ACROSS THE OLD WORLD
Winter
There was no evil that Jon Skellan was incapable of.
It was a game that offered only mild amusement, but it was a game that he loved to play just the same.
With his bare hands, he took a dark land and reshaped it into a ghost world.
His beasts ruled by tyranny. There was no justice. There was no fairness. There was no humanity. The world was reduced to two absolutes, pain and death, death and pain.
Skellan revelled in it. He revelled in the fear that his beasts inspired, and savoured the pain they delivered.
He walked the line of crucified corpses along the roadside. Upside down, the dead served as food for the birds and reminders to those left behind of the price of rebellion. It was a savage lesson, one the cattle took to heart.
The dead faces, drained of blood, stared back at him. More than half of their eyes were gone, pecked away by the flock of black ravens that trailed Skellan’s force, scavenging carrion where the dead meat was discarded and left to rot.
They brought with them the return of the blood plague, but this time it was indiscriminate in its slaughter. Old, young, male, female, none were immune to the insidious illness, as Skellan’s beasts sought to drain the Old World dry of every decent drop of blood that pumped through its veins. The pandemic spread, striking the largest cities of the Empire and wreaking as much devastation there as it did in the smallest villages. They started calling it the Season of the Dead.
The living barred their doors and windows, barricading themselves in, in the vain hope that the dead would pass them by. The dead did pass, and in their wake they left empty buildings and more than their fair share of ghosts.
Word had come that Lutwig had ousted his ineffectual father, the Pretender, Ludwig. The succession was irrelevant. Skellan didn’t care who led the cattle. They existed for one purpose, to be hunted, brought down and feasted on.
With so many of Konrad’s trusted Hamaya gone, it was only natural that Skellan should rise in both influence and power. Like his sire before him, he rose to be von Carstein’s right hand, but unlike Posner, he would not make the mistake of getting himself slaughtered for ambition. He would bide his time. There was little to be gained by moving hastily and everything to be won by cautious strength. It was a long game, and a long game called for cunning and guile, not posturing and posing.
He watched and he learned, taking the tricks of others and turning them to his advantage. Where Vlad had offered his victims the choice of serving him in life or in death, Skellan was less prosaic. The choice he offered was an immediate death or a painful one. Few willingly chose pain. Those that did were not disappointed.
For months, the vampire’s legion of the damned had savaged the land of the living, the necromancers adding fresh impetus to the sport by inventing cruel and unusual punishments for the living who were foolish enough to resist them. Skellan couldn’t deny that he enjoyed their perversions, even encouraged them, but Nevin Kantor concerned him.
Even a fool could see that the necromancer was growing in strength, outstripping those around him as he opened himself up to the taint of the black Chaos wind. Death was no longer enough for Nevin Kantor. He consumed Immoliah Fey, owned her. Such was the lure of his power that even a necromancer with Fey’s rare gift should fall for his fake endearments. There was no love, even he could see that, just pretty words whispered in the dark, and midnight promises, which were nothing more than midnight lies.
He took the living and violated them in ways that Skellan had never imagined possible. He experimented on them, testing the limits of their endurance, seeking to break the bonds that made them human without actually driving them into Morr’s arms. He stripped flesh from bone without allowing his victims to die, forcing them to watch as layer after layer of meat peeled away before their eyes. A few, he delighted in killing, drawing every ounce of moisture from their flesh, leaving only desiccated husks. He turned others into cannibals, feeding them with their own flesh, and had destroyed them so completely that they ate it willingly.
Worse, he turned mother onto son and father onto daughter, by a dark geas, the dead being absorbed back into the family, like some never-ending serpent of consumption, the beast feeding off its own tail. He manipulated their minds, forcing visions of hell to root behind their eyes, with promises of the torments on offer should they fail him. He also raised the dead, not their corpses, but their souls, even as they travelled the long and winding road to the underworld, drawing them back, demanding to know what they saw, in detail. Demanding to know not only what they saw, but also what they felt and heard, all of it, what it was like to be dead.
The intensity of his obsession was unnerving, even to Skellan.
Kantor was a threat, potentially more so than the Blood Count. Since Jerek’s betrayal, Konrad’s behaviour had become increasingly erratic and unpredictable, as what was undoubtedly madness burrowed away inside him. He had come to rely more and more on Kantor’s magic, more so even than Skellan’s sword. It made it increasingly difficult for Skellan’s gentle nudges and sly whisperings to find their mark, although he continued to goad the unstable von Carstein into fully-fledged paranoia. To that extent, Mannfred had been completely correct when he judged Konrad: his brother possessed the fundamental insecurities of a paranoiac. Kantor had set himself up as a counterbalance to Skellan in the Count’s allegiances. Skellan understood Konrad’s fascination with Kantor: the necromancer manipulated the winds into miracles. More and more, Konrad sought out the human, and while Skellan had no idea what they actually discussed, it was obvious that Konrad trusted Nevin Kantor’s council as much if not more than Skellan’s.
Kantor was turning into a problem.
Months of manipulation were coming to fruition, a multitude of small, carefully laid plans playing out, in time for Mannfred’s imminent return.
The necromancer could not be allowed to interfere.
Konrad would fall, with Skellan’s help, and it would be spectacular.
He knelt beneath the upturned crucifix, scooping up a raven before the birds could frighten and scatter.
“Are you there?” He demanded. His voice was pitched low so it wouldn’t carry.
The bird’s yellow eyes roved and it cawed harshly, ruffling its feathers and trying to burst out of his grip.
“Always,” the raven cackled as Skellan’s grip threatened to crack its delicate bones.
“Your brother’s crown is slipping. The fool’s slaughtered almost everyone close to him. It’s only a matter of time before he turns on the last few who remain loyal to him.”
“Good, good.” The black bird preened.
“But the necromancer is turning into something of a problem.” Skellan confessed his fears to Mannfred. “He’s unpredictable, and growing dangerously powerful. He’s become Konrad’s crutch, making it increasingly difficult to deliver the coup de grace. I fear he may prove troublesome.”
The bird offered a single piece of advice, “Keep the necromancer close.” Then it fell silent, its yellow eyes blinking shut.
He felt its heart race, beating hard against his hands as whatever hold Mannfred had on it was relinquished.
Frustrated, Skellan crushed the bird in his hands and dropped it in the dirt beneath the crucified man.
“Something for you to snack on if you grow hungry,” he said, but the dead man didn’t laugh.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Soul Cages
DRAKENHOF, CITY OF THE DEAD, SYLVANIA
The Season of the Dead
They were in trouble, but then they had been in trouble from the first moment they set foot in Drakenhof, over a month ago.
It had taken the dead that long to find them, but find them they had, in a derelict corner of the city, grubbing around like rats trying to find hide or hair of the magician. Deserted buildings crowded in over them. The tight alleyway gave them an edge, but whatever hope he had had of taking advantage of it was quashed when th
e beasts drove them out into one of the smaller squares, pushing them towards the well in the very centre.
Lothar du Bek drew steel, ready to fight for his life.
Adrenaline coursed through him.
Beside him, Kallad Stormwarden shook his head, “No, you have to learn to pick your fights. This isn’t one we can win.”
Eight of the beasts circled them: eight vampires. Three had taken the form of great dire wolves and prowled the circle’s perimeter hungrily. The beasts’ feral eyes never left the pair. There was a ninth, lurking in the shadows behind them, watching, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. Lothar had seen it even before the circle had closed fully around them.
The dwarf was right, but he was damned if he was going to simply lay down and die like some sick cow looking to be put out of its misery. He would make them pay for his life. That was the very least he could do.
“You think they’ll let us surrender?” du Bek asked in disbelief, steel wavering before his face as he turned and turned, unwilling to expose his back to any of the beasts, and unable to do otherwise. “They aren’t about to take us prisoner, dwarf. Soon as you lower that warhammer, they’ll tear your throat out.”
“Aye, it’s a gamble,” the dwarf said, “but if we choose to make a last stand here, it’s going to be a last stand, make no bones about it. Dunno about you, but dying’s not particularly appealing, given what they do to the dead around here.”
The dwarf was up to something—he had to be. His kind didn’t lay down their weapons, they fought to the death, making their enemy pay with blood for their lives. He had to trust the dwarf, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t vent his fear, “They’re animals! All they want to do is feed on us.”
One of the beasts broke the circle, and as he did, his face shifted back into that of a man. His smile was the only thing that gave the lie to his humanity. He was every bit the beast whatever face he chose to wear.
Lothar turned slightly to face him, keeping the blade’s edge between them.
“You do us a disservice, human.” The vampire said the word “human” as if it was a curse. “Lucky for you, I don’t take offence easily.”
“Do you think I care, animal? I’m happy to die here, and just as long as I gut you in the process I’ll lose no sleep in the afterlife.”
Shaking its head, the vampire laughed easily, “As if I’d actually allow you the luxury of eternal sleep. No, it would be much more fun to play with you for a while.” The fiend turned to Kallad. “You, dwarf, I feel like we are old friends already. Every time I look over my shoulder, you’re there. You just never give up, do you?”
“Thought I recognised your stink, even if I didn’t recognise your face,” Kallad said.
“Now, now, dwarf. Practise what you preach and all that. You don’t want to go getting my friends all excited now do you?”
The wolves bristled, hackles rising, their pacing growing more urgent as they circled the three of them.
The spectre of the Vampire Count’s castle loomed over their backs. It sent a shiver running through du Bek, as if someone had just set a heavy foot down on his grave.
“Circumstances just changed,” Kallad growled, reaching back for the leather grip of Ruinthorn’s shaft. You made your peace with your maker?”
“My maker is dead, no peace needed or wanted, dwarf. Have you made your peace with your own god?”
“Grimnir is ever at my side.”
“Well, he didn’t appear to be at your father’s side, did he? Finding out our parents aren’t immortal can be traumatic at the best of times. Seeing them abandoned by your precious gods, well, that’s liable to make an atheist out of even the most devout of us.”
All of the muscles tightened in Kallad Stormwarden’s face. The dwarf hawked and spat a thick wad of phlegm into the vampire’s face.
His lip curling into a sneer, the vampire wiped it away. “I had hoped you would walk with me, I would know my hunter before I kill him.” He held his fingers out as if offering the phlegm back. “I’ll take this as your refusal. It matters not, your blood will tell me all I need to know when the time comes.”
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Lothar said to Kallad.
“Aye, Lothar, it’s him,” Kallad said. The circle was truly complete, Lothar realised. Here, in a pox-ridden alleyway in a city starved of humanity. It was a soul-destroying discovery. “The beast that the Sigmarites thought they had tamed. His name is Jon Skellan. He butchered the priests of the Sigmarite cathedral in Altdorf, murdered the family Liebowitz in Nuln, and burned his way across the western world.”
The vampire sketched a mocking bow.
“The one and only, dwarf, although, you missed out some of what I consider to be the highlights of my career. I must admit, you have me at something of a loss; your fame is not so universal. I imagine you are Gimpy or Wazzock or some such wonderfully evocative name.”
“Kallad Stormwarden, son of King Kellus, last son of Karak Sadra.”
“Well Kallad, son of Kellus, how does it feel to know that it is all going to end like this, after so long looking for justice? I would imagine it must be galling to be so close to your revenge, only to have all hope of it crushed just like that.”
“You and me, beast.” Kallad said. “Forget the manling, forget your wolves, you and me, last man standing.”
The vampire laughed. “What do you take me for? Do you think I give a damn about your stupid sense of honour, dwarf? I can’t think of one good reason to give you any hope of satisfaction. Do you think your grudge means anything to me? No, eight of us, two of you, those are pleasing numbers.”
“Nine,” du Bek said inclining his head towards the shadows where he knew the final beast hid.
The vampire’s smile was cold. “So you have eyes. Good for you, human.” He gestured towards the shadows. “I believe this is something of a reunion. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Du Bek didn’t recognise the man as he emerged from the anonymity of the dark, but Kallad did.
“Kantor.” It was barely a breath, both recognition and denial in one word, as if the world had been pulled out from under his feet.
“The magician?” Lothar asked. This was wrong. It was all going horribly, horribly wrong. They had come to this godforsaken place to free the magician, not to find him turned, and siding with the very enemy they sought to kill.
“One and the same,” the vampire said, clearly enjoying the effect that Nevin Kantor’s unveiling was having on the dwarf.
Kantor walked confidently between the wolves—indeed the animals parted slightly, as if in deference to the magician.
“You just refuse to die, don’t you, dwarf?”
“I could say the same about you, magician.”
“Indeed.”
“So you sold your soul, eh?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, dwarf. You were supposed to kill me. That was the only way the Sigmarites would allow us to travel together, was it not? The moment my usefulness was over, I was to be put out of my misery like some stinking mutt. Don’t bother denying it, I know the truth.”
“I wouldn’t have done it. I’m no monster.”
“It’s academic really. Last time I saw you, you were lining up to join the ranks of the dead.”
“But as you can see, I didn’t die.”
“All things considered, dwarf, it would appear that all you succeeded in doing was delaying death for a little while longer.”
“Well,” the vampire interrupted, “as much as I am enjoying this little tête à tête, I think its time we got around to the killing, don’t you?”
Lothar stiffened. He tried to look every way at once, desperately trying to cover every direction that the attack could possibly come from. It was impossible. His back was always bared to one or more of the beasts.
Beside him, the dwarf knelt, head down as he laid his huge double-headed axe down on the ground at his feet. “Then kill me now and be done with it. I’ve got no fight left
in me.”
“No!” du Bek yelled, throwing himself forwards. His sword speared out towards the magician’s guts, and by rights ought to have spilled them out all over the cobblestones, but Nevin Kantor said a word—a single word—a harsh crack like the booming rumble of thunder answered, and a splinter ran through the folded metal of Lothar du Bek’s sword. The splinter opened into a crack, splitting the sword wide open and showering him in jags of hot metal.
His hand recoiled from the hilt as the black magic chased from the sword up his arm and into his heart, sundering the organ as easily as it had the blade.
He was dead before the pieces of him hit the floor.
Kallad Stormwarden came to in darkness.
Death would have been a blessed relief from the image of his friend’s body tearing itself apart from the inside out, but it wasn’t to be.
He was alone in the dark. There was no window and no light source to give even a hint of the room’s size.
He fumbled around in the dark, touching stone and rotten reeds. On hands and knees, he tentatively explored the darkness. His hand found the wall and followed it. The cell was small, no more than ten feet by ten.
Kallad’s knee upended the water bowl that had been left out for him, spilling its contents across the floor.
He felt out for a second bowl, reasoning that if there was water there could equally be food. There wasn’t.
And they had taken his axe.
He curled up in a corner, his back pressed up against the wall.
In the aftermath of bloody ruination of du Bek, the vampire, Skellan, had stepped up and cracked him hard across the skull, turning the world to black. He remembered nothing after that. His head ached, and every time he moved it, a wave of nausea surged through him, twisting his guts inside out. Kallad moaned, the sound a dirge in the dark. He needed the wall at his back, its solidity was reassuring.
“Kallad Stormwarden, you are a fool.” His words barely touched the black. They sounded peculiar in his own ears, as if distant, muffled by a thick wadding of wool. That didn’t dilute the truth of them, however. The mistake he made was in thinking that the living would protect them from the dead, when they couldn’t even begin to protect themselves.
[Von Carstein 02] - Dominion Page 24