“A sorcerer? We couldn’t. Magic… it is outlawed. We couldn’t sanction such a flagrant sin. It cannot be the only way, surely?”
“Do you want to catch the beast, man? We need magic, and I don’t care a whit about your sensibilities. Without a magician we could be chasing round like blue-arsed flies, there’s a huge world out there with places to hide, but any dead thing leaves the reek of corruption in the air. It ain’t natural, see. What happens is the world cries out against it. Now, a good magician can smell the stink of a vampire on the winds of magic as the beast passes. With a magician, we can track the beasts from their own stench, and holy men are better for fighting the dead than even the best swordsmen. They’ve got faith and weapons.”
The young acolyte nodded sickly. His eyes were haunted. His hand hovered an inch above the librarian’s shoulder, unable to rest on the dead man’s shell. It was painfully obvious that he was remembering the countless times he had spent with the old man, talking, learning, and thinking about a better world. The events of the last hour had corroded a part of his soul. He would never be the same again. Kallad knew full well what was happening to the priest, it was the forge of life, he was being tempered by the evils of the world. He would either shatter or come out of the fire hardened and able to deal with the very worst the world had to throw at him.
“Nevin Kantor,” the acolyte said at last, turning his back on the others. The church holds his life forfeit for the abomination of petty magics. He is due to be executed by Grimm’s guards I believe. Perhaps I can barter his freedom in return for him serving you? No promises, dwarf. Be ready at dawn. I will do what I can.”
When he had gone, Mann dragged out a chair and sank into it. “The vampire wasn’t alone.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Kallad agreed. “Someone helped the beast to escape.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Or what?” And that was what disturbed the dwarf. The violence was inhuman.
“You think another one of them did it?”
“Tell me, thief, could you deliver someone you hated to this kind of death? I mean truly hated, not just disliked. Feel the blackness of it in your gut and tell me, could you do this?”
Mann thought about it for a moment and shook his head. “No. There’s no humanity in it.”
“Exactly. Manlings may kill, no denying that. They’re inventive when it comes to death. Sometimes they dress it up an” make like it is all noble, with rituals and duels, and sometimes it is vindictive, a knife in the night driven home by spite. But this, well I don’t know about you, but this goes beyond any notion of spite I’ve ever known. Makes me think that maybe there’s something to that story of yours, truth be told.”
Slowly, all trace of colour drained from the thief s face. He cast a fretful glance at the blinded corpse of the librarian as he laid his wrists on the table. “You think it is him, don’t you?”
Kallad Stormwarden nodded. “Aye, I think it’s him.”
“He’s come to finish me because I know about the ring. Oh, sweet Sigmar!”
“Don’t look to your god. This is your chance to reclaim your life. Stand up and fight or roll over and play dead, it’s your choice and only you can make it. You’re alive now, even when all these others aren’t. That means it’s not about you, not this time. Now, I’ll only ask once, come with us in the morning. Slay the beast and get your life back.”
Mann stared at the dwarf, and even before he opened his mouth Kallad could hear the excuses shaping on his tongue.
“But what can I do? I’m a cripple, not some hero. I can’t even wipe my own… How can I slay a vampire? Tell me what I can do.”
“Anything you want. Anything you want. Think about it.”
With the invitation hanging between them, Kallad left the library.
The priests had done a sweep of the cathedral, in every chamber, every storeroom, through the mausoleums and the crypts, even up in the vaults and on the rooftops. The beast was gone.
The long process of gathering the dead had begun. Grimm’s guards had been summoned and word of the murders was out. Every bustle of movement was tinged with panic. It would take a long time for these people to recover from this invasive death. It was one thing to experience death, after all, Morr came for everyone eventually, but it was quite another to experience this kind of slaughter. Hardened soldiers weren’t expected to face a cathedral more akin to a charnel house, and those that did lived with nightmares for the rest of their lives. Simple men like these would never be the same again. They had lost more than their brothers to the butchery, they had lost a part of themselves: their innocence.
That night could easily have been any of many nights from the dark days of the siege. The shadow of the vampires hung over the city once more, a grim shade that dredged up the worst and most painful memories of those desperate times. Kallad wasn’t immune. He sat alone, removed from the soldiers as they fought to impose order over the panic of the clerics, remembering Grunberg.
“Will I never be free of these daemons?” he asked himself, staring at the dancing flames of the bonfire. The soldiers were burning the dead men’s clothes.
“None of us will, dwarf,” the thief said, coming up to stand beside him. “Our dreams will never be as empty again. We will never know the love of a good woman or the companionship of good friends. Our love now is vengeance, our friends: hatchet, axe and sword.”
“You are not as thoughtless as you would have others believe, are you, thief?”
“It would seem not. I’ll not be coming with you, dwarf. Our roads go in different directions come dawn. That doesn’t mean I intend to give up on life. There is something I need to do. Who knows, perhaps our roads will cross once more, some place far from here.”
“That saddens me, manling. Intelligent company is hard to come by. Still, I hope you find what you’re looking for at the road’s end.”
“Personally, I hope I never find the road’s end. That’s where we differ, dwarf. I’m not looking for the end. I thought I was. I thought I was looking for an end to life, because I didn’t want to live it. What I should have been looking for was a turning point, a fork stuck in the road to show me where my new life began. There are so many directions we can go. We don’t need to be in a hurry to get where we are going. Sometimes we need to remember that the journey itself is as important as getting to the destination.”
“And you’re ready to start travelling again?”
“I’m ready to start travelling again.”
“And you’re not just running away because your daemons scare you?”
“Of course I am, dwarf.” Felix Mann smiled. “I’m getting the hell out of here and running as far away as I can, any half-wit would. If I am lucky I’ll find somewhere I can start living again without being reminded of the beast every waking moment of every god-damned day. I want to die old and happy, dwarf. Metal hands or not, if I come with you that won’t happen. Think of it as self-preservation.”
Kallad nodded, the flames reflected in his eyes. A soldier cast a bloodstained robe into the fire.
“Sometimes all we need to do is forget. Thing is, we can burn every last memory and we still can’t manage it. Some old ghosts don’t like to be laid to rest. You do what you have to. Anything’s better than being left here to rot. May your god go with you, manling.”
“And yours, you.”
“Aye, I’ll be needing all the help I can get.”
The priests left Kallad alone. Word had spread among them that he was leaving in the morning to hunt the vampire that had shattered the serenity of their cathedral. It hadn’t turned him into their hero. There were no hearty slaps on the back, no unending flagons of ale to dampen his fears and wish him well on his way. Their looks left him in no doubt as to how they judged him. To them, he was a killer, just as the beast he hunted was a killer: there was no intrinsic difference in their eyes. He was the second bringer of death to walk the passageways of their home that day. It didn’t so muc
h puzzle him as sadden him.
Kallad was a killer, he knew that, he had killed many many times in his life, but he slew monsters. He protected those that couldn’t protect themselves, people like the priests of Sigmar. He avenged those who had fallen, people like the priests of Sigmar. His kind of death was no arbitrary thing. Only the young acolyte was different, he was the only one that saw that Kallad wasn’t a monster.
“Not yet, at least.” Kallad said to himself.
There was always the possibility, however, that a killer like Kallad could cross the line without ever realising it, becoming judge, jury and father confessor to the damned. It was a thin dark line to tread, with either side falling away into madness. The dwarf knew that. He was intensely aware that Ruinthorn brought death, and fiercely determined that it should only deliver to those deserving it. He had, after all, earned the name Stormwarden. It wasn’t his people’s way to easily grant names.
Kallad didn’t want to be around the priests and the soldiers as they buried their own, so he retreated into the cathedral in search of an-empty cell. A few hours sleep would do him good.
There was a chill about the place that hadn’t been there during the day, as if the soul of the place had iced over come sundown. He found a room with a simple cot and blanket, and lay down to catch a few hours’ sleep.
The thief had the right of it: the chance of Kallad growing old was slim at best. It was never something he had worried unduly over. He had sworn an oath to avenge his people. He would do that or die trying. From the moment he had stepped into the tunnels that led into the mountains around Grunberg he had ceased to be his own person and become an instrument of fate. On nights like these he felt the weight of it, but it was his burden to carry, and carry it he would.
Too tired to care, Kallad climbed into the cot fully clothed, drawing the blanket up over his chest, and closing his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, sleep was slow in coming, and when it did, it was fitful and disturbed. Scattered dreams were plagued with memories of Grunberg, the woman Gretchen and her baby. He dreamed of them often, wracked by guilt over his own actions. Even now, he was unable to come to terms with the fact that he had killed a child—even though the child was dead and turned, and was nothing more than a parasite feeding on its mother’s tit. It didn’t matter that he had had no choice. It didn’t matter that it had become a monster. When he slept, he saw only a child, an innocent baby, dead at his feet, his axe bloody in his clenched fists. Kallad tossed and turned, Gretchen’s screams bringing him back to jarring consciousness. Only they weren’t Gretchen’s screams. A priest somewhere in the labyrinth of the cathedral wept while another cried out, and another keened for the dead while others chanted, their lament far more unnerving than any tears. Together, the sounds had become the screams of his dream. He listened to the outpouring of grief. These people would never be the same again.
Long before the night was out, he gave up trying to sleep and went to sit in the secluded grove beside the Grand Theogonist’s grave.
There, at last, he found peace.
The token he had pressed into the dirt reflected the twin glows of Morrslieb and Mannslieb.
“Peace be with you, brothers,” he said to the ghosts of the dead, knowing that their souls would have begun the long journey to Morr’s underworld.
Come the first blush of dawn, the acolyte found the dwarf sitting beneath the weeping tree, eyes closed, Ruinthorn balanced across his lap. The young priest wasn’t alone. Two more nervous-looking Sigmarites accompanied him.
“I talked to my brothers after prayers last night, urging them to help. It seems my request fell on deaf ears, or frightened ones. I could not get your fighters. However, we would come with you, master dwarf. These are my brothers, Joachim Akeman and Korin Reth.” The two men nodded to the dwarf. “And my name is Reimer Schmidt. I have been assured that three of Captain Grimm’s guards will meet us at the postern gate. Here at least I have not failed you. I am told the guards are most eager to avenge their leader. These are good men, brave, unflinching in battle, veterans of the siege. They know what they are hunting better than most.”
“And what of the mage?” Kallad asked without opening his eyes.
“His parole has been agreed, on condition.”
“I don’t like the sounds of that.”
“No, I didn’t imagine you would. The magician’s life is forfeit, but the witch hunter Helmut van Hal has agreed that the freak can serve your quest as it feeds the greater good, but in return, when his usefulness to the quest is over he is to be… neutralised.”
“I don’t kill in cold blood. It’s what separates me from the monsters I hunt.”
“Then Kantor will stay here and die as is fitting for a soul touched by Chaos.”
“It must be good to be you, priest, content in your world of absolutes,” Felix Mann muttered, coming up behind the priests. He was packed to travel, a small satchel slung over his shoulder. “Personally I couldn’t care less what happens to the magician. I’m pretty damned sure it’s his fault that I ever ended up in this mess, so I can’t pretend that it would worry me unduly if he fell off the end of the world in some tragic accident.”
“Are you coming with us, thief?” the young acolyte, Reimer Schmidt, asked. Kallad grinned at the holy man’s discomfort. Travelling with killers and thieves was probably more than his principles could bear.
“Hardly Only a fool would follow the dwarf where he’s going, and I stopped being a fool sometime last night. What can I say? Better a live cripple than a dead hero.”
“You disgust me, thief.”
“I’m rather proud of him, myself,” Kallad said. “Well men, let’s wish Herr Mann well on his journeys, wherever the road might take him, and go fetch us a magician, shall we?”
“So you agree to the terms of his release?”
“I never said that. It’s a long road and things can happen, let’s leave it at that shall we?”
“Then van Hal won’t release him into your custody.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, eh? Me and Ruinthorn here can be very persuasive when we have to be.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Curse of the White Wolf
THE CITY OF THE WHITE WOLF, MIDDENHEIM
The dead of winter, 2055
It was an impossible task.
Jerek von Carstein knew it the moment that Konrad had confided in him, but the new Count would not be dissuaded. Konrad could not deny that the vampire nation needed rebuilding if it was to survive the scourge that was mankind, but the humans were hardly the sole enemy of the dead. They were their own worst enemies. The truth of it was all around him. The livestock around the castle were pitifully weak, drained to the point of anaemic uselessness by the few surviving vampires that had made it back to Drakenhof—restraint was not in their nature. They fed as they needed to feed. These were the last of their kind. Gone was the noblesse of Vlad von Carstein, and with it the wisdom of the Vampire Count. Vlad had known better than to exhaust the fresh blood around his castle. He cultivated the cattle, raising them for food, not slaughter.
Not so this new breed.
They understood only the most basic of urges. They hungered, so they fed. They didn’t care that they were killing more and more humans, they were only cattle after all. They didn’t care that there were none to replace the dead. There would always be more humans. That was their purpose: to be slaughtered for food to sate the never-ending hunger of the beast. Their lives were inconsequential.
Jerek had walked amongst them during the nights that followed Konrad’s visit. It took no great wisdom to see that the remaining cattle would not make strong vampires. He had argued passionately with the new Count, trying to make him see how unsound his reasoning was. Better the few vampires that they had than swelling their ranks with the dregs of humanity. The weak would always fail, it was in their nature. A weak human would become a weak vampire. Weakening the bloodline was a mistake.
Konrad listened, bu
t in listening twisted everything Jerek said to fit his own idea. All he succeeded in doing was convincing Konrad that the Hamaya must go abroad in search of new blood, blood worthy of being sired into the unlife. Each of the five Hamaya must seek out and sire five gets.
Jerek had argued against it because it would weaken the vampires, but Konrad had insisted. He had a vision of a new breed: the deadliest of the species come together as his people. That in turn demanded that their choices be careful ones. Konrad was right: these new gets were the future of their people. In turn, every new get would be forced to sire five of their own, and so on, making unlife a plague amongst the living once more. He couldn’t deny that the plan had strategic merits.
The Hamaya were hand-picked from the survivors of Altdorf, the best of the best, most loyal to Konrad’s claim to the title Count, strategists and bladesmen forged into an elite band of brothers. The bond between them was as close, Jerek swore, as any he had experienced in his other life as the White Wolf of Middenheim. They were not simply ruthless killers devoid of conscience and scruple. They were not undisciplined beasts driven by the base needs of their kin. They were more than that. They still had something—a spark of humanity that made them so much more than simply mindless beasts.
Jerek had picked them himself for exactly that reason. He knew that left to his own devices Konrad would have simply culled a handful of the most ruthless creatures from within his menagerie of monsters and erected a cordon of fangs around himself, hoping it was enough to ward off the inevitable. That was by far the biggest difference between the two: where Konrad saw weakness in humanity Jerek saw strength. That, perhaps, said more about the Wolf than it did about his master.
“Every leader needs one truth speaker amongst the gaggle of flatterers. Never be afraid to speak your mind, my friend,” Konrad had said. Never be afraid to speak your mind. They were easy words to say, but far from easy ones to live by in the court of the new Vampire Count. “Few have the courage to stand behind their own words. I am no fool, Wolf. I know I have my share of flatterers, but I would be a fool if I ignored my one truth speaker.”
[Von Carstein 02] - Dominion Page 7