[Von Carstein 02] - Dominion

by Steve Savile - (ebook by Undead)

  And they did. They killed both men and women, but they only fed on the women.

  Two men died in their beds, fat with the gluttony of the truly rich, another had his neck broken and was thrown down the stairs, two more were given lessons in flight that they failed to master and died sprawled out across the cobbled streets.

  The dead were not left to rot.

  Together, Skellan and the stranger hauled them up to the rooftops where they impaled the corpses on thatching spikes and lightning rods, making scarecrows out of them. Seventeen more men died that night, only to be mounted like stuffed animals along the rooftops of the old town, but it wasn’t about the men. The women suffered fates worse than death and degradation.

  In all, they dined on eleven Liebowitz women.

  As with their men, the corpses were stripped and impaled, upside down, through the mouth and down the throat, and left to feed the birds on the rooftops, but not before the pair had savoured their flesh to the fullest.

  Even in the grip of the blood frenzy, the stranger was ruthlessly selective in his treatment of the cattle. He took only the best meat for himself, leaving Skellan to please himself with his cast-offs even as he moved on in search of better game.

  Skellan followed him into the last house, the one the stranger had claimed for himself, into the woman’s bedchamber, to where she lay beneath the sumptuous scarlet covers of her divan. The stranger moved silently to the bedside and knelt, whispering something in her ear that caused her lips to part and a forlorn sigh to slip between them.

  Skellan lurked in the shadows, tasting his own blood as he bit into his lip. The stranger captivated him as he guided the woman, little by little, towards a willing death, until she finally loosed a single primal scream as the vampire’s teeth found her pulse and penetrated her supple flesh.

  The woman’s blood fresh on his lips, the stranger held her beautiful corpse in his arms, and turned to where Skellan lurked in the shadows. His smile was cold. He touched his fingers to her blood where it ran down his chin and began to daub his name, in her blood, on the wall above her bed.

  Three words, written in blood: Mannfred von Carstein.

  In that moment, Skellan understood the nature of the stranger’s power and the terror that this hidden message would inspire, claiming ownership of the slaughter as it did.

  She was the one they didn’t carry up to the roof. Instead they arranged her corpse so that it looked as if she merely slept deeply. It was a fragile illusion destroyed by the blood on the wall above her head.

  Part of Skellan resented the way the vampire treated him like some stupid lackey, but a bigger part of him admired the stranger’s economy of slaughter and the ritual aspect of it. The cattle would wake in the morning to find thirty-three naked corpses impaled on the rooftops of Nuln. It was a message that would be impossible to ignore.

  As Skellan walked away from the last of the Liebowitz houses, he wondered how many of the onlookers would understand the full irony of the message: that these deaths mirrored the fall of Vlad himself. It was not only savage: it was beautiful.

  The stranger was right: the cattle of Nuln would remember this night.

  The stranger. He had to stop thinking of him as that.

  The stranger had a name now: Mannfred von Carstein.

  Mannfred, Vlad’s firstborn.

  The moons were still high in the sky, shining their silver on the streets as Skellan and Mannfred shifted into lupine form and bounded away from the city. After the frenzy of blood, the fresh air was intoxicating. They ran on into the night, taking shelter before dawn in a hermit’s cave once they made certain the old man had no more use for it.

  They slept the whole day through, only waking deep into the following night. Despite the feast, they were both starving and cold.

  Skellan banked up a bundle of dry sticks and lit a small fire in the mouth of the cave. Outside, wolves howled, insects preened, their mating calls another layer to the music of the night, and bats flitted about the treeline.

  “I know who you are,” Skellan said, turning his back on the night.

  “I never tried to hide it,” Mannfred said, toying with the ring that he wore on his right hand. It was his only concession to adornment; he wore no other jewellery, no chains or broaches or other trinkets, only this solitary ring, which, Skellan had noticed, whenever he grew pensive he toyed with.

  “But you never told me.”

  “Oh, but I did, my young friend. I did. I told you many times, but you were not listening. I was his first, I said. He may not have loved me most, but he loved me longest, I said. I never hid who I was.”

  Skellan poked at the flames with a stick. He watched as the ashes scattered, conjuring a short-lived flame sprite. Finally he said what was on his mind.

  “Why are you here? Why are you hunting with me? Why aren’t you in Drakenhof claiming your kingdom? It’s rightfully yours.”

  “Indeed it is. I am here because there is nowhere else at this moment that I would rather be. I am not embroiled in a bitter war with our own kind because it is not time yet. Believe me, there is a time for everything.”

  Skellan looked sceptical.

  “You have spent time in the form of a wolf, I know, but how much time have you actually spent as a wolf?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Oh yes, in the form of a wolf, you shroud yourself in wolfs clothing—it is merely for appearance’s sake. If you surrender yourself, relinquish your grip on your identity and truly become a wolf, the petty concerns of this life cease to be important. You live to hunt and feed. You cease to be you and in turn take on the identity of the pack.”

  Skellan nodded.

  “What happens when the alpha male dies and the pack is left leaderless?”

  “The survivors fight for dominance.”

  Mannfred nodded. “They fight amongst themselves, the contenders asserting their right to rule by strength and cunning. What some don’t realise is that sometimes the fight needs more cunning than it does brute strength. Remember that every wolf is potentially deadly, even the runt of the litter. They circle and circle, looking for a moment to strike, and when that weakness arises they are bloodthirsty and brutal. They descend as one, bringing the opposition down, and pick the corpse clean. In any pack, the fight for leadership is bitter, and make no mistake, it could easily cripple the pack if too many males lock themselves into the fight for dominance.”

  “Is that what you are doing? Using your cunning instead of your strength?”

  “Fights are won by strength of arms, young bucks lock horns, it is all about bravado, swaggering and intimidating your enemy, but wars aren’t won that way. Wars are a long game won by strategy. Answer me this: why wrestle all of my brothers, Pieter, Hans, Fritz and Konrad, when I need only fight one of them? The others will have weakened that one. You see, my friend, there are times when it is better to stand back and watch them struggle, and then challenge the winner when the others are dead and gone, don’t you think?”

  Skellan couldn’t fault the logic.

  “It makes sense. So while you sit by idly, they give in to the wolf and strive for dominance, not for a moment suspecting that you are waiting in the wings to dethrone the victor.”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “It sounds exactly like that.”

  “Only I have no intention of waiting idly in the wings, as you so elegantly put it. There are things I must do, preparations that involve me going away for a while. They will be occupied, no doubt, chasing their own tails.” Mannfred reached inside his pack, drew out an oilskin-wrapped package and began loosening the ties that bound it together. Tenderly, he peeled back the skin to reveal a book. Laying it on the ground between them, he turned to the first page.

  Skellan couldn’t read the scratchy symbols that scrawled across the top sheet—the ink had faded, soaking into whatever it was the book’s maker had used for paper. It wasn’t parchment, that much Skellan could tell.

&
nbsp; Mannfred traced his finger over the crude design, lingering almost lovingly over the tail of what appeared to be a comet drawn in the centre of the page.

  There is power in this. More power than a fool like Konrad or an oaf like Pieter could ever dream of. While they strut and preen, and try to impress the lesser breed, let us learn from those long since departed. It was in this book, and in nine others like it, that Vlad found his strength. The wisdom of this book is unparalleled, but then its author was a genius. This is a distillation of power. The glimpse these pages give into the Dark Arts is unlike anything you can imagine, Skellan. With these words alone Vlad raised an army from the bowels of the earth: words, not swords. Words.”

  “And you would use them?”

  “I’d be a fool not to, and I may be many things, but I am no man’s fool. These are only the tip, like a berg of ice. These incantations offer a hint of the power that lies below the waterline. It is intoxicating, my friend, and I admit, I want it all, but I am not ready for it, not yet. I’d drown before I’d even tapped an ounce of this power.”

  “Then what good are they? All the spells in the world and you can’t use them.”

  “Oh I could use them, I could raise a great nation of the dead, I could despoil the lands of the living, turning it into a vast waste. With this power, I could shape the world to my whim, but in the process, I would lose myself. With great power comes far greater danger. Already I crave the power these offer. The temptation is huge to simply absorb all they have to offer and avenge our people, becoming a scourge on the Empire. It is already a canker in my unbeating heart. The thirst is unquenchable. I could destroy them. I could raise a glorious army with myself at its head. I could be worshipped and feared. The cattle would bow down at my feet and my enemies would tremble at my might. I want all of this and more—so much more. I dream of it at the height of day, and I dream of it as the shadows stretch towards dusk, I dream of it and I taste it, so real are my dreams. This world is mine, Skellan, mine for the taking. In my dreams I hold dominion. I rule.

  “But, I am no fool. This power would consume me. I couldn’t hope to contain it, not as I am. A wise man knows his limitations and weighs them against his ambitions. I know mine. I am no match for the maker of this book or the dark wisdom he imparted. Not yet, but I will be… I will be.”

  “I believe you,” Skellan said, and he did.

  “And yet, you have no idea what it is you see before you. Blind faith. Well, my blind friend, let me open your eyes: these incantations were crafted by the first and greatest of the necromancers, the supreme lord of the dead himself. Now do you see?”

  “Nagash,” Skellan hissed through clenched teeth, the name as ephemeral as a dying breath as it faded into the flames.

  “Nagash,” Mannfred agreed. “With this power I could rule the world of the living, metamorphosing it into a land of the dead. With this power I would be unstoppable. However, with this power, I would condemn the thing I am, I would banish whatever it is that passes for my soul, and become him. I have seen how his magic works, seen the traps woven into the spells to draw the reader deeper and deeper into the darkness until it is too dark for him to find his way back to himself. I would not sacrifice myself for all the power in the world.”

  “We have no souls. We are empty.”

  “Do you believe that? Do you feel empty?”

  Skellan didn’t have an answer for that. He stirred the fire again, thinking about it. The power for revenge, for dominion over the Empire of the Cattle was there, before them, ripe for the taking. All he had to do was reach out and take it, but he couldn’t.

  As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to accept the gifts that the book promised.

  “Then the book is useless,” he said, casting the stick into the heart of the flames.

  “Today, yes, but who knows about tomorrow? Our paths, for the moment, lie in different directions, but they will merge again, of that I have no doubt. At dusk, I will leave you.” He raised his hand as if to forestall any argument. “I must walk this road alone. While I am gone, though, I would have your help. I will need eyes and ears in the court of the Vampire Count so that when the time comes I will be able to claim what is rightfully mine.”

  “You would have me be your spy?”

  “Not only my spy, but so much more than that. The new Count will need friends. I would have you be one of them. I would have you get close to him, close enough to feed his uncertainty and bolster his ego. We have hunted together, Skellan. I know you as I know all of my brothers. Play to your strengths, make yourself indispensable and you’ll have the pack dancing to your tune.”

  “What is to stop me, then, from turning my back on you, using this influence to betray the surviving von Carstein’s and taking the pack for myself? They know me. They have fought beside me. They have hunted with me, but, more than anything, they fear me because I have none of their weakness.”

  “Yet, you were captured and they run free. You may not have their weaknesses, but you have your own, believe me. What stops you from claiming the pack? Two things: first, the sure and certain knowledge that when I return from the Lands of the Dead you will have to face me. I suffer no compunction when killing to get what I want, even when I have hunted with the victim. Second, the fear that will eat away at you that when I do return I will be both the Mannfred you know, and so much more. That will suffice. Be my instrument in the Court of the Blood Count. Be the voice in the night that drives my enemies to madness or be my enemy. It is your choice, Skellan.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In the Court of the Blood Count

  DRAKENHOF, SYLVANIA

  The dying light of autumn, 2056

  Konrad von Carstein had surrounded himself with sycophants and fools, and he knew as much, but his need for platitudes and praise outweighed his need for forthright speaking. For that he had Jerek and his Hamaya. For everything else, he had the fools with their forked tongues.

  He understood the nature of battle. He understood the need for wise council and truth speakers. He understood the need for strength and the need for cunning, but most of all, he understood that he was alone, and could trust no one.

  He had seen men die—he had killed them. There was a natural order to it: the wolves slaughtered the lambs. It had always been that way, and it always would be that way. It was a simple philosophy, but its simplicity made it no less telling. Konrad knew better than most that the difference between life and death was a single heartbeat. He knew that the others would bring him down if they could, if they thought for a moment that he was a lamb. It was the nature of the beast: the strongest survived, and in strength became godlike, forcing those weaker to bow and scrape before them.

  He felt the stirrings of fear as he prowled the passages of the castle. There were reminders of his heritage everywhere, of who he was, and what he was. The portraits of Vlad and Isabella had been vandalised, slashed with knives, the gilt frames bent out of shape. Some lay splintered on the floor while others hung on the wall still, a gallery of tattered canvases mocking the dead. He took no pride in being Vlad’s get. Vlad had failed. He had succumbed to the most basic of all human weaknesses: love. It had been his undoing. Konrad would not fail. That was the only promise he made to himself. He would not fail.

  Fear was good, it gave strength to the man who held it in his heart. It was a peculiar truth. He often heard others talk of fear as weakness, and every time, found himself believing the speaker to be a fool. A lack of fear was as potentially lethal as, say, panic or arrogance. Panic undermined a fighter, leaching away at the warrior’s muscles, whereas arrogance left the warrior open to carelessness. No, no matter what they said, there was no shame in fear.

  Konrad stared at the ruined face of his progenitor hanging from a broken frame. The knife had sliced through the canvas in a vicious X, dividing the face into four broken diamonds. In his vanity, Vlad had surrounded himself with his own likeness, needing the oils to remind him that he existed. They
were not the same beast. Vlad had worn his cold arrogance like a shroud, but at the last, faced with the taunting of a simple mortal, he had surrendered to rage, and that anger had been his undoing. The dead Count had forgotten the simple lesson of fear. Had he harboured even an ounce of it for his enemy, he would never have fallen to the Grand Theogonist. His cardinal sin was in believing himself immortal. It was his vanity that led to it. He allowed himself to believe that he was special.

  He had forgotten the truth: even the dead could die, and true death, that was worthy of fear.

  Konrad turned his back on the man and continued on his lonely rounds of the ancient castle.

  There were ghosts, of course, trace memories that lingered. He fancied he heard the laughter of Vlad’s minions echoing from more than one chamber, only to open the door on an empty room and dust—so much dust. The sounds of women giggling and lusty calls of men in heat faded to nothing as he closed the doors and moved on.

  He was alone, yes, but never truly alone. The ghosts of the conquered resided still in the old castle, clinging to the stones they had called home. Of course, people also surrounded him almost constantly, servants and sycophants ready to bend and scrape to his every whim.

  It was a curious dichotomy. Konrad craved the very company that left him feeling so isolated and alone.

  Then there were the cattle with their petty problems. They crawled like lice out of the woodwork, looking to him for salvation.

  He was no one’s saviour.

  So, while they begged for mercy and petitioned for his wisdom to settle disputed land rights and grazing, or sought redress for the stupid thefts of loaves of bread and milk, he felt himself going slowly mad. He didn’t care about them or their problems. They were cattle. They existed to be fed upon.