast a spell of location on the talisman before I began investigating it. With any luck it still holds and I can track it down.’
‘So you can find the amulet. That doesn’t mean you can find her.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Felix. Krieger went to a lot of trouble to get the thing. I doubt he would just fling it away. Particularly not if it’s as powerful as I believe it is. No dark magician would do anything other than keep it and try and use it. If I can find the talisman, I can find him, and if I can find him, we can find Ulrika.’
‘If she’s still alive. If he hasn’t offered her up as a sacrifice to some dark god. If…’
Max cut Felix off with a gesture of his hands although his words had almost stopped his heart with fear. Ulrika must be alive. She could not be dead. Max loved her and he would not allow it to be so. Realistically, there was every chance that Felix’s suspicions were correct but he would not allow himself to consider the possibility.
‘Pull yourself together, man. If we find him and she’s alive, we will free her. If she’s dead…’ His mouth went dry just saying the words, and he felt like his tongue would not move. He forced himself to go on. ‘If she’s dead, I will have vengeance on Krieger and all who might follow him.’
Felix straightened, and the wild glint in his eye died down slightly. He let go of his sword and ran his hand across his chin as if realising for the first time how unkempt his stubble had become.
‘How soon can you start?’ he asked.
‘As soon as I am out of this bed. And Felix…’
‘What?’
‘Get some rest. You look like hell.’
‘Are you sure this will work?’ asked Ivan Petrovich Straghov for the hundredth time.
Max sighed with exasperation and glanced back at the walls of the city. Felix could tell he was still exhausted. He was keeping himself going by sheer force of will, and the march boyar’s constant badgering was wearing him out.
‘If you do not trust in my magic you are welcome to take your men and ride off in any direction you please,’ said the wizard. His tone made it clear he was at the end of his patience. For a moment, the old man looked as if he might just do that. Worry about his daughter was making him even less restrained than usual, and he had not been a patient man to begin with.
‘I am sure Max is more than capable of finding your daughter,’ said Felix diplomatically. Felix wanted the old man and the twenty riders he had brought with him. Riding through Kislev in the depths of winter was bad at the best of times. Now, with the Chaos horde on the move, and maybe skaven in the area, it could be downright suicidal. This might well suit Gotrek and Snorri but Felix had every intention of living to set Ulrika free, and twenty hardened veterans of the northern marches along with their stout leader greatly increased the odds of this.
Ivan stood for a moment, then slapped Max so heart
ily on the back that he started a coughing fit. ‘I did not mean to insult you, Max, my friend, it’s just…’
Max looked wretched but he gave the boyar a wan smile, and said, ‘I understand. We are all worried about her too.’
Felix looked at their small caravan. Each of the riders had brought two extra ponies. There were three sleds, for the supplies, for Max and for the dwarfs. All of the sleds were piled high with food and grain. Felix hoped that it would be enough. Not for the first time he wished he had known when or if Malakai Makaisson would return with the Spirit of Grungni. There had been no word of the great airship for days and they could wait no longer. The Slayer engineer had muttered something about refitting at the Iron Tower when last he had seen him. If only he were here now, their mission would have been so much simpler.
Gotrek and Snorri eyed the ponies warily. Both dwarfs were of the opinion that horses were only good for eating but even they could see the point of taking sledges in this weather. Felix only hoped the beasts could endure the cold better than he was doing. Even through two layers of clothing and the thickest cloak and gloves he could find he was freezing. He wished he were back inside the White Boar warming his hands by the fire and glugging down hot spiced wine. The illness that had plagued him for weeks had returned during his drinking spree, and neither the priestesses’ herbs nor Max’s spells seemed to be of much help. He just hoped things did not get any worse.
‘Time to go,’ said Gotrek, clambering onto the sled behind Felix and giving the ponies a threatening look. If the animals were capable of reading murderous glares they would have known that they had better behave themselves. Snorri clambered up beside Max. Ivan himself took the reins of the third sledge. The riders spread out in formation. A pair of scouts moved ahead, another two pairs watched the flanks, and a rearguard dropped back to watch their tail. The rest rode along in a double line ahead of them.