by C. L. Werner
‘Huld!’ he called to the Knight-Azyros. Makvar pointed to the heaps of dust. ‘Bring your beacon to bear upon that carrion. If there is any arcane life lingering in them, burn it away.’
Neferata turned away as Huld unshielded his celestial beacon and set its rays across the demolished skeletons. ‘I am uncertain if even that will work,’ she told Makvar. ‘At least in this place. Everything here has been perverted by Mannfred’s machinations. It is more than natural laws he defies in this place, but the rules which govern even the darkest magic.’ She pointed over her shoulder at the shattered skeletons. ‘That menagerie was his creation. He considers himself an artist in his way. Always seeking some new way to display his mastery of the black arts.’
The image of the vampire count cobbling together those monstrosities was a repugnant one. Makvar only prayed Mannfred’s ‘materials’ had been dead when he exploited them for his macabre art.
‘Thank you for your timely assistance, my lady,’ Makvar told Neferata. ‘Was it you who found the hidden entrance?’
Neferata nodded. ‘The moment the block fell and the pit opened, I knew there would be another way in.’ She frowned, a vengeful gleam sneaking into her eyes. ‘I underestimated Mannfred’s cunning, however. I didn’t expect even his private door to be trapped. I fear it was opening that door which set his menagerie in motion.’
Makvar mulled over her words. ‘I was loath to suggest it before, but you have some insight into the mind of your fellow Mortarch. Such knowledge could spare us the attention of more traps. If I were to send Vogun back to the main body, would you join me in the vanguard? I will try to mitigate whatever dangers such exposure presents to you.’
A brief smile flickered on Neferata’s face. ‘You must keep Vogun ahead of you,’ she said. ‘Without his light, the spirits of this place would beset you at every turn. It is their repulsion of the light that sends them fleeing before us.’ She threw back her head, tossing her dark hair in a regal flourish. ‘I will endure my own repugnance of the light,’ she declared. ‘My discomfort cannot be measured against the dangers that threaten your knights.’
Makvar bowed and took her hand in his. ‘Again, you have my gratitude. I am in your debt.’
‘It is a strange thing,’ Neferata said, ‘to have an Anvil of the Heldenhammer indebted to me.’
The fortress of Nachtsreik was proving as sinister and forbidding as Nagash had expected it to be. The illusions Mannfred had woven into the castle, the ghostly vitality that endowed every brick and stone with a malicious presence, the murderous traps that lay in wait for the unwary – all of these things combined into a vicious gauntlet to test any warrior. It was a creation the Mortarch could be proud of. Knowing the nature of Mannfred, that pride would be dressed in a robe of arrogance and perfumed with deceit.
Nagash followed behind the Stormcasts as Neferata led them through the treacherous environs of Mannfred’s refuge. It was a concession he was willing to indulge. Leaving the Anvils to their own devices had revealed much to him, but observing their interactions with the vampire queen was just as instructive. By it, he was able to gauge the earnestness of their overtures of alliance. The more he watched them, the more he came to appreciate that they had no facility for duplicity. Their faith in the God-King and their devotion to their mission were qualities each of them held to be inviolate. It was in regards to their own person and needs that they were given to compromise. Each of them was subsumed to the demands of his Warrior Chamber.
Even Knight-Heraldor Brannok, the Anvil with the most misgivings about the nature of their mission, had set himself at risk to rescue Makvar. Certainly Brannok had to know that without Makvar, their embassy was likely to fail, and he had hurled himself into danger without an instant of hesitation.
Such selflessness was to be expected from creatures like his morghast archai, beings without any true individuality or essence of their own. Nagash could command legions of such undead to march into the maw of a volcano and there would be no murmur of protest. Even the thought of disobedience was impossible for them.
Nagash was coming to believe that Sigmar’s Stormcasts were instilled with an equal degree of obedience. Yet it wasn’t compulsion that forced them to obey. They did so willingly, indeed, they drew a sense of honour from their unquestioning fealty. Brannok, steadfast and selfless as any of his comrades, was unsettled by the very virtue of his doubts.
The Great Necromancer listened to Neferata conferring with Makvar in Mannfred’s gallery. The vampire queen’s ambitions were almost as interesting as the Stormcasts themselves, and possibly of equal value to him. At least, once he set all the pieces in play.
Nagash stared into the gems set into the head of his staff. Images of the shifting vaults and halls of Nachtsreik flowed within the stones. His gaze penetrated the maze, piercing the mirages and illusions Mannfred had evoked to conceal himself. He saw the thousand snares by which the Mortarch thought to keep himself safe – the deadfalls and firetraps that lay under floors and within walls, hidden garrisons of deadwalkers and bone warriors, the cellars where still mightier guards lurked. The enormity of Mannfred’s defences could stave off armies even if they pierced the morbid walls. For a handful of Stormcasts, the prospect of finding the vampire’s secret tomb would border on the miraculous.
A miracle was just what Nagash would bestow upon his unsuspecting allies. As Lord of Death, there were no secrets in Shyish that could hide from him. It was a reality his Mortarchs always strove to deny, no matter how many times they were forced to re-learn the lesson.
Touching one of his claws to a huge bloodstone, Nagash conjured the image of Neferata in the crimson gem. Holding the staff close to his fleshless face, he began to whisper to the image, using great caution and subtlety as he worked his magic.
When Nagash was finished, Neferata wouldn’t be aware that she wasn’t guiding Makvar to Mannfred’s tomb on her own. Of course, there would be a few traps in the way, a few hazards and illusions to beset the Stormcasts. If the path was too clear, someone might get suspicious.
The time for suspicions would be after Mannfred joined them.
The stench of evil rose from the floor, crawling across the Stormcasts as they marched into the crypt. The caskets which lined the walls now stood empty, their inhabitants having risen in a mass of rotting flesh and decayed organs. Hundreds strong, it had taken Makvar and his comrades some time to destroy the revenants, even with the necromancy of Neferata keeping the things from rising again. Huld and Vogun shone their lights upon the carcasses, striving to banish whatever fell influence yet lingered within them.
Makvar glowered at the charnel house that stretched away as far as he could see. The ceiling above was vaulted, rising far into the darkness, supported upon pillars of fused bones that dripped with the same spectral blood they had encountered in the tower and throughout much of the castle. There was something about the way the disembodied gore slithered along the bones that offended him, some quality about the sight that rendered it more obscene than everything else around it.
‘Mannfred’s lair is here,’ Neferata declared. The vampire queen and her followers advanced towards a gruesome pillar. At first, Makvar thought it was simply their unholy hunger that attracted them, but then he noticed that sigils briefly flared upon the bleached surface of the bones whenever the Mortarch reached towards them. Each time the wards appeared she staggered back, a quiver of pain crossing her features.
After their arduous trek through the seemingly unending vaults and corridors of Mannfred’s fortress, Makvar was almost reluctant to hope they had come to the end of their search. Four more Stormcasts had been claimed by Mannfred’s traps and guards, as well as one of the blood knights who attended Neferata, yet never had there been any sign they were making progress. Now it was almost too much to believe the ordeal could be at an end.
‘Anvils of the Heldenhammer!’ Makvar called his warriors. ‘To me!
’ While his knights rallied to him, Makvar approached the pillar. The reek of evil, if anything, was more pronounced around the grisly structure.
‘My lady, if you would,’ Makvar said, waving Neferata away from the pillar.
Harkdron rounded on the Lord-Celestant. ‘Do you presume to give orders to the Queen of Nulahmia?’ he demanded, oblivious to how empty the title had become.
‘No,’ Makvar told the vampire. He pointed his sword at the bleeding pillar. ‘I intend to bring that abomination down.’ He turned from Harkdron and addressed his Stormcasts. ‘Set the light celestial upon this thing,’ he told Huld and Vogun. ‘Judicators, keep your bows ready. Brannok… bring it down.’
As it had above, so the spectral blood again reacted to the light of Azyr, steaming away in puffs of greasy vapour. While the purifying light denuded the pillar of its cascading gore, Knight-Heraldor Brannok stepped away from his comrades. Drawing the gilded battle-horn from his belt, he raised the instrument to his lips.
The note that sounded from the horn wasn’t a simple battlefield signal or a rallying cry. It was a thunderous peal, a tremulous note that slammed into the pillar with pulverising violence. Such necromantic power as had saturated the pillar with its evil resilience now shattered as slivers of bone exploded across the crypt. The thunderblast cracked the base of the structure, splitting it in half and sending both monolithic sections smashing to the floor in a cloud of dust.
Gradually, as the dust dissipated, the Stormcasts could see the gaping hole exposed by Brannok’s demolition of the pillar. A flight of marble steps descended into the darkness. Instead of banishing the aura of evil that clung to the crypt, destroying the pillar had simply intensified it.
The source of the malefic energy was somewhere in the depths below.
Chapter Thirteen
The darkness closed around Lord-Celestant Makvar like the coils of some vast and monstrous serpent. Descending the steps wasn’t unlike plunging into deep waters, the pressure tightening around his body, crushing the breath in his chest. Steadily mounting, growing more burdensome the further he went, it was only his faith in Sigmar and the trust placed in him by the God-King that gave Makvar the strength to persist.
He knew the weight that dragged at him wasn’t a physical manifestation, but the repulsion Makvar’s noble soul felt for the miasma of evil that saturated the sunken tomb. The cloying, violating taint of the place wrapped itself about him, striving to defile his purity and righteousness with its spectral blight. He felt like an open flame exposed to a torrential downpour, his ardour sputtering as the rain strove to quench his fire.
Makvar forced himself onward, reciting canticles and orisons that described the holy might of Sigmar and the beneficence he extended to those who persevered in his name. Foot by foot, step by step, the warrior walked down into the secret refuge of Mannfred von Carstein, the infernal Mortarch of Night.
The tomb was prodigious in its dimensions, a long hall with an arching ceiling from which the wizened husks of immense bats were suspended. Gigantic statues lined the walls, sandstone idols hoary with age, jewels gleaming in the eyes of each animal-headed sculpture. Gothic columns stretched up from the tiled floor, iron sconces bolted to their sides. It was from these fixtures that a pallid blue light shone across the tomb, a sickly glow that somehow evoked images of midnight graveyards and prowling wolves.
At the very centre of the chamber, resting upon a raised dais, was a stone sepulchre, its sides richly sculpted with martial scenes. An ancient coat of arms, etched in gold, stood out amidst the carvings, its polished sheen gleaming in the eerie light. Surrounding the sepulchre, standing atop hexagonal pedestals, were an array of glassy black stones. Makvar could feel the nether-energy that throbbed within each of the stones, see the phantasmal forces trapped within their curiously angled facets. Streamers of ghostly power crawled down each pedestal before slithering up the sides of the sepulchre.
The sense of pressure and resistance against him swelled as Makvar approached the sepulchre. The effort to take each step became ever more difficult, like being back in the Mirefells and slogging through its bogs. He could understand how this forbidding atmosphere would ward off less determined intruders. Makvar, however, wouldn’t retreat. The vampire Mortarch had much to learn about the resilience of the Stormcasts.
While Makvar had been the first to descend into Mannfred’s lair, he wasn’t alone. The other Anvils had followed him, with the exception of a retinue of Judicators standing guard above. Neferata and her retainers had come along as well, the vampire queen’s expression unsettled by the forbidding environment in which she found herself. Makvar imagined that she knew far better than he did the amount of arcane power her fellow Mortarch had expended to protect this tomb. Also, she might be discomfited by the fact that her master Nagash had once again sent her forward while he lingered behind. The Great Necromancer was nothing if not cautious. The devious traps which infested Nachtsreik more than justified such caution.
Here, in the very heart of his stronghold, Makvar was certain that Mannfred would have surrounded himself with his most fiendish snares. Yet as he probed ahead, no physical menace presented itself, only the unseen aura of threat that pressed in around him. All such nebulous belligerence served to accomplish was to make him still more determined to reach the sepulchre.
‘Lord Makvar!’ Neferata finally called out to him. ‘Go no further! Stop where you are!’
It was with a strange reluctance that Makvar turned his head to stare back at the steps. He could see Neferata and her vampires standing there, but without exception, the other Stormcasts had drawn ahead of them, ranged across the floor of the tomb as they marched towards the sepulchre. Almost without volition, he found himself raising his foot to continue his advance. Firmly he stamped his boot back down upon the floor. It was an effort to fend off the urge to go onwards. He knew it was more than his own determination that was drawing him towards his objective.
‘Anvils!’ Makvar shouted. ‘Stand fast!’ He could hear the rattle of sigmarite plate as his knights strove to obey his command. Under normal conditions, such an order would have been implemented instantly, but now his warriors were uncharacteristically reluctant to arrest their advance.
A new appreciation for the subtlety of Mannfred’s sorcery filled Makvar. The Mortarch had indeed anticipated the intrusion of Stormcasts into his sanctum… and he had prepared accordingly. The frightful aura, the atmosphere of brooding evil – these were manifestations to simply distract the Anvils from a more insidious influence. Some eldritch force that sought out their courage not to fend them off, but to draw them in. A fiendish beacon to lure them to the doom von Carstein had devised for all who threatened his repose.
Makvar glowered at the sepulchre and the sinister stones that surrounded it. He still couldn’t see the danger that waited for them, but he was certain it was there. Fortunately, the Anvils had a beacon of their own.
Makvar turned around, gesturing to Neferata. ‘My lady, your warning is timely. It is best, however, if you withdraw and await us above. I fear the means to oppose Mannfred’s sorcery would be hurtful for you.’ He waited while the vampires retreated back up to the crypt before gesturing to Huld. ‘Ascend, brother,’ he told the Knight-Azyros, then pointed at the sepulchre. ‘Shine the light of your celestial beacon there. We will see if the purity of Azyr can overcome the spells which seek to entrap us.’
Spreading his wings, Huld flew up into the murky roof of the tomb, wheeling around the carcasses of the enormous bats dangling from the ceiling. Holding forth his lamp, he threw open its shutter and directed its holy light against the sepulchre. At once, a foul, penetrating odour filled the chamber, the stink of singed hair and burning flesh. Along with the reek came a cacophony of wailing moans, disembodied shrieks of agony that shivered through the room.
As the celestial beacon’s light purged the tomb of its malignant aura, Makvar could see the se
pulchre changing. The strands of deathly energy trailing into it from the surrounding pedestals drew back into the black stones, reminding him of a child wrenching its hand away from a fire. A strange discolouration began to creep through the sepulchre, grey vines of ghost-rot that snaked through the carvings, causing them to split and fragment. The weird corrosion grew more pronounced with every heartbeat, soon denuding the sepulchre of its ornamentation, the scenes of war and slaughter reduced to piles of dust strewn about the dais.
Finally, with a shuddering groan, the coat of arms fell, clattering across the floor. The sound reverberated through the tomb with supernatural intensity. The Stormcasts tightened their hold upon their weapons as the dolorous crash pounded against their ears.
Makvar was the first to advance, motioning for his Anvils to stand back but keep themselves at the ready. Before him, the sepulchre continued to crumble, disintegrating as though millennia of decay had suddenly been poured into it. At the back of his mind, he wondered if this was the fate that should have taken them if they hadn’t broken Mannfred’s spell. Perhaps Huld’s beacon had turned the magic against itself.
A final shiver saw the unadorned sepulchre collapse. Its dissolution exposed its contents. An octagonal coffin fashioned from some impossibly dark wood now rested upon the dais, the same coat of arms nailed to its sides. Scarlet cloth woven from the pungent silk of the corpse-moth lined the lidless coffin’s interior, exuding a sickly sweet aroma of decay. Shining with an oily glitter, a haze hung about the coffin, some last magical ward that was strong enough even to oppose the unleashed fury of the trap that had consumed the sepulchre itself.
Disgust rose up within him as Makvar gazed upon the creature lying inside the coffin. Wearing armour that seemed to consume the light that struck it, the body of Mannfred was twisted with a monstrousness more vile than that of subhuman gors and the diseased mutations of Chaos. The abominations of the enemy were savage and unrefined, caprices of the Dark Gods. The horror that was the Mortarch of Night had been deliberately fashioned into its repulsive form. The long, lean hands with their predatory claws. The pale, clammy skin so devoid of health and vitality. The grisly countenance itself with its bare pate and sharp nose, close-set eyes and narrow mouth, high cheekbones that strained against the withered flesh, and bulbous nodules of bone protruding from the forehead.