by Warhammer
Max knew they were fumbling in the dark with little or no light to guide them. They had fitted together hints and vague memories and suspicions to make a theory concerning their foe and what he wanted, but it was by no means certain that what they thought was correct. All they could do was move on and hope that when the time came they would be ready for the vampire’s onslaught.
Overhead the Chaos moon burned so bright that Mannsleib seemed dim. Adolphus Krieger strode through the forest surrounding his new keep. So far his minions had not had time to clear the land and make a killing ground, but that would all change soon. He smiled, revealing his fangs.
He felt strong. The Eye of Khemri was his. His spell of summoning had gone out across the land. Already ghouls and other creatures of the darkness had begun to gather at his call. He knew that in their submerged dreams all of the children within a hundred leagues were beginning to feel the tug of his will. Soon the aristocracy of the night would gather at his home and plan the reconquest of all that had been theirs.
Tonight he had another purpose. His strides had taken him to the massive graveyard, hidden deep within the woods not far from the tumbled down ruins of Drakenhof town. It was a huge area, originally consecrated to Morr, the Lord of Death. It was a place where once men had thought to lie in peace through all eternity, a sanctuary, a place of rest.
Adolphus intended to change all of that. Tonight, the cemetery would be turned into a recruiting office for the mightiest army in all of history. Tonight, he would raise the first of many regiments to be drawn from the ranks of the dead.
He touched the talisman and felt its power. As he did so, he seemed to hear a voice whispering to him, telling him potent secrets of necromancy. Somehow, since he had attuned the Eye, his understanding of sorcery had deepened.
Ancient incantations that had once seemed meaningless to him were now pregnant with hidden significance. He could visualise and control the flows of dark magic with an ease that surprised him. He had always been an indifferent student of the magical arts, but now he felt given enough time he would prove to be one of their greatest masters. It appeared that there was no end to the gifts Nagash’s ancient creation granted. Who knows, given time, he might match that ancient liche for knowledge and create such potent artefacts himself.
He pushed the thought aside. Such sweet dreams were for the future. Right now, he had more important work to do. Right now, he must take his next steps along the path of empire. There were prophecies to be fulfilled. It was his duty to herald the Age of Blood.
Lithely he leapt atop the defaced remains of an ancient mausoleum. From here, he had a fine view of the entire graveyard. He could see the masses of tumbled gravestones, broken-limbed statues, effigies of the now-forgotten dead who would soon return to be his soldiers.
He cast back his head, opened his mouth and began to enunciate the words of the ancient ritual.
‘In the name of Nagash, Lord of Undeath, I call you…’
The Eye blazed at his throat, a beacon sending a cold clear light out to illuminate his surroundings. The winds of magic swirled around him, caressing him lightly as they flowed into the talisman.
‘In the name of Nagash, Lord of Unlife, you must come…’
Burning snakes of fire twisted and turned in his belly. For once, there was no struggle to control them. All of this energy was his to command. Dark magical power flowed through him and down into the tainted soil of Sylvania.
The tendrils of power spread like an elaborate root system. He could sense through them, an odd mixture of sight and touch and other unnamed perceptions. He became aware of the many hundreds of corpses planted in the earth, preserved for centuries by the faint taint of warpstone in the soil. He saw the bloated white worms burrowing, and other twisted creatures that even he found dreadful to contemplate.
As the web of power touched the corpses there came a faint echo of the life that had once burned so strongly within them. Here was a proud nobleman who had ground his peasants to dirt. There was a knight who in life had been a proud defender of his faith. He touched a woman who had died painfully in childbirth and a man who had died of hunger during one of the many periodic famines that wracked Sylvania.
Krieger did not care how they had died. He did not care what they once had been in life. He only cared that they would serve him in death. His spell opened up a path to somewhere else, another world parallel to his own, a seething sea of wild chaotic energies in which evil presences lurked. Some of the weakest drifted towards the spirits and entered the rotting bodies, merging with them, lending them animation.
In his mind’s eye, he saw green witchfires spring to life in empty eye sockets. He saw white bony limbs move, skeletal fingers flex. Worm-eaten skeletons shifted, swimmers plunging through a sea of dirt. It did not matter that they had been buried face down to confuse them in the event of just such a dark resurrection. They sensed the direction of the power that drew them, and they came.
Wriggling, writhing, twisting and turning, they clawed their way to the surface. His voice was a high-pitched wail as he recited the ancient forbidden words. The earth below him vibrated as hundreds of dead woke from their long slumber. Somewhere off in the distance a wolf howled in terror. The eerie hunting calls of ghouls ripped the night as they responded subconsciously to the energies they sensed being unleashed.
A grin of triumph twisted his lips. He opened his eyes. Lines of power shimmered in the air. As if in response to his thaumaturgy, a shower of glowing stars fell from the heavens, blazing across the leering face of the Chaos moon. Eerie green contrails raked the night, as if the talons of some huge predatory beast had shredded the parchment-thin surface of the sky.
A faint white speck appeared on the ground. It might have been the head of one of those albino worms he had seen in the depths, but it was not. It was a fingertip. Four near identical slivers of ivory then a whole skeletal arm followed, emerging from the earth, flailing in the empty air like that of a swimmer drowning in deep water.
The palm of the arm pushed flat against the ground, gaining leverage, and the rest of the skeleton appeared. First came the skull, with its glowing eyes and leering evil smile, then came the ribcage and the other arm, followed by the spine, the hips and the strangely elongated-looking legs. The first of Adolphus’s newly recruited army emerged into the night, and stretched exultantly, lifting its arms skywards in triumph. As it moved, it clicked. Its grinning jaws opened and then shut in a deranged parody of a man sucking in huge breaths.
The stink of corruption and fresh-turned earth filled the air, as more and more animated corpses pulled themselves upwards in the moon’s pale light. Gravestones tumbled; old markers fell as the skeletons emerged. Some of them looked around, heads scanning their surroundings, necks creaking faintly as they moved. Others danced wildly amid the tombstones, as if testing their mobility after centuries of being interred. A few nodded gravely as if they understood what was happening and approved.
Then one by one, clicking as they moved, they drew closer to Krieger and abased themselves like worshippers of some dreadful ancient god before a bloodstained altar.
Tonight, he thought, a new age begins. Tonight, I have taken my first step towards an empire that will last throughout eternity. Tonight will be remembered a thousand years hence. I too will remember it.
He spoke more words, drew more power and extended the spell outwards, sending dark magical energies tumbling in an ever-expanding sphere for leagues upon leagues. Everywhere the spell touched, the dead began to move in their graves.
At his throat the talisman of Nagash glowed like the eye of an evil god. The Time of Blood had arrived.
Max looked up from the fire around which they sat huddled. He could tell that they all sensed it, the stirrings of that vast power somewhere in the forest. One did not have to be a wizard to notice. The pulse was so strong that even the most ungifted yokel would feel it and know dread. By the way even the most hardened Kislevite shuddered and glanced out in
to the surrounding gloom, he could tell that they felt it too.
If such a thing was noticeable to someone lacking the talent, it was like a thunderclap to Max. His entire being echoed to the power he sensed being unleashed. He knew that somewhere out there in the night, a spell of extreme potency was being woven. He could sense the direction as clearly as he could see a beacon burning in the night. He could feel the pressure of power moving across the land as surely as the pilot of a merchantman feels the wind. What was that undying madman up to, he wondered?
As if some celestial being were giving a sign of the evil to come, a clutch of meteors blazed through the night. From the colour of their fiery contrails, Max knew that they were made from warpstone, the concentrated essence of pure evil. What was it about this land that attracted the stuff so, Max wondered? Why did it seem to receive an inordinate concentration of this dreadful starfalls? An accident of geography? Like calling to like? The curse of the gods? Or was this starfall’s appearance something to do with the spell he had just sensed being cast. Would he ever know?
Even as the thought flickered through his mind, he sensed a further rending of the fabric of reality. It was strong enough so he could tell the exact direction and distance, and yet distant enough so that he merely felt uncomfortable. He suspected that had he been closer he would be enduring far more than a faint sense of nausea and dizziness.
He rose reluctantly from the fire and walked towards the small pavilion where the Countess Gabriella was resting. A gesture and a word called a ball of light into being. It floated at his shoulder illumining his way. Another gesture and an incantation and a web of energy sprang into being around him, invisible to any eyes but that of a mage. Anyone or anything, any spell or malign influence, would trip a number of powerful defensive spells. Max was taking no chances.
Outside the tent, Rodrik’s companions met him with bared blades but Rodrik himself was nowhere to be seen.
‘What do you want, wizard?’ asked the youngest of them. His voice was high-pitched and faintly effeminate. In the glow of the witchlight Max could clearly see his fresh face with a small caterpillar of a moustache crawling over his upper lip. The boy sounded at once a little scared and desperate to prove his bravery.
‘I want to speak to the Countess Gabriella.’
‘It’s all right, Quentin. Let him pass.’ The voice of the countess sounded from within the tent. The young warriors stepped aside reluctantly. Max gave them a pleasant smile, although his flesh crawled knowing what they were. Despite his defensive web, he half expected a sword in the back as he pulled aside the tent flap and let himself in.
Inside the air smelled of musk and cinnamon, a strong perfume meant to cover the smell of something else. Undead flesh, perhaps. An Arabyan rug covered the floor. Two heavy chests were set to one side. Aside from his own glowing globe there was no source of light within the tent. He supposed its occupants did not need it.
Rodrik lay sprawled on the floor. He looked exhausted and ecstatic. His face was flushed. His lips were bruised and swollen. His eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing. His breathing came in ragged gasps, like a man who had just run a long race. The countess lay beside him. Her arms were wrapped round his shoulders. Her head was thrown back. Her veil was still in place. Judging from the scene, Max had no doubt he had just missed watching her take her evening meal from her follower’s veins.
Coldly and deliberately, Max reviewed all the swiftest and most destructive spells he knew. With a gesture the glowglobe could be turned into an engine of destruction. A word and a more complex weave would send hundreds of streamers of razor-edged light slashing through the gloom. Another word would encase him in a cocoon of protective energies. He breathed deeply, and smiled in a relaxed manner, all the while ready to deal death in a heartbeat.
‘There is no need for violence between us, Herr Schreiber,’ said the countess. It was almost as if she had read his thoughts. She sounded amused.
‘Let us hope so,’ said Max, not letting his guard down for an instant.
‘Do not dare to threaten milady,’ said Rodrik weakly, struggling to rise to his feet. His voice sounded slurred, like a man who had drunk too much or overindulged in witchweed.
‘It is unwise to threaten me,’ said Max, in return letting his eyes move from the knight to the woman so there was no doubt as to his meaning. ‘Leave us, Rodrik. I would have words with your mistress.’ Despite himself Max could not help but stress the last word to play on its ambiguity.
Rodrik looked up blearily at the countess. She stroked his cheek almost affectionately and nodded her permission. The young knight gathered his wits and reeled to his feet, before staggering to the exit.
‘If you need me, milady, I will be within call.’
‘His devotion is truly touching,’ said Max ironically, after Rodrik had executed a clumsy bow and left.
‘His devotion is quite sincere and unforced I assure you, Herr Schreiber. And I am sure you did not come here simply to sneer at my admirers.’
‘A nice way to put it,’ said Max.
‘I take it Herr Jaeger has told you all about me then. I thought as much from your manner on the ride.’
‘Let us make one thing clear,’ said Max. ‘I do not like you or what you are. At the moment we happen to be allies because we have need of each other. Under different circumstances, we would be enemies.’
‘You are forthright, Herr Schreiber. Very well, we need each other, as you say, so I will forgive your boorish manners and the way you have entered cloaked in power, and I will discuss things like a reasonable person. I suggest you do the same.’
Max smiled at her coldly. The rebuke had been delivered well, in the tone of a parent admonishing a surly child. Many men would have been cowed by that alone. Max was not one of them.
‘Your protégé, Krieger, has begun his work. You must have sensed that as clearly as I.’
‘Why do you think I took the risk of asking Rodrik to join me in my tent? I will soon need all the strength I can muster, so will you. I fear that my get has become very strong indeed.’
‘I had understood that he was an indifferent sorcerer. The spell cast this evening was not the work of a clumsy journeyman.’
‘Then we can assume that either he has learned a great deal over the past few years, or that the Eye of Khemri is augmenting his capabilities in that area.’
‘If that is so we face a truly terrifying foe.’
‘And one who is summoning an army to him unless I miss my guess, Herr Schreiber. What we both sensed was necromancy of the darkest and most potent sort. Believe me, I have enough experience of this to know.’
‘And what does your experience tell you we should do?’
‘Hurry to Krieger’s fortress and destroy him, if we can. Already I can feel the power of the Eye growing in my mind. He is summoning the Arisen, and it’s a tug that few within a hundred leagues will be able to resist.’
‘You are saying that perhaps he can turn you against us?’
‘Yes, Herr Schreiber, that is exactly what I am saying. You see, I am giving you fair warning of all hazards.’
Max looked at her, measuring her words. In a way, he would welcome the chance to destroy this creature, but part of him also hoped it would not come to that, for then it would be a truly desperate situation indeed. She nodded her head, as if reading his mind once more.
‘I believe I can fight Krieger’s influence for a long time. I am much older, and more skilled in these arts than he.’
‘I think the Eye of Khemri might change that.’
‘You should know. You have had more contact with it than I.’
‘Tell me all you know about it.’
Max settled down to listen to the vampire’s tale, looking for any contradictions between what she told him and what she had told Felix. He already suspected he would find none. As he gave his attention to her clear, soothing voice, he found his thoughts turning to Ulrika. He truly dreaded what might have happened to
her.
Ulrika woke in darkness. She felt weak and strange. There was something wrong with her eyes. She could see her surroundings quite clearly but they had been drained of all colour. Everything was in varying shades of black and white.
She pushed herself upright. The motion made her dizzy. Her whole body ached. Her head was sore. Her stomach churned. Pains stabbed through her mouth. She looked around. She lay on cold stone, in a crypt. It looked as if she were entombed in a burial chamber of some sort. A wave of panic passed through her. Was she imprisoned within some tomb, mistakenly believed to be dead, when all the while she had been alive?
It could have been worse, she supposed. She could have been interred within a coffin. At least she would be up and about when they came to bury her. If they came to bury her. What had happened? She suspected that Krieger had drunk so deep of her blood that she had fallen into a death-like trance. It would be a mistake that was easy to make.
The thought of the vampire and that final embrace sent a wave of conflicting emotions through her: hatred, resentment– and secret guilty pleasure. She stretched and rose to prowl around the room. It was small, with carvings of skeletons, skulls and other symbols of death engraved into the walls. She sniffed the air. Her senses seemed keener than once they had been. She could smell the dust, and the faint scent of a cinnamon perfume Krieger used. Underneath lay the faintest hint of decay. She could smell mould in the air, and off in the distance she caught the warm smell of living things. She listened and thought she caught the sound of footsteps far away.
The burning hunger grew stronger. Responding to some primal instinct, she moved towards the exit. She reached a stairwell and found it barred. A gate of rusty yet ornate metalwork blocked the way out. Typical of Sylvanians, she thought, to turn even their mausoleums into prison cells, as if somehow the dead might escape from their internment. She shook her head. What had happened to her showed that they might have some justification. That sent her thoughts racing in a direction she did not yet want to follow. Instead she tested the bars, feeling the cold of the metal beneath her fingers.