Merovech’s fangs flashed, and he tore into the varghulf’s neck. The creature fought against him, but its strength was gone. For long moments Merovech drank, glutting himself before pulling away. His mouth and chin were caked in blood.
Duke Merovech dragged the immense weight of the varghulf across the dais floor, until he reached the altar. With one hand, he grabbed the chalice from altar’s tabernacle. He glanced heavenward. The green moon of Morrslieb was eclipsing Mannslieb now, like a repulsive, burning pupil in a silver iris. Apparently satisfied, Merovech forced the varghulf’s neck back, and lowered his mouth to its neck once more. This time he did not feed, but rather tore. He ripped open its throat, and the last of its blood began to gush forth.
GRANDFATHER MORTIS CLUTCHED unsteadily at the railing of the balcony as he watched his beloved lord and master slain. His children were being butchered down below, their will to fight evaporating as they too registered that their master was no more.
He staggered back, casting his eyes from the sickening sight of his master’s body defiled. A took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned away.
A heavy spiked cudgel smashed one of his kneecaps to splinters, and he fell to the ground with a cry of pain and shock.
Chlod stood over him, and the old man gaped up at him.
‘Fifteen years I was your slave, one of your cursed children,’ said Chlod. ‘I’ll not be that again.’
The hunchbacked peasant spat in Mortis’s face, making the old man flinch. That merely enraged Chlod more, and he slammed his spiked cudgel into Mortis’s side. Ribs snapped like dry twigs.
‘Fifteen years I stole and murdered for you, you old bastard,’ said Chlod. ‘Fifteen years you starved me. How many times did I feel the touch of your switch, hmm? How many bones did you break? How many scars did you leave?’
He made to strike Mortis again, and the old man recoiled, his face twisted in agony.
‘Who has the power now?’ said Chlod.
‘I took you in, you wretched ingrate,’ hissed Mortis between clenched teeth. ‘I fed you! I clothed you! I! Without me you’d be dead! You’d be nothing! I made you what you are!’
‘You did at that,’ said Chlod. ‘Do you like what you see?’
Chlod brought his spiked cudgel down again and again, and as loud as Mortis’s screams were, no one came to his aid. He continued his brutal attack even after Mortis had ceased screaming, even after he was far beyond recognisable.
Finally, Chlod stopped his relentless assault. He was breathing heavily, and tears were running down his face. He was completely covered in blood, and chunks of skin and hair clung to the spikes of his club.
He spat down on the thing that had once been Grandfather Mortis, and then turned away.
CALARD KNELT BY Raben, and gently drew back the outcast’s arm to see the extent of his injuries.
‘How’s it look?’ said Raben. His face was pale.
‘It’s a scratch,’ said Calard. ‘You’ll be whoring again in a week, mark my words.’
‘Liar,’ said Raben, with a sardonic smile.
‘You’ll survive,’ said Calard, more seriously. ‘Though you’ll have one hell of a scar to match that one,’ he said, indicating the jagged old wound that crossed Raben’s throat.
‘Ladies don’t like a man that’s too pretty,’ said Raben.
‘Well, you certainly aren’t that,’ said Calard, casting a wary eye around them.
There were few left standing, in truth. It seemed that both sides had practically annihilated the other, though from the looks of things, there were far more of Mortis’s people dead than Merovech’s.
Looking back up towards the dais, he saw that Merovech had filled the chalice with the varghulf’s blood. Now he stood, letting the massive creature’s head drop to the floor, dead. The vampire duke moved towards the first of the throned statues. He raised the chalice above its head, and tipped it slightly, allowing a trickle of frothing blood to drip onto the statue’s head. Red rivulets ran down over its face, removing centuries of dust and grime. Calard’s heart skipped a beat as the statue moved.
It turned its face up towards the stream of blood, its mouth opening wide, showing off impressively elongated canines. Its tongue lapped at the flow, and Calard saw its throat moving as it swallowed.
‘That’s not good,’ said Raben.
Merovech righted the chalice, and the enthroned creature returned to its former position. The duke moved on to the next in line, but Calard’s gaze was locked on the first. Its eyes snapped open, and it smiled.
Calard took a few steps towards the steps of the dais, knowing that he stood little chance against Merovech alone, even without with his newly awoken allies. Nevertheless, he had sworn an oath, and would see Merovech dead or die in the attempt.
‘Calard,’ called Raben, and he looked back. ‘Don’t throw your life away.’
‘This is something I have to do,’ Calard said. He swung back around. His step faltered as the holy light radiating from the Sword of Garamont dimmed, then died altogether. He halted, looking down at it.
What did it mean? Did the Lady disapprove of his actions? But how could she? Was it not she who had led him here?
Three of the ‘statues’ had come awake now, and were on their feet, blinking and stretching their necks like men awakening from a deep slumber. Each was as tall as Merovech himself, and all of them were garbed in similar, barbed armour.
Calard stood stock still, indecision plaguing him.
‘Lady, give me a sign,’ he whispered. ‘Show me what it is you wish of me.’
A blinding flash exploded in Calard’s mind, sending him crashing to his knees, his eyes tightly closed. He gasped at the searing pain in his temples, clutching his head in his hands.
A bewildering flash of images assailed him, overwhelming in their intensity and their power.
It was over in an instant, the pain gone as if it had never been, but the images were seared forever into his mind’s eye.
‘As you will it, Lady, so shall it be done,’ he whispered.
‘Calard?’ called Raben, straining to see him.
‘We have to go,’ said Calard, turning his back on the dais, where all five of Merovech’s vampiric lieutenants how now arisen.
Calard hurried to Raben’s side.
‘We have to go,’ he said again.
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Raben.
‘Put your arm around me,’ said Calard, and then he lifted Raben to his feet. The outcast knight groaned in pain, but did not cry out. Together, they staggered across a floor littered with the dead, making their way towards the chamber’s exit. The few of Merovech’s knights that still stood paid them no heed, staring in wonder at the duke and his newly arisen entourage.
At the door of the chamber they paused, glancing back within.
The scene was one of utter devastation. Hundreds of bodies were sprawled across the marble floor. Many were not yet dead, and the ground rippled with movement. Their cries and moans were pitiful. Blood was splattered up the walls, and more than a few of the bodies had been partially devoured. The corpse of the monstrous varghulf lay motionless upon the dais. Merovech descended the stairs of the raised platform, flanked by the five lieutenants that had served him seven hundred years earlier.
The few living knights still standing in the room dropped to their knees before Merovech. The duke ignored them, walking past with barely a glance. His companions, however, circled them like wolves. As one, they closed in, and began to feed.
Merovech dropped to one knee alongside Bertelis’s headless corpse, and Calard thought he saw something approaching sorrow ghost across the duke’s features as he placed a hand upon his brother’s chest. Then Merovech raised his head, looking down the length of the chamber directly at Calard. He stood, and began walking towards them.
‘We have to leave,’ said Raben.
Calard nodded, and supporting the outcast’s weight, hurried from the room.
They almost collided
with Chlod as he came bowling down a wide set of stairs. The peasant was covered from head to toe in blood.
No words were spoken, and after a brief pause, Chlod moved forward to help support Raben. The outcast threw his arm over his shoulder and the three of them began making their way from the palace of Mousillon.
‘Gods, peasant,’ said Calard. ‘You stink.’
Drained of blood, the corpse was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. The vampire’s flesh was flushed, and its mouth and chin was stained with congealing gore.
Nothing living moved within the great hall. Every corpse has been bled dry to satiate the thirst of the duke’s newly risen lieutenants.
It would not be long now, Merovech knew.
Within the hour, the first of the drained knights stirred and rose unsteadily to its feet, staggering like a newborn colt. Darkness lingered in its eyes, and its lips curled back to reveal newly formed canines. More knights stirred as they awoke to darkness, and Merovech smiled.
‘Welcome, brothers,’ he said, spreading his arms wide. ‘Welcome to damnation.’
EISENHORN
Omnibus in Games Workshop stores or
individual ebooks : blacklibrary.com
PROSPERO BURNS
by Dan Abnett
January 2011
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GOTREK AND FELIX
Read the series
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THE TOME OF FIRE TRILOGY
by Nick Kyme
Read the series
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SPACE MARINES
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Also by the same author
Galaxy in Flames
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KNIGHTS OF BRETONNIA
by Anthony Reynolds
Released April 2011
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The Dark Path
Gav Thorpe
Fields of golden crop bent gently in a magical breeze as the palace of Prince Thyriol floated across Saphery. A shimmering vision of white and silver towers and dove-wing buttresses, the citadel eased across the skies with the stately grace of a cloud. Slender minarets and spiralling steeples rose in circles surrounding a central gilded needle that glimmered with magic.
The farmers glanced up at the familiar beauty of the citadel and returned to their labours. If any of them wondered what events passed within the capital, none made mention of it to their companions. From the ground the floating citadel appeared as serene and ordered as ever, a reassuring vision to those that wondered when the war with the Naggarothi would come to their lands.
In truth, the palace was anything but peaceful.
Deep within the alabaster spires, Prince Thyriol strode to a wooden door at the end of a long corridor and tried to open it. The door was barred and magically locked. There were numerous counter-spells with which he could negotiate the obstacle, but he was in no mood for such things. Thyriol laid his hand upon the white-painted planks of the door and summoned the wind of fire. As his growing anger fanned the magic, the paint blistered and the planks charred under his touch. As Thyriol contemplated the treachery he had suffered, and his own blindness to it, the invisible flames burned faster and deeper than any natural fire. Within ten heartbeats the door collapsed into cinders and ash.
Revealed within was a coterie of elves. They looked up at their prince, startled and fearful. Bloody entrails were scattered on the bare stone floor, arranged in displeasing patterns that drew forth Dark Magic. They sat amidst a number of dire tomes bound with black leather and skin. Candles made of bubbling fat flickered dully on stands made from blackened iron. Sorcery seethed in the air, making Thyriol’s gums itch and slicking his skin with its oily touch.
The missing mages were all here, forbidden runes painted upon their faces with blood, fetishes of bone and sinew dangling around their necks. Thyriol paid them no heed. All of his attention was fixed upon one elf, the only one who showed no sign of fear.
Words escaped Thyriol. The shame and sense of betrayal that filled Thyriol was beyond any means of expression, though some of it showed in the prince’s face, twisted into a feral snarl even as tears of fire formed in his eyes.
Faerie lights glittered from extended fingertips and silver coronas shimmered around faces fixed in concentration as the young mages practised their spells. Visions of distant lands wavered in the air and golden clouds of protection wreathed around the robed figures. The air seemed to bubble with magical energy, the winds of magic made almost visible by the spells of the apprentices.
The students formed a semicircle around their tutors at the centre of a circular, domed hall – the Grand Chamber. The white wall was lined with alcoves containing sculptures of marble depicting the greatest mages of Ulthuan; some in studious repose, others in the flow of flamboyant conjurations, according to the tastes of successive generations of sculptors. All were austere, looking down with stern but not unkindly expressions on future generations. Their looks of strict expectation were repeated on the faces of Prince Thyriol and Menreir.
‘You are speaking too fast,’ Thyriol told Ellinithil, youngest of the would-be mages, barely two hundred years old. ‘Let the spell form as words in your mind before you speak.’
Ellinithil nodded, brow furrowed. He started the conjuration again but stuttered the first few words.
‘You are not concentrating,’ Thyriol said softly, laying a reassuring hand on the young elf’s shoulder. He raised his voice to address the whole class. ‘Finish your incantations safely and then listen to me.’
The apprentices dissipated the magic they had been weaving; illusions vapourised into air, magical flames flickered and dimmed into darkness. As each finished, he or she turned to the prince. All were intent, but none more so that Anamedion, Thyriol’s eldest grandson. Anamedion’s eyes bore into his grandfather as if by his gaze alone he could prise free the secrets of magic locked inside Thyriol’s mind.
‘Celabreir,’ said Thyriol, gesturing to one of the students to step forward. ‘Conjure Emendeil’s Flame for me.’
Celabreir glanced uncertainly at her fellow apprentices. The spell was one of the simplest to cast, often learnt in childhood even before any formal teaching had begun. With a shrug, the elf whispered three words of power and held up her right hand, fingers splayed. A flickering golden glow emanated from her fingertips, barely enough to light her slender face and brazen hair.
‘Good,’ said Thyriol. ‘Now, end it and cast it again.’
Celabreir dispersed the magic energy with a flick of her wrist, her fingertips returning to normal. Just as she opened her mouth to begin the incantation again, Thyriol spoke.
‘Do you breathe in or out when you cast a spell?’ he asked.
A frown knotted Celabreir’s brow for a moment. Distracted, she missed a syllable in the spell. Shaking her head, she tried again, but failed.
‘What have you done to me, prince?’ she asked plaintively. ‘Is this some counter-spell you are using?’
Thyriol laughed gently, as did Menreir. Thyriol nodded for the other mage to explain the lesson and returned to his high-backed throne at the far end of the hall.
‘You are thinking about how you breathe, aren’t you?’ said Menreir.
‘I… Yes, I am, master,’ said Celabreir, her shoulders slumping. ‘I don’t know whether I breathe in or out when I cast. I can’t remember, but if I think about it I realise that I might be doing it differently because I am aware of it now.’
‘And so you are no longer concentrating on your control of the magic,’ said Menreir. ‘A spell you could cast without effort you now find… problematic. Even the most basic spells are still fickle if you do not have total focus. The simplest distraction – an overheard whisper or a flicker of movement in the corner of the eye – can be the difference between success and failure. Knowing this, who can tell me why Ellinithil is having difficulty?’
‘He is thinking about the words and not the spell,’ said Anamedion, a
hint of contempt in his voice. He made no attempt to hide his boredom. ‘The more he worries about his pronunciation, the more distracted his inner voice.’
‘That’s right,’ said Thyriol, quelling a stab of annoyance. Anamedion had not called Menreir ‘master’, a title to which he had had earned over many centuries, a sign of growing disrespect that Thyriol would have to address. ‘Most of you already have the means to focus the power you need for some of the grandest enchantments ever devised by our people, but until you can cast them without effort or thought, that power is useless to you. Remember that the smallest magic can go a long way.’
‘There is another way to overcome these difficulties,’ said Anamedion, stepping forward. ‘Why do you not teach us that?’
Thyriol regarded Anamedion for a moment, confused.
‘Control is the only means to master true magic,’ said the prince.
Anamedion shook his head, and half-turned, addressing the other students as much as his grandfather.
‘There is a way to tap into magic, unfettered by incantation and ritual,’ said Anamedion. ‘Shaped by instinct and powered by raw magic, it is possible to cast the greatest spells of all.’
‘You speak of sorcery,’ said Menreir quickly, throwing a cautioning look at the apprentices. ‘Sorcery brings only two things: madness and death. If you lack the will and application to be a mage, then you will certainly not live long as a sorcerer. If Ellinithil or Celabreir falter with pure magic, the spell simply fails. If one miscasts a sorcerous incantation, the magic does not return to the winds. It must find a place to live, in your body or your mind. Even when sorcery is used successfully, it leaves a taint, on the world and in the spirit. It corrupts one’s thoughts and stains the winds of magic. Do not even consider using it.’
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 27