He returned to the brougham.
“To the castle,” he told the coachman, closing the door and leaning back out through the open window. “It is time this Nadasdy learned who is the true heir of Drakenhof.”
The coachman inclined his cloaked head, no expression or emotion in the movement, and yet it reeked of approval. His leather whip cracked in the air, and the horses broke into a gallop.
* * * * *
Mannfred emerged from the black coach, his hood pulled up over his head so that his face fell in shadow.
He swept up to the huge oak and iron-bound doors of the castle. Little had changed since he had last stood before the great door, little that was except for him. He was changed utterly. He reached out for the huge black iron wolfs head knocker on the door and hammered on it three times. The sound reverberated throughout the courtyard and deep inside the castle.
The reek of death still clung to the air, but that was ever the case with killing grounds. The blood could be scrubbed, the bodies buried or burned, it mattered little. The stink permeated the stone and soil and clung stubbornly to the place. It was a physical thing, more real to many than ghosts or revenant shades. It was something they could understand. Mannfred touched the wall of the old place, feeling its grief. The castle had seen much suffering, had witnessed the brutal slaughter of the Totentanz of Geheimnisnacht all those years ago, when Vlad had revealed himself to the world, and before that the casual cruelties of Otto van Drak’s capricious reign. Konrad’s madness was a blessing beside that, he was sure. It was no surprise that trace elements of it, like memory, had imprinted themselves on the very walls of Drakenhof. The building sorrowed. He felt it all through the stone.
“I am here,” Mannfred said, softly, as though reassuring the great castle.
He heard the massive bolts being drawn back. A moment later the door opened a crack. Musty air leaked out, and on it he smelled the servant’s fear as the cadaverous little man peered out through the narrow opening.
“Who is the master of this fortress?” Mannfred’s voice was horribly calm as he spoke.
“Nadasdy, lord, and she is mistress of Drakenhof, not master,” the little man wheedled, rubbing his hands together obsequiously. His bald pate beaded with sweat.
“Indeed. Please inform your mistress that I would speak with her.”
“Yes, yes, of course, sir, of course. Though it is late and she will not be happy. I will convey your request, yes, though she may not see you. The mistress is whimsical, her humours change and I cannot predict them.”
“She will see me,” Mannfred said.
“Yes, of course, yes.” The servant scraped his feet, bowing low and backing up, allowing the door to groan open on its rusted hinges. “Whom shall I say is calling?”
Mannfred said nothing. He pushed back his hood, gratified to see the shock of recognition on the servant’s face as he caught sight of the plain bronze ring on his hand. The man bowed even lower. When he straightened, his manner had visibly changed. The weaselly toadying of moments before had been replaced with cunning. The man seemed to grow in stature.
“Welcome home, master. The woman is in your sire’s chamber in the Raven Tower. I shall make preparations for her disposal.”
“No. I shall see to her myself.”
“Very good, master.”
Mannfred took a moment to adjust his collar and cuffs, and then moved past the servant. It was a bittersweet homecoming. He savoured the ambience of the old castle for a moment before sweeping through the lower levels, cloak swirling behind him. His footfalls echoed through the halls. There was an air of decadent decay about his ancestral home. The air was rank with the musk of rotting tapestries. A low keening moan whispered in his wake, along with other noises, including the scratch and skitters of rats. How could the heart of Vlad’s kingdom have fallen into such disrepair? It would not, Mannfred vowed silently, remain so. He would restore the great castle to its former glory. In the great hall the obsidian throne, the mark of Vlad’s dominion, lay on its side, toppled. Mannfred righted it. He turned slowly, surveying the fallen grandeur of the hall. It had been more than a century since he had last walked these hallowed halls—one hundred years of solitude, laying the foundations of his Kingdom of the Damned.
He lingered a while with the ghosts of that Geheimnisnacht, remembering the feeding frenzy that had been the slaughter of the aristocracy. It had been a night unlike any other. It had hinted at the power of his sire, that he dared invite his enemies into his home and had the strength to cull them. It was audacious, brutal, and quite, quite brilliant. The unveiling had sent tremors throughout humanity that were still being felt today. The fear of the black ship was more to do with the fear of that night, the possibility that it might be returning and that such evil might have found a way into their simple lives.
He wandered through many of the old rooms, trying to recall their purpose. He stepped into what had obviously been the library at one time. So much had been destroyed. The vellum had decayed, the skin—not the best thing to bind a book with—crumbled. So much had been lost.
The flash of a silver head caught his eye amid the detritus of life. He crossed the room to investigate. He picked through the rubbish, moving a shredded tome and scrolls where the ink had long since perished. He toed aside a rotten canvas to reveal a cane with a silver wolfs head for a handle.
He stared at it for a full minute before stooping to pick it up.
He had never thought to see this again, and could not begin to imagine how it had ended up here, amid the ruin of this room.
Vlad had carried the wolf cane with him when playing the aristocrat. Mannfred leant on the cane, affecting the pose of the gentleman, and then hefted it, lashing out with the silver head. It swung sweetly, though it stung to grasp. He remembered that Vlad had had a penchant for wearing gloves, all part of the guise of the wealthy man. Mannfred walked back through the library, across decomposed books and blind scrolls, twirling the cane in his hand as he went. It felt natural, adding a certain symmetry to his return.
He took the stone steps of the winding staircase three at a time, the silver head of the cane tapping against the stone wall in time with his steps. The picking and snickering of the rats faded away, the vermin fleeing at his approach.
He crossed the portrait gallery, where a single portrait was left hanging. It was a curious piece, Konrad in the centre, arms wide, decanting the blood of a naked girl—though it could well have been a boy, the artist had given the victim’s sexuality a curious ambiguity—into an earthenware chalice. Konrad, messianic in the centre, was surrounded by his loyal disciples, his Hamaya, all twelve of them sharing his feast of blood. It was curious that there was only one cup between them. It was, no doubt, how mad Konrad had seen himself, dispensing favours to his loyal few, a king at his own table. Mannfred recognised the face of Jerek von Carstein depicted at Konrad’s left, a betrayer’s dagger in his hand, his face twisted as he leaned in beneath the table towards Konrad. It was an amusing piece, and obviously the artist had intended some hidden meaning, including all sorts of symbolism in it that wasn’t easily read. It was signed Cornelian Ovidad in a tight scrawl.
He climbed the stairs of the Raven Tower. He threw open the iron-banded door and ascended a second staircase. His sire’s scent was long gone. He lifted the cane and rapped sharply three times on the chamber door. He didn’t wait for the witch to open it for him. Mannfred tore the door from its huge hinges, the pins shearing off as they were wrenched free of the wooden frame.
He stood in the doorway.
The woman, Nadasdy, was sprawled out naked across the huge divan. The chamber was vulgar, an exercise in decadent excess totally at odds with the rest of the castle. It was lush, opulent. The air hung thick with aromatic spices, crimson shade and more exotic narcotics that overwhelmed the senses.
Mannfred stood in the doorway.
He looked at the woman.
There was something about her that was strangely fa
miliar. She was an old soul though, he thought, so it was unsurprising if their paths had crossed at some time. She came to consciousness slowly, groggy from whatever intoxicant polluted her flesh and blood. Mannfred crossed the room, reaching the bed as she knuckled the sleep from her eyes. There was no anger in his movements, no emotion at all. Emotion was weakness. Mannfred was coldly methodical in the execution of his retribution.
“You are not wanted here, witch.”
She rolled on the bed, lifting her head to look at him. There was something dreadfully familiar about her eyes.
“I waited for you,” the woman crooned, obviously still caught in the failing edge of a dream and thinking he was some lover returned. She reached out to grab at his sleeve. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone here. I always knew, so I prepared the way as you wanted.”
She talked as though she knew him—though there was a rambling hallucinatory quality to her words—but he knew with growing certainty he had never met the woman. She was, he assumed, as mad as her sire, for surely she was Konrad’s get, her mind addled by the narcotics she indulged in. She would not have been the only one driven insane by the blood kiss. She obviously thought he was his brother-in-death.
“I am not Konrad, woman. Your sire is dead,” Mannfred said, slowly, belabouring the point. “Do you understand? You are alone.”
“No! You are here!”
“You are all alone,” Mannfred repeated, “and you have harmed me and mine. I do not look kindly upon your presence in my house, or on your treatment of my subjects. Your forest of the impaled is an abomination, Nadasdy. Our kind has more thought, more cunning, than that. You do not cull the cattle, you cultivate them. You owe me their blood, Nadasdy. I shall start by taking yours.”
“No,” she pleaded. “No, you don’t understand! I did it for you! It was always for you!”
“Hush. Your lies make you ugly, woman.”
“No! No! I am no woman! I am your servant! I prepared the way! I defied death for you! Do you not know me? It is—” Mannfred touched the witch on the forehead and whispered a single word of power. Nadasdy’s jaw locked mid-word, her desperate plea silenced. Mannfred stared down at her, enjoying the look of abject fear frozen on her face. He did not care who she claimed to be.
“I am master of Drakenhof, Nadasdy. This is my birthright. You tried to steal from me. I am glad. It gives me an excuse to make a lesson out of your corpse.”
He sat on the edge of the divan beside her, running the edge of the razor-cuff slowly from her throat all the way down to her pubis, paring the flesh. As the blood began to well from the wound he whispered the words, calling her flesh from her bones. The incantation was a cruel one. She could not move, could not scream or whimper, even as the pain grew so severe that she lost consciousness. Mannfred slapped her back awake. He wanted her to feel everything.
He flayed every inch of skin from her corpse, and then pared the muscle and tendon, drawing the bones out. He performed the act slowly, and with surgical precision.
It was a wretched death that took far longer than it had a right to because he held her soul, refusing to let her die until he was done punishing her.
The warren of subterranean catacombs beneath Drakenhof was Konrad’s legacy. The Blood Count had been obsessed with his grand design, digging deep beneath the old castle, and expanding into the mountain range and inevitably into the ancient labyrinth of warrens beneath the old world. The enormity of it was staggering. Mannfred stood alone in the centre of the great subterranean cathedral where Konrad had ruled his empire. It engulfed him. The silence was perfect. There was a quality to the air that made it quite different to the world above. It was purer, unbreathed.
The high vaulted ceiling dripped with long gnarled and gangrenous stalactites. The lichen clinging to the rock shed a repulsive luminescence, lending the subterranean chamber an unearthly quality.
A huge basalt altar commanded the central dais. Twin runnels had been carved along the outer rim of the stone altar. They bore the dark stains of blood where victims had been sacrificed to Konrad’s madness.
Blood. Such an amazing thing, blood, that exquisite taste, its perfect colour, that viscous consistency. Everything about it was remarkable, right down to the fact that the trace elements of life itself were there in that thick fluid. It was a living liquid. Even when spilled across the sacrificial altar it would live on, for a while.
He had things to do before he allowed himself the luxury of feeding again.
Behind the altar was the greatest mockery of all, the remains of the facade of a Sigmarite temple. Jagged pieces of stained glass images of the man-god and his miracles remained in the broken windows.
Konrad’s vanity was incredible.
Mannfred circled the altar.
Row upon row of tiered benches and walkways had been carved into the hemispherical wall, creating a great stone amphitheatre. It was all pomp and pageantry. A great leader did not need to fall back on such tricks.
Coming full circle Mannfred braced himself against the altar, allowing the trace memories to wash over him. He could see, in his mind’s eye, Konrad commanding his army from this very room. He could hear the ghosts of his tirades, the words seared into the memory of the place. It was Konrad’s great and secret show. Mannfred felt the echoes of his loathing even now, trapped within this vast room. The stir of echoes was haunting. It would have been easy to lose his sense of self beneath the tide of the past, but Mannfred was strong. He drew what he needed from it and broke contact with the stone before it could in turn begin feeding off him.
“As it is below, so shall it be above,” Mannfred said, stalking out of the cathedral. He swept through the old cages, row after row of prison cells, empty save for a few bones, through into the true library of Drakenhof.
The stacks were immaculately tended, unlike anything else in the old stronghold. Mannfred ran his fingertips over the spines of the old tomes, reading the names off one by one, amazed at the wealth of arcana buried beneath the castle. More so because of the loving care that had obviously gone into maintaining the collection. He walked along aisles of glass cabinets full to bursting with fetishes and gewgaws of faith, fragments of scrolls, shrunken heads, talons of rare birds, onyx and ruby dust, reliquaries and bones of every shape and size from every creature imaginable, seeds, withered husks and shells, pickled faggots of brain in a demijohn, black tulips and black lotus petals, mandrake roots, the wizened heart of a child, dead eyes, bloodstone, a splinter of what looked to be warp stone and cocoons of butterflies along with a colourful spread of wings from the same insects. They were veritable cabinets of curiosities and he knew that each one was in some way vital to a ritual.
Despite his impotence Konrad had chosen to surround himself with all of the accoutrements of magic. For once Mannfred admired his brother-in-death’s single-minded obsession.
He wasn’t alone.
He paused before the end of the last bookcase in the line, listening intently for the slightest sound out of place. He heard it then, though it was hardly out of place: the slow rustle of a page turning. He waited, listening. He pulled a thick tome from the shelf, dislodging an ungodly amount of dust that billowed up into the musty air. The book was entitled Die Göttliche Komödie, a Treatise on Morr’s Underworld. He wasn’t the least bit interested in the book. It was what lay behind the book that mattered.
A small man sat huddled in the corner of the stacks, a sheaf of vellum on his knee, scratching out words with a quill. A stub of candle burned beside him. His complexion was waxy his hair matted and lank. He wore a simple scholar’s habit. Ink smeared his fingers and the side of his face where he had obviously touched it without thinking.
“It’s not ready yet. Soon, I promise. Just a little while longer. It needs to be perfect. So much to write,” the little scholar said without looking up. He scratched out another word, painstakingly re-inking it in a moment later. He looked up from what he was doing, brow furrowing. “Oh, you’re not Konrad. Yo
u shouldn’t be here.”
Mannfred crouched down beside the scholar. “Who are you?”
“Constantin.”
“Well, Constantin, what are you doing in my library?”
“Working,” the scholar said earnestly. He clutched the sheets of vellum to his chest. “But this isn’t your library… it is Konrad’s.”
“Konrad isn’t here any more. That makes this my library and, by extension, whatever you are working on, mine. Let me see.”
Constantin shook his head. “Where is Konrad? Is this a trick? Are you going to report to him? Tell him that I am loyal, that I will complete my task, that all he needs is a little patience.” At that the little scholar laughed, a bitter barking laugh. “Patience, does he even know the word? No, no, don’t say that!”
“I am master of this castle, Constantin, not my brother.”
“But Konrad is coming back?”
“No, Konrad is not coming back. Konrad is dust and ashes, Constantin.”
“Dust and ashes,” the scholar echoed. “Is this a joke? Are you trying to trick me into revealing my true feelings? Do you want me to say my master is a mad man? I will. I do not fear him anymore. I am master of my library.”
“When did you last feed, Constantin?”
“I… I don’t recall,” the scholar admitted, scratching his head. “Days, weeks? They have no meaning in the dark.”
Mannfred understood then what had happened to the scholar. Fear had kept him down here working on whatever task Konrad had charged him with, and rather than resurface to feed he had hidden away in the dark and dusty stacks, slowly starving himself into insanity.
Mannfred pried one of the vellum sheets from Constantin’s hands, much to the scholar’s chagrin. “Give it back! Mine! That’s not for your eyes! No! Not finished.”
Mannfred saw what it was immediately—a ballad, though it made precious little sense, for all of the crossings out and recrossings out. It was about—or seemed to be about—his brother, though it bore no resemblance to the mad one’s real life. “He had you rewriting history? Glorifying his reign?”
[Von Carstein 03] - Retribution Page 9