“He didn’t look too happy,” Kallad agreed.
“What happened to the guards?”
“Had an accident. It’s slippery back there. Stupid buggers fell right on my axe. Made a hell of a mess.”
“They’ll send more,” the old man said.
“Then let’s hope they’re just as clumsy, eh? Now, I dunno about you, but I’m just about ready to get out of this place. Are you with me, human?”
“Look at me, I’m an old man. I can barely make it across this cell without having to sit down for twenty minutes to catch my breath.”
“Then I’ll carry you on me back, laddy. I’m not leaving you.” It was guilt, of course, survivors’ guilt, as if by helping this one old man he could make up for all the others that he hadn’t been able to help.
The old man ratcheted himself up from the bench. “Sebastian,” he said, holding out a liver-spotted hand. Kallad shook it.
“Kallad.”
The dwarf heard footsteps coming up the Long Walk. He slammed the door and wedged it with the wooden bench that Sebastian had just vacated.
“Well come on, Sebastian, wouldn’t want to outstay our welcome.”
The passage divided into three smaller passages, each lined with identical heavily barred wooden doors.
“The soul cages,” the old man said. “You didn’t think you were alone down here, did you? There must be fifty or sixty more just like you, fighters who are thrown out to fight for their lives for the Blood Count’s amusement.”
Without a word, Kallad strode purposefully towards the first door and threw back the bolt barring it. He pushed the door open and stepped into the doorway. “On your feet,” he called into the cell. “We’re going home.”
He moved on to the next cell, and the next, and the next, the message the same for each and every one of von Carstein’s prisoners. “We’re goin’ home.”
Skellan stood between the dwarf and freedom.
The dwarf had a small army of starving prisoners behind him. Desperation might have made them dangerous, but malnutrition and abuse, and the constant promise of unlife hanging over them had stripped them of spirit as well as strength. They stumbled into each other, stumbled and fell, and lacked even the strength to drag themselves back to their feet before the next one had stumbled over them.
“Going somewhere?” Skellan asked.
He was not alone. The last four of Konrad’s loyal Hamaya, including Onursal, backed him up. He raised his hand and was met by low-throated growls as they unleashed the beast within.
Too easy, Skellan savoured the thought. He fully intended to enjoy the killing now that the time had come. The bones were cast, the endgame was playing itself out and, all things considered, there was no way he could lose. It was beautiful watching all of his plans come to together into one perfect glorious whole. That Konrad had demanded Onursal come with him to kill the dwarf was just a delicious irony, and so convenient. It would save hunting the beast down later.
“Out of my way, vampire,” the dwarf barked.
Skellan chuckled. “Given the circumstances I am not sure you are in any position to be giving orders, little man.”
“I killed your friend back there, and I figure I can kill you just as dead, if I have to. Now move, Ruinthorn is getting thirsty.”
You really are quite tiresome, dwarf Skellan turned to Onursal. “Kill him.”
He moved aside so that the Hamaya could charge.
The dark skinned beast pounced, throwing himself at Kallad. Onursal staggered the dwarf back into the shambling pack of wretched human beings that were far beyond saving. They scattered, and the dwarf went down beneath the ferocity of the Hamaya’s attack.
Skellan grinned and watched for a moment as the dwarf gave every bit as good as he got, battering the beast back in a flurry of blows. It looked as if the dwarf might actually have it in him to kill the Hamaya, the contest was that evenly matched. Skellan held back the remaining Hamaya.
“The fight is his. If he is incapable of killing the dwarf he has no place among us.”
That wasn’t the truth, or at least not the whole truth. It was only an aspect of it. Excluding Skellan, Onursal was the strongest of Hamaya, and he was fiercely loyal to Konrad; stubbornly so, even in the face of the Blood Count’s madness. His death would be a bitter blow for Konrad.
“Never tasted dwarf blood,” one of the Hamaya said petulantly.
Skellan shook his head. “Blood’s blood. Goes down just the same.”
“So you say.”
As Skellan watched the struggle, his face slipped, the daemon rising to the surface. Cold black anger roared through his veins. He harnessed it.
Satisfied that the dwarf would not fail him, Jon Skellan turned on the three remaining Hamaya.
“You want blood so bad? Here,” he tore out the throat of the beast nearest him in a shocking display of naked savagery. “Drink this.”
He tossed the corpse at the gaping Hamaya and spun, lashing out. His claws eviscerated the second Hamaya before the creature even saw the danger.
The third, Massika, was more difficult to kill. The creature backed off and turned to run. Skellan surged forwards, arching his body so that he hit the side wall at a run, using the sheer force of his momentum to carry him up it, and propelled himself into the air, arms and legs pistoning as he hammered into the back of the fleeing Hamaya and brought it down.
Skellan grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked the creature’s head back.
He hooked the claws of his other hand into the vampire’s eyes and ripped the top of its skull away from the bones of its neck. The beast’s cries were pitiful. Skellan pulled again, tearing the head free of the spinal column, and a third time, until the skin tore and the head came away in his hands.
When he stood, Skellan saw Kallad Stormwarden staring at him, perplexed by this sudden turn of events. Onursal lay dead at his feet, the dwarfs axe still buried deep in the Hamaya’s spine. The first of the twin blades had actually torn open the vampire’s chest cavity and spilled his black heart and a rope of greasy intestines across the tunnel floor.
The dwarf planted a boot on the Hamaya’s back and wrenched his axe free.
His footsteps echoed chillingly as he advanced on Skellan, ready to kill again.
“Don’t make the mistake of believing you know everything, dwarf,” Skellan said, still holding the dead Hamaya’s head in his right hand. “I’ve bought your life here, make no mistake about it. You wouldn’t have lasted another day fighting in the pits. You aren’t stupid. You can work out why I’m helping you. I want the monster dead, just as much as you do, but it is about more than that—more than him. You have to understand that, dwarf. The fates of nations of the living and nations of the dead rest in your hands.”
“You don’t own anything, least of all my life. The only thing I’m interested in is killing your wretched Count and laying my people’s ghosts to rest finally and forever, the rest is going to have to be someone else’s problem “cause it sure ain’t mine.”
“Stupid grudges. Do you think it matters if one vampire dies? One bloody vampire? Do you think it will save a hundred other villages? A thousand young girls? You’re a bigger fool than I took you for if you do. Cut down one and another arises. You might avenge a few dead, but you’ll damn a hell of a lot more living. Is that a price you want to pay, dwarf? Can your conscience live with sacrificing hundreds, thousands, of souls just to satisfy your bloody grudge? Right now you need to live. That’s why I’m putting my own throat on the line. You need to get out of here and convince Emperor Lutwig and the Otillia, and whoever else will listen, of the threat Konrad von Carstein and his necromancers pose. You’ve seen a little of it here. You have an idea of what he is capable of, but this is just the beginning. The damned that marched to Vlad’s drum are nothing compared to the nightmare that this madman is raising. He intends to turn the Old World into one vast Kingdom of the Dead, and he won’t rest until everyone is rotting and risen into his brave
new world.”
Skellan didn’t move. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
He had to work a way around the unreasoning stubbornness of the dwarfs grudge and convince him that there was more to be gained by pushing the boulder that would start the landslide that would bury Konrad von Carstein. Rather than succumbing to the instant gratification to be had from striking down one enemy, with a little patience he could bring down a damned dynasty.
The dwarf shook his head. “No, I don’t buy it. You’re selling me a lie. You’re a cold-blooded killer, like your master. There’s no reason for you to help me, less it helps yourself, too. And let’s face it, you being dead helps me a lot more than you being alive. I think we finish this here.”
“You being dead doesn’t help either of us, dwarf, and believe me, that’s how this little charade would play out. Go, now, get word to your people. Warn the Empire. Tell them what you have seen. Impress it upon them. They must be ready when the Blood Count marches!”
The dwarf shouldered his axe and Skellan knew, through all the bluster, his message had found its mark. The dwarf wouldn’t just carry the message, he would ensure that the living were prepared.
Skellan turned and walked away, knowing that the dwarf wouldn’t strike him.
The dwarf was one of a rare breed: a hero.
Skellan could smell his bleeding heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
From the Mountains of Madness
THE WORLDS EDGE MOUNTAINS
Dawn of the Dead
Kallad led the survivors through the endless subterranean world of the deep mines, miles beneath the surface, beneath the light and the air. They stumbled along blindly behind him.
They had no food and no water.
They were dying by the day. The fifty he had rescued were reduced to thirty.
Twice already, Kallad had felt the draught of fresh air leaking into the mine, tasted it, but every turn seemed to lead them deeper into the claustrophobic depths of the Worlds Edge Mountains.
They stumbled on.
A few wanted to scavenge meat from the dead, arguing that the sustenance would keep them alive, buying them precious time to find their way out of this purgatory.
Kallad would have none of it.
For each of the fallen, he delayed, building a makeshift cairn from broken stones littering the tunnel.
The echoes of von Carstein’s men ransacking the tunnels, hunting them, haunted them. The sounds of running feet, distant taunts, wolves baying and ringing steel kept them from sleeping, driving them on beyond the point of exhaustion.
Still they stumbled on.
“We’re going home.” Kallad said it like a mantra, repeating it over and over.
They had long since stopped believing him.
They had christened the deep mines Sorrow’s Heart, and resigned themselves to dying in its depths, but they didn’t die, these last few.
Kallad led them out of Sorrow and into daylight for the first time in weeks, months, and for some of them, years. Stepping out into the air felt like being reborn from the darkness of despair into the light of freedom. He threw his head back and laughed, savouring the irony of a dwarf being happier out under an open sky than beneath a mountain. He saw the way they looked at him, but still he laughed. Let them think him mad.
Freedom came at a price. The sky was thick with snow, blowing a blizzard. The cold tore through their scant rags, but still it was the most beautiful moment of release. They gasped and sucked in air, fell on their backs, the snow crusting and powdering around them, and tried to embrace the sky. They were free of Sorrow. They were out of the godforsaken maze of tunnels, and they were going home to wherever home was. It was a long walk, but even Kallad welcomed the snow-laden sky over his head and the wind in his hair. Beside him, Sebastian swore that he would never complain about being stuck outside in the middle of nowhere again, knowing even as he made the vow that he would break it. He was an old man. Complaining about the elements was his lot in life. The day he stopped complaining about the blasted snow or the blessed rain was the day he died.
Kallad looked at the few men he had led out of hell and smiled. He had come to think of them as his lads.
“We’re going home,” he said, and this time they believed him. Their cheers could have been heard in von Carstein’s grand hall, with the Blood Count himself rooted to his obsidian throne by the ragged jubilation. Every one of the men facing him had resigned himself to dying long ago. Now, they were going home, and it was because of him.
It was a small counterbalance for his Indie scale, lives saved to weigh up against lives lost.
They were going home.
One of the men knelt and scooped handfuls of snow into his mouth, another rolled in it, and others sank down and kissed the ground. More than a few cast a last lingering look back in the direction of Drakenhof, invisible in the distance.
Kallad knew that it wasn’t just because of him that they were going home. They owed their freedom to one of the beasts: Skellan.
He didn’t understand why the vampire had turned on its own, or why it would want von Carstein toppled, but that didn’t matter. The beast had bought their freedom. Kallad was determined to use it to pay Skellan back by wiping his kind off the face of the earth.
He saw that the old man, Sebastian, had moved away from the group and lay, propped up awkwardly against a boulder. The dwarf walked over to sit beside him. Drawing nearer, he could tell that there was something wrong. It was the angle of the old man’s head, the way it lolled on his neck. Kallad had seen enough death to recognise it close up.
It wasn’t fair, after everything, having made it out, for Sebastian’s heart to give in here, now, when they were free. There was no justice in it. Kallad bottled up the sudden surge of anger that he felt rising inside. They were going home.
Kallad knelt at Sebastian’s side.
“At least you died free, looking at the sun,” Kallad whispered, his breath conjuring wraiths of mist that hung like a veil between the living and the dead. It was a small consolation. The failing sun was a sickly yellow eye on the horizon. Small mercy that it was, the old man had died with the gentle warmth of the sun on his face.
Kallad closed the old man’s eyes.
It was a last act of kindness. Already, the old man’s skin was colder than death. His sweat had become a brittle frost that clung to his face like a second skin. A fine dusting of snow had settled on his rags, now that the heat of life had left his body.
Kallad stood, ignoring the icy chill worming its way into his heart.
Behind him, the Worlds Edge Mountains and their snow-capped peaks reared, reaching into the grey sky. Beneath him lay a sweeping bank of forest, the white-laced leaves rustling like living things, while the north wind whispered fragments of the wood’s darkest secrets, hints of the hearts it had stilled, the dreams it had buried in its rich soil. The nearness of the forest was oppressive.
The wind cried traitor in his ear. He ignored its mocking voice, knowing that the whispers would be endless and unforgiving. “I haven’t forgotten you,” he promised his ghosts. Guilt was one of the many burdens that came with being a survivor. Guilt and ghosts. He had ghosts, ghosts that whispered and taunted with the voice of his own guilt, ghosts that could never forgive him for being alive, because he couldn’t forgive himself.
“I could lie down now.” He barely breathed the words, knowing that he couldn’t. That he didn’t have it in him to give up. “I could close my eyes like Sebastian, sleep and never wake up. The cold would take me before dawn. Is that what you want?” But the wind had stopped listening to his lies. It knew he could no more lie down and die than the sun could cease to shine or the seasons stop turning. It was a survivor’s nature to survive, to go on living no matter the costs to those around him. A survivor would find a way.
Kallad Stormwarden was a survivor.
He would carry the message to the living.
Von Carstein would be stopped.
<
br /> He wiped the sweat from his brow before it could freeze there. His lips were chapped from the wind’s perpetual kiss. The others were feeling it too, the intense cold that came with their freedom. Their rags were no defence against it. The cold was their enemy, just as lethal and immediate as the soul cages had ever been. Kallad hadn’t realised just how thirsty he was until he knelt and brushed away the thin coating of snow from the surface of a small frozen tarn. Quickly, he used the wooden handle of his axe to crack the ice. Kneeling over the tarn, he scooped a handful of water to his lips. It tasted heavily of minerals and dirt, but it could have been wine to the lips of a drunk. He drank deeply, wiping at his beard where the water ran down his chin, and scooped up another mouthful.
“Over here, lads! Water!” he called. Those desperate enough came running, staggering over the mountainside, stumbling, falling and pushing themselves on for fear that they would be too late and the water would have run dry by the time they arrived.
In the distance, movement caught his eye. He pushed himself to his feet and squinted towards a thin line of picked-clean trees that spotted the horizon. Shapes moved across the whiteness. He counted three figures. They moved with the surety born of life on the mountain. It took a moment to realise that they were dwarfs: a scouting party.
“Grimna’s balls, we’re saved!” Kallad said, slapping one of the few survivors on the back.
The youngster grinned back at him.
They walked awhile to shelter: an abandoned bear cave beyond the trees. Despite the blizzard and the blinding snow, many of the survivors were reluctant to re-enter the earth.
Kallad didn’t have the heart to bully them back underground, so those that wanted to freeze were left to shiver and huddle up against the trees as they tried to light a fire with damp wood. Truth be told, he wasn’t too enamoured of the idea of going back underground either, but he wasn’t about to freeze to death out of stubbornness.
[Von Carstein 02] - Dominion Page 26