Sieur Jehan was with the prince, a bagful of scrolls and bound books with him. And Anton Veidt, the bounty hunter who cared for his weapons as others care for their women. Oswald knew about her father. Oswald knew things about her that she had herself forgotten. He offered her a chance for revenge and, when that hadn’t been a temptation, appealed to her need for variety, for change. The young Sigmar must have been like this, she thought, as she sensed the excitement Oswald was suppressing. All heroes must have been like this. Suddenly, rashly, she longed for a taste of him, a flavour of the pepper in his blood. She didn’t mention her rush of lust, but somehow she knew that he had seen the desire in her, and answered her longing with a need of his own, a need that would have to be postponed until after the accomplishment of his current mission. She looked into his eyes, into the eyes in which her face was not reflected and, for the first time in centuries, felt alive again.
Sieur Jehan laid out the proofs of Drachenfels’ recent doings. He read aloud the testament, obtained through a medium, of a wizard who had lately been found flayed and boneless in his chambers. The dead sorcerer alleged that all manner of magical and daemoniacal forces were converging on the fortress of Drachenfels, and that the Great Enchanter was reaching new levels of power. Then the scholar talked of a plague of dreams and visions that had been reported by the priests of all the gods. A masked man was seen striding over a blasted land, between the fires that had been cities and the deserts that had been forests. The dead were piled high as mountains and the rivers were nine-parts blood to one-part water. The forces of evil were gathering and Drachenfels was at their heart. Oswald intended to face the monster in his lair and vanquish him forever. Again, he offered her the chance to join the party and this time she relented. Only then did he reveal that his father, and presumably Emperor Luitpold himself, had refused to believe Sieur Jehan’s evidence and that he was pursuing this venture unsupported by any Imperial forces.
They set out from Altdorf for the Grey Mountains the next day.
Later, others joined. Rudi Wegener, the bandit king of the Reikwald Forest, threw in his lot with them and helped fight off the possessed remnants of his own comrades during one long, dark night in the thick of the woods. Along with Rudi came Stellan the Warlock, who had lived with the bandits and was determined to pit his magics against those of the Great Enchanter, and Erzbet, the dancer-assassin from the World’s Edge who recited every night like a prayer the names of those she had killed. Ueli and Menesh had been recruited at Axe Bite Pass, where an entire community of peaceful peasants had turned out to be daemons in disguise, and where young Conradin, Oswald’s squire, was spitted and eaten by an altered ogre. The dwarfs had been travelling south, but were willing to pledge their swords for gold and glory. Heinroth, whose soul was eaten away by the murder of his children, joined them soon after. A raiding party of orcs from the fortress had made sport with his two little sons and killed them afterwards. He had vowed to scar himself with his serrated blade every day he let Drachenfels live, and grimly sliced at himself every morning. One day, they woke up to find Heinroth turned inside out, with words carved into his bones.
GO BACK NOW.
None of them had heard a thing, and the sharp-witted Veidt had been standing guard.
Through it all, Oswald had been at their head, undaunted by each new horror, keeping his followers together—which in the case of Veidt and the dwarfs or the licentious Erzbet and the fanatically ascetic Heinroth hadn’t been easy—and forever confident of the eventual outcome. Sieur Jehan told her that he had been like this since childhood. The scholar evidently loved the boy as a son and chose to follow Oswald when the prince’s real father had refused to listen. These were the last great days, Genevieve had thought, and their names would live in ballads forever.
Now, Conradin was dead. Sieur Jehan was dead. Heinroth was dead. Ueli was dead. And before the night was over, others—maybe all of the party—would be joining them. She hadn’t thought about dying for a long time. Perhaps tonight Drachenfels would finish Chandagnac’s Dark Kiss, and push her at last over the border between life and death.
Oswald walked straight up to the open gates of the fortress, looked casually about and signalled to them. He stepped into the dark. Genevieve followed him. And the others came after her.
III
As they ventured further, Stellan the Warlock began chanting in a language Genevieve didn’t recognize. He glowed slightly and she fancied she saw his attendant spirits dancing around him. Sometimes, she could see things the others couldn’t. Stellan’s voice grew louder as they advanced down the stone corridor and his gestures more extravagant. Firefly entities spiralled around him, clustering to his amulets, stirring his long, womanish hair. Evidently, he was invoking great powers. He had done so before other battles and claimed credit for their victories.
At the end of the passage was an aged wooden door, with inset copper designs. It was too easy to see a face in the abstract curlicues. Genevieve knew the effect was deliberate. Nothing in this place happened unless it was by design. Drachenfels’ design. The face she saw was that of the impassive mask the Great Enchanter had worn in Parravon. Maybe there were other faces for the others: a cruel parent, an implacable foe, an unbanished daemon.
Erzbet was badly affected. Genevieve could hear the dancer-assassin’s blood quickening. Even Veidt and Rudi were tense. Only Oswald kept his chilly calm, his princely composure.
Oswald went ahead, a torch held high in one hand, sword out like a blind man’s cane. Stellan followed close behind, feeling the way with his magics. Genevieve heard rhythms and repetitions in his chanting now, and noticed Rudi praying in unison with the warlock, his thick lips mouthing silently Stellan’s words. The warlock’s spirits were around him like a protective garment. They all must be praying to their gods now. All who had gods.
In this heart of Drachenfels, Genevieve’s night-senses told her things she wished not to know. It was as if a million insects crawled upon her skin, biting with silvered mandibles, shrieking in a cacophony. There was great danger nearby, great evil. But you didn’t have to have the heightened perception of vampirekind to know that. Even poor, half-witted Erzbet could tell they were walking into a great and dreadful darkness. Their guttering torches were pitiful against the blackness of the interior of the Fortress.
“The door,” said Stellan in Reikspiel. “It’s guarded by spells.”
Oswald paused and extended his sword. He touched the metal and sparks flew. The inlay grew white hot and foul smoke curled out as the wood burned. The imagined face looked angered now and glared hatred at them.
“Can you open it, warlock?” asked the prince.
Stellan smiled his confident one-sided smile. “Of course, highness. A mere conjurer could penetrate these petty charms. I’m surprised that an enchanter of Drachenfels’ standing would stoop to such things.”
The warlock reached into a pouch and, with a flourish, threw a handful of sweet-smelling dust at the door. The face went dark again and Stellan reached for the doorknob. He twisted it and pushed the door open, standing aside to let the Prince through before him. With a mocking grin, he bowed.
“See,” he said, “it was simple.”
Then, Stellan the Warlock simply exploded.
They were drenched in gore. The door hung with ribbons of cloth and meat. The stone walls dripped red for ten feet behind them. Stellan’s naked skeleton stood for a moment, still grinning, then collapsed.
Rudi, Menesh and Veidt swore loudly, and frantically scraped at themselves, dislodging the chunks of flesh and scraps of clothing that had plastered them. Oswald calmly wiped off his face.
Genevieve felt her red thirst rising, but fought it back. This was no banquet for her. She would rather drink pig’s swill than feed like this. Stellan’s spirits were gone, snuffed out with their summoner.
“The walls,” said Veidt. “They’re changing.”
Genevieve looked up at the ceiling. The stones were molten, reshaping
themselves. There were faces in the walls and jutting rock claws reaching out for them. Oswald swung his sword with practiced grace and a dead hand fell to the floor, shattering as it landed. Rudi drew the two-handed sword slung on his back and began to hack away at the emerging creatures.
“Careful, fool outlaw,” shouted Veidt, barely avoiding Rudi’s blade. “That’s not a corridor weapon.”
A stone head rolled at Genevieve’s feet, its glass eyes milked over, swollen tongue poked out. One of the creatures, a squat gargoyle, had detached itself completely from the ceiling and dropped down on her. It grabbed for her hair. She made a fist and struck it in the chest. It was like punching a mountain; any human hand would have been pulverized. Pain ran up through her arm to her shoulder and she knew her wound was reopening.
The gargoyle was shocked to a halt, a hairline crack across its torso, running from horny shoulder to waist. It lunged for her, stone hands creaking as it made razor-sharp talons. It was too near for her to draw sword against it, so she was pushed back. The wall behind her writhed with life, sprouting claws of its own.
She braced herself against the shifting stones, turning to face the wall, and kicked out with a booted foot, aiming high, aiming for the crack. The gargoyle staggered back, split. The top half of its body slid from the bottom and crashed to the floor. It was a pile of dead stones.
They fought their way through the creatures, smashing them when they could, and found themselves forced through the open door into an abandoned chamber where a great table was set for dinner. The food had long since crumbled to dust. So had the diners, whose dry skeletons were slumped in their chairs in the remains of their finery. Here, there was room to fight properly and Rudi’s sword counted. Gargoyles fell.
The bandit chief held the doorway, swinging his blade about him and the creatures flew to fragments. Finally, with a grunt, he kicked the door shut on the last of the enemy. Veidt and Oswald piled in with heavy chairs that could be stacked against the wood. Efficiently, they barricaded themselves into the dining hall of the dead.
Genevieve gripped her aching hand and tried to set the bones in their proper places. She managed to push her fingers back in joint. Her wound was bleeding slightly as she smoothed it over. She hoped no silver traces were caught inside. That could cause gangrene and she would have to have the hand, or the limb, amputated. It might be a hundred years before she grew a new one. It had taken Chandagnac an entire generation to regain an ear lopped off by an overzealous priest of the Old Faith.
She looked down at herself. Her britches, boots and jerkin were filthy and stinking, as if she had crawled through the mud of a plague-pit. The others were in no better condition, although Oswald bore his dirt and rags as if they were perfumed silks. And Veidt had never looked any different; the only clean things about him were his weapons.
“What happened here?” Rudi asked.
“A poison feast,” said Oswald. “It’s one of the worst Drachenfels stories. He appeared alone, on his knees, at the court of the Emperor nearly six centuries ago, and offered to make penance for his sins. He paid generous reparations to all his living victims and abased himself at the graves of many others. He renounced evil and swore allegiance to the gods he had previously cursed. He vowed his loyalty to the Empire. Everyone was convinced he had changed. In ten thousand years, anyone might repent, might wish to cleanse his heart. Any man, that is. He invited the Emperor Carolus and all his court to this place to celebrate his new life, and decreed that Drachenfels would forever be open as a shelter for the destitute. Some of Carolus’ advisers spoke against the feast, but the Emperor was a kindly man, and too young to remember Drachenfels’ worst deeds. They came here, all of them, the Emperor, and the Empress Irina, their children, and all the nobles of the court. My own ancestor, Schlichter von Konigswald, sat here among them…”
They looked at the abandoned corpses, and saw the jewels lying under cobwebs. One smiling dowager corpse had rubies in her eye-sockets, and a silver-set net of pearls, sapphires and diamonds on her bare ribs. Genevieve picked a tarnished gold circlet from a broken skull.
“The old crown,” Rudi said, eyes alight with avarice. “It’s priceless.”
“We’ll return it, my outlaw friend,” Oswald said. “There’ll be plunder for you, but this crown we will return.”
Oswald had promised Rudi Wegener a pardon when they returned to Altdorf in triumph, but knew, as Genevieve knew, the bandit would not accept it. Once this good deed, this honourable revenge, was done, he would be returning to the forests, to the outlaw life.
Genevieve looked at the corpses and saw flashes of a long-ago day. The chamber was clean and new and brightly-lit. She heard laughter and music. She saw dishes being served. Handsome gentlemen were charming, beautiful ladies fluttered fans. And at the head of the table, a regal man with a crown was attended by a plainly-dressed man in a simple tin mask. She blinked and the dark present was back.
“He poisoned them, then?” Menesh asked Oswald.
“Yes. Only, they didn’t die. They were paralyzed, turned to feeling statues. Years later, one of Drachenfels’ minions made a confession before he went to the gallows. He told the whole story of the obscenities that took place before the helpless eyes of Carolus and his court. They had brought their children, you see, those foolish and trusting nobles. Heinroth would have understood the horror. After the entertainments were over, Drachenfels left his guests frozen. With a feast laid out before them, they starved to death.”
Oswald struck the table with his sword-hilt. It shook. Brittle crockery broke, a candelabrum fell over, a rat burst from its nest in a ribcage, a skeleton still bedecked in the robes of the high priestess of Verena fell apart. Tears stood out on the prince’s face. Genevieve had never seen him betray such emotion.
“Fools!”
Genevieve laid a hand on his shoulder and he calmed instantly.
“After this night, Drachenfels will prey on no more fools.”
He strode across the chamber and pulled open a set of double doors.
“Come on, the minion also drew maps. He bought himself a quick death. Drachenfels’ chambers lie beyond these passageways. We’re near him.”
IV
The fortress was the man, Genevieve thought. The towers and battlements, the corridors and chambers, the very mountain crag which the bowels of Drachenfels were carved from: they were the Great Enchanter’s arteries and organs, his blood and bones. Oswald’s band might as well be penetrating Drachenfels’ body like knives, striking for his heart. Or they might be fragments of food tumbling down his gullet. And wasn’t that a comforting thought?
Erzbet alone was doubtful as they followed Oswald. She was talking to herself, reciting the names of her dead. The corridors were wider here and hung with tapestries. One depicted the Great Enchanter at play and a deal of red thread had had to be employed. Even Veidt paled at what was shown here.
Oswald glanced at the central panels of the hanging and slashed out with his sword. The entire dusty tapestry fell and lay on the floor like a fen-worm’s cast-off skin. Menesh touched his torch to it and in an instant the fire spread along its length. The next tapestry, a group portrait of the certain dreaded gods, caught too.
“Very clever, stunted lackwit,” spat Veidt. “Burning us up now, is it? That makes a change from the traditional dwarfish knife in the small of the back.”
The dwarf pulled his knife and held it up. Veidt had his dart pistol out. There were fires all around them.
“A traitor, eh? Like dead-and-damned Ueli?”
“I’ll give you dead-and-damned, scavenger!”
Menesh stabbed up, but Veidt stepped out of the way. Flames reflected in the bounty hunter’s dark eyes. He took careful aim.
“Enough!” Oswald cried. “We’ve not come this far to fall out now.”
“Veidt cries ‘traitor’ too much,” Rudi said sourly. “I trust no one who can be bought as easily.”
The outlaw heaved his sword up and Veidt tu
rned again.
“Ethics from a bandit, that’s rich—”
“Better a bandit than a trader of corpses!”
“Your corpse is hardly worth the seventy-five gold crowns the Empire has offered for it.”
The pistol came up. The sword wavered in the air.
“Kill him and be done with it,” said Menesh.
This was like Veidt, and like the hot-tempered Rudi. But Menesh had been quiet until now, dodging Veidt’s taunts with good humour. Something was working on them. Something unnatural. Genevieve staggered forward as someone landed on her back, pushing her face to the floor.
“Hah! Dead bitch!”
Erzbet’s noose was about her neck and drawing in. She had taken her by surprise. Genevieve had to struggle to brace her hands against the flagstones, to give herself the leverage to heave Erzbet off her. The wire constricted. The assassin knew her business: beheading would work, all right. Immortality is so fragile: beheading, the hawthorn, silver, too much sun…
Genevieve got her hand under her, palm flat against the stone and pushed herself up. Erzbet tried to ride her like an unbroken pony, her knees digging into the ribs. Genevieve corded her neck muscles and forced breath down her windpipe.
She heard the wire snap and felt Erzbet tumble from her seat. She stood and struck out. The other woman took the blow heavily and fell. Erzbet rolled on the floor and came up, a knife in her hand. Did it gleam silver like Ueli’s?
“The dead can die, leech woman!”
Genevieve felt the urge to kill. Kill the stinking living slut! Kill all these warmblood bastard vermin! Kill, kill, KILL!
“Fight it,” shouted Oswald. “It’s an attack, an enchantment!”
She turned to the prince. Whoreson noble! Sister-raping, wealth-besotted scum! Drenched in perfume to cover the stench of his own ordure!
[Genevieve 01] - Drachenfels Page 2