by C. L. Werner
Makvar, Brannok and a retinue of Liberators followed after Vogun, each knight keeping his weapons at the ready. Despite the comforting glow of Vogun’s lantern, the sense of hostility that had greeted them when they climbed into the tower had only intensified as they penetrated deeper into the fortress. The air was growing heavier and more stifling, endowed with an abominable moistness that crawled down into the lungs. The high ceiling and empty chambers of the tower conspired to create eerie echoes that refused to conform to any rhythm or rhyme but persisted in rolling back to the Stormcasts in the most distorted and disordered manner. The play of light and shadow evoked fleeting suggestions of motion at the edge of vision, the images vanishing when an Anvil turned his head to face them directly.
Neferata and her vampiric guards were behind Makvar’s group, lingering just far enough back that they were spared the hurtful light of Vogun’s lantern. While content to allow the Stormcasts to precede her and assume the risk of whatever traps Mannfred had set, she was less comfortable with Makvar’s decision to split his knights into two groups. The second was following after the vampires, counting among them the Judicators and Knight-Azyros Huld. Makvar had claimed the deployment was to protect Neferata and Nagash should anything unexpected happen and they be forced to withdraw from the castle. Try as she might, she couldn’t reconcile herself to the Lord-Celestant’s claim. There was still the chance he expected treachery, and had set Huld and the others behind her so that the vampires would be caught between both groups of Stormcasts.
It was with a feeling of bitterness that Neferata reflected on Nagash’s own decision to remain at the rear with his morghasts. Though she knew her own sorcery wasn’t able to sift Mannfred’s presence from the arcane signature he had left imprinted in the stones of Nachtsreik, she was suspicious about the Great Necromancer’s claim that such a feat was beyond his abilities. The question that nagged at her was why he would make such a pretence. What did he hope to achieve by feigning weakness? Simply to conceal the extent of his power from Makvar? After his efforts at Mephitt, Neferata didn’t think such humility had a part in his intentions. He had gone to great effort to impress upon the Anvils the extent of his might, vanquishing the Great Unclean One under their watchful gaze.
No, there was some deeper purpose bound into Nagash’s decisions. A design that had so far eluded Neferata. It was certain that he was making use of the Stormcasts in some fashion, but towards what end? Did he truly intend to aid Sigmar’s forces?
The vampire queen had given that question deep thought. The Realm of Death had suffered tremendously after Sigmar withdrew from Shyish. That Nagash had provoked the God-King’s retreat was something she doubted the prideful Lord of Death would allow to mitigate his resentments. Still, even if Nagash didn’t forgive an injury dealt to him, he was a cunning pragmatist. If he saw advantage to be gained by helping Sigmar, he would set upon such a course. Regardless of who he had to sacrifice to realise his ambition.
In that, Neferata reasoned, lay the chief difference between her master and Makvar. Makvar had a firm code of honour by which he abided. Duty and necessity might force him to bend that code, but he wouldn’t break it. If she could set him into her debt just once, make him personally beholden to her, she felt she would have the key to the Lord-Celestant. If he felt obligation to her, she would enjoy the protection of his entire Warrior Chamber. She had once enticed the grandmaster of a warrior brotherhood into her grasp, gaining the use of his entire army as a result. The mortal had been possessed of notions of honour and loyalty, fealty and piety not so dissimilar to those the Stormcasts espoused. In the end, he had become her thrall all the same.
‘Highness, do you think these storm-knights can truly find Mannfred’s lair?’ Harkdron’s question had a hopeful note about it as he addressed Neferata.
‘Beware of wishing failure upon our allies,’ Neferata hissed at him. ‘Now that Nagash has decided to collect his errant Mortarch, if the Stormcasts fail to find him, the duty is likely to fall to us.’
Harkdron drew himself up as he turned towards Neferata. ‘I will protect you from any danger Mannfred could offer you.’
Neferata sneered at her consort. ‘A fool is always certain of things he knows nothing about,’ she hissed. ‘If you knew Mannfred as I have known him, you would be wishing success to the storm-knights. Mannfred is a shrewd adversary, as relentless as he is cruel. Cross him, simply get in his way, Harkdron, and you’ll have an enemy who will haunt you to the end of your days.’
Amala crouched within the frame of the window, her inhuman eyes roving across the darkened chamber. She kept raising her paws to her face, sniffing at the blood oozing from the walls. Lascilion left the winged mutant to her loathsome ministrations. He had more vital things to concern him than the eldritch seepage of a deathmage’s castle.
The Lord of Slaanesh pulled the plumed helm from his head, giving his leonine face its freedom. From between his fanged jaws, his forked tongue flashed forth, wriggling with ecstatic glee as it drew the scent of Neferata from the dank air. The object of his obsession had been here, and recently. There were other smells as well, but these were insignificant to him beside that of the vampire queen. Once more she was within his reach!
‘Focus upon the task Thagmok has set you.’ The warning rose from outside the window. Amala leapt down from her perch, stalking into the room as the feathered figure of Molchinte appeared outside. The sorceress hovered in the air, her feet sunk into the slimy back of an ovoid creature, a daemon of Tzeentch she had summoned to follow Lascilion into the tower. Beyond her, also supported upon disc-shaped daemons, were the other Chaos champions the Bloodking had sent to destroy the lightning-men.
Lascilion’s face curled in an expression of distaste. Perhaps, under other circumstances, he would enjoy the novelty of Molchinte pawing through his mind. Now, however, he found it to be an abominable violation. Even if it was doomed, his dream of claiming Neferata for his own was still the force that drove him on.
‘The lightning-men,’ Molchinte demanded as she stepped into the tower, wrenching her feet from the limpid flesh of the daemon. The weird disc broke apart in a burst of lights as soon as she was quit of it. ‘Were they here? Were their leaders here?’
‘Yes,’ Lascilion told her. ‘Not long past either. There is no mistaking the sting of their scent.’ His gaze strayed from the sorceress to the Chaos champions as they stepped through the window. Just as Molchinte’s daemon steed had done, the fleshy discs broke apart the moment their riders were clear of them. Alghor Wormsword and Orbleth the Despised paid small attention to their surroundings, unaffected by the sinister atmosphere and the dripping walls. Vaangoth the semi-daemon couldn’t keep his furry hands from the gory walls, dragging them across the surfaces before wiping the blood across his own dripping armour. Lascilion thought he saw a ripple pass through the bloodied plates each time he did so.
‘Then let us be about our task,’ Molchinte said. She stared about the room, eyes wide with alarm. More attuned to magic than her companions, she could feel the magnitude of necromantic energy flowing through the fortress. Lascilion decided it couldn’t hurt him to make the sorceress still more uneasy.
‘They aren’t alone,’ the warlord said. ‘I picked out other scents as well. The smell of vampires and reanimated bones.’ A cold smile played across his face. ‘And something more. Something powerful. Perhaps another of the Mortarchs.’
Molchinte gave that information a good deal of thought. The prospect of confronting one Mortarch and some lightning-men had been imposing enough. The idea of facing two of the powerful undead lords was fearsome. It took her only a moment to decide it wasn’t as frightful as defying the commands of Thagmok… or displeasing Archaon.
‘If they are colluding with two of the Mortarchs, then our task is even more vital,’ she said. ‘We must strike down these lightning-men.’ Her eyes glittered as she gave Lascilion a stern look. ‘Could you tell h
ow many lightning-men were with them?’
‘Less than I encountered in Nulahmia,’ Lascilion conceded. ‘A dozen, perhaps more. Their smell is strange to me, so it is difficult to be certain.’
The sorceress was silent for a moment. Then, without warning, she spun around. A blade erupted from beneath the folds of her feathered cloak, a fat knife etched with cabalistic sigils. Before Amala could react, the knife was slashing across the mutant’s throat, sending a gout of her foul blood spraying across the haunted walls. Molchinte crouched over the twitching body, sawing her knife across the back of the neck. Soon, she had Amala’s head severed from the spine.
Much as it pleased him to see the treacherous mutant dispatched, the suddenness of her murder alarmed Lascilion. He and the other champions held their weapons ready to repulse the murderous witch, but Molchinte made no move towards them. Instead, she was dipping her finger in Amala’s blood and drawing strange symbols across the mutant’s dead eyes. A scratchy incantation rose from the sorceress, an invocation drawn from the squawks of birds and the yaps of dogs more than anything that resembled intelligent speech. As she worked her conjuration, a weird purple light shone from behind Amala’s eyes.
‘A shield of oblivion,’ Molchinte explained as she held the head before her. ‘A gift from Tzeentch. Its magic will hide us from our prey.’ A vicious laugh twisted her lips. ‘At least until we are ready to strike.’ She motioned to her remaining companions with the hand that yet held her dripping knife. ‘Draw near to me or its power cannot help you.’ She laughed anew when she noted their hesitation. ‘We need only one shield. Be thankful the mutant was the least valuable among you.’
Still keeping hold of Pain’s hilt, Lascilion approached Molchinte. The fact he could still see the sorceress seemed to belie the efficacy of her murderous spell, but when he drew close to her, he felt a shock run through him. As Alghor and Orbleth joined them, he could see the same expression of surprise and discomfort pass through their misshapen features. Certainly Molchinte had surrounded herself with some sort of magic.
‘Vaangoth!’ Molchinte snapped at the bestial champion of Khorne. ‘There is no time to waste.’
The semi-daemon had turned back to the dripping wall, once again raking his hand through the gore and then anointing his armour with it. He turned his brutish face towards Molchinte. ‘Go,’ he snarled. ‘I follow.’ Offering no explanation, he continued to paw at the ghostly blood oozing from the walls.
‘How he find us when we invisible?’ Alghor asked.
‘He won’t,’ Molchinte snapped at the Nurglesque champion. Without further delay, she stabbed the knife into Amala’s forehead. At once, the air around the sorceress and her companions took on a shimmering, hazy quality.
Lascilion smiled as he drew his helm back over his head. He had been mistaken to doubt Molchinte’s magic. If the spell performed as she claimed it would, they would be able to strike at the lightning-men with complete surprise.
What Lascilion had to do now was figure a way to exploit that magic to achieve his own purpose. It had to be the favour of Slaanesh that Neferata was being offered to him once more.
‘Look out!’
The cry sounded from Brannok as the Knight-Heraldor threw himself towards Makvar. The Lord-Celestant and his rescuer pitched forwards, spilling into the chamber they had been about to enter. The doorway through which they had passed was no more, sealed by the massive stone block that had come slamming down from the arch above it.
Makvar had to give a grudging degree of respect to Mannfred’s inventiveness. The trap had been deliberately calibrated to let the first few intruders pass before activating. Behind the doorway, he could hear the anxious shouts of concern from the other Stormcasts. Vogun and Torn, who had passed through moments before, turned in alarm at the sound.
Brannok rolled to face the block. He reached for his battle-horn, then hesitated. He could use the horn’s magic to shatter the block, but he didn’t know what else might be caught in the thunderblast.
‘Back!’ Makvar shouted. At the same time, he seized hold of Brannok’s arm and dragged the warrior with him deeper into the room.
Lying against the floor, Makvar had heard a faint sound, like sand running from an hourglass. It was all the warning there was. Fortunately, it was all the warning he needed. Glancing back at where they had been sprawled on the ground, he now saw a yawning pit. He had been wrong about Mannfred being inventive – he was a fiend. A pit timed to open shortly after the block fell, catching whoever went hurrying back to aid those caught beneath the crushing stone.
Snarls of rage rose from the corridor outside. Makvar at once guessed its meaning. Not content to catch those inside the room, Mannfred had set a second pit to open in the hall outside as well.
‘Quiet!’ Makvar called out. ‘We are unharmed on this side. How have you fared on that side?’
A grim voice called back to him. ‘Brothers Xi and Pericles fell. The bottom of the hole was lined with stakes. Their spirits have returned to Sigmar.’
Makvar clenched his fist in silent fury. To lose his knights in battle was hard enough, but at least there was honour and dignity in such defeat. For some of his Anvils to be snatched away through such deceitful enterprise was obscene. That the trap had been laid by a monster they sought to draw into alliance with Sigmar only made it still more enraging.
‘I find myself hoping Mannfred won’t submit to Nagash,’ Brannok said. His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. ‘It will be a pleasure breaking him.’
‘Only if you find him before I do,’ Vogun said. Torn loped along at his side, feathers ruffled as he sniffed the mouldy air. Cautiously the Lord-Castellant came towards them, tapping the butt of his halberd against the floor to verify its solidity.
‘I doubt any of the Mortarch’s snares can be so easily uncovered,’ Makvar said. He looked around the chamber. It looked to be some sort of trophy room, grisly displays standing in dusty silence upon wooden platforms. Some of the stuffed creatures in the exhibition were beasts, others, hideously, had once been men. Still a third category represented a ghoulish hybrid of human and animal anatomy, pieces of mummified flesh and bleached bone that Makvar found it impossible to accept could ever have survived in such a state. Even compared to the mutations of Chaos, these things were blasphemies.
‘The exit is across from us!’ Brannok shouted, then drew up short, shaking his head as he found the doorway was no longer where he thought it had been. He turned about in frustration, only to spot the doorway now on his left.
Makvar appreciated Brannok’s confusion. Since descending the tower stair, the Stormcasts and their companions had been beset by a bewildering maze of halls and chambers, galleries and vaults. No sane mind could have conceived of such a castle, with stairs that climbed up to blank walls, windows that stared into chimney flues, doors that opened upon rooms sunk several feet below their threshold. More unsettling was the impression that the architecture shifted itself around when it wasn’t being observed. It was an idea so absurd that Makvar tried to dismiss it as soon as it suggested itself to him. Then he remembered Nagash’s warning that Nachtsreik had been fashioned from blood and bone, endowed with its own nightmarish vitality by Mannfred.
Makvar shook his head. He turned about, looking back towards the enormous stone that had so nearly crushed them. ‘Wherever it is, we’ll go nowhere unless we rejoin our comrades.’
Even as he spoke the words, Makvar was interrupted by the frenzied barking of Torn. The gryph-hound was glowering at the nearest of the trophies, a hulking mass of bones that looked like a troggoth with the skull of a crocodile fitted to its vertebrae. The animal backed away from the thing slowly, feathers ruffled and hackles raised. An instant later, the undead creature turned its saurian head around, staring at the Anvils with its empty eyes.
Vogun stepped towards the thing, brandishing the warding lantern. The light, however,
did nothing to repulse the animated horror. With a creaking step, it dropped down from the wooden platform. Across the room, other trophies could be seen doing the same. Even the most twisted of the creatures, those horrible amalgams of man and animal, had been infused with a new vitality.
‘We are the Anvil…’ Makvar told his comrades as they readied themselves for the monstrous pack. They would make a good accounting of themselves, but he had no illusions about their chances against such odds.
Suddenly, a flight of crackling arrows seared across the room. The skeletal automatons shattered as shafts of lightning seared into their decayed frames. Before the rest of the gruesome host could advance, the icy chill of sorcery engulfed them. ‘Dust you are, to dust return!’ Neferata’s voice rang out. The Mortarch’s potent magic at once wrought havoc upon the shambling monsters. Bones crumbled to powder, shrivelled flesh fell away like dead leaves. One after another, the creatures collapsed into piles of funereal decay.
Advancing into the room were Neferata and her entourage, along with the Stormcasts Makvar had left with Huld. They emerged from a gash in the wall, an opening Makvar hadn’t seen before. He shook his head. Of course it was some secret door, allowing ingress without disturbing the traps Mannfred had set. Or had it? Perhaps opening the hidden door had provoked the animation of the Mortarch’s trophies.
Neferata walked towards Makvar, though her gaze kept shifting back to the demolished trophies. Even in their current state of dissolution, she appeared wary of them. Given her knowledge of necromancy, Makvar decided that if she was concerned then he should be as well.