Warhammer Red Thirst

by Warhammer

  The Elementals argued among themselves.

  Finally, arguments were not enough. The Masters turned on each other, and the area was devastated. Vukotich and Genevieve, spared in the fight because they were the prize, stood in an island of calm amid the chaos.

  "While the Monkey-Prince laughed," Master Po had said, "the Fire Master burned up the Wood Master, the Wood Master broke the hurricanes of the Air Master, the Air Master blew away into dust the Earth Master, the Earth Master absorbed the moisture of the Water Master, and the Water Master doused the flames of the Fire Master. Eventually, Lord Tsien-Tsin transported all the Masters back to the Pagoda, and subjected them to his wrath."

  In the fable, it sounded a lot neater and cleaner than it was. Mud rained down on them, and charred chunks of wood. The Elementals merged into one body, and that body tore itself apart. They were deafened by the shrieks of the suffering daemons.

  "Thank you, Master Po," Genevieve said, bowing her head.

  Finally, calm fell. The area was littered with burned wood, and splatters of mud. The air was still. Boiling pools hissed.

  Vukotich gave thanks to his gods in a tongue Genevieve didn't know.

  "What did you say?" he asked.

  "I told them a story."

  He was satisfied.

  Their carriage was useless. One of the horses was lamed, the other dead.

  "So," she said. "We walk to the Blackwater, and then to Zhufbar."

  They trudged through the mud, and left the remains of the Element Masters behind them.

  They reached the shores of the Blackwater by nightfall. Vukotich felt strange as the sun set, the weakness that had nagged at him all day fading with the light. Evidently, there were compensations to being bled by a vampire. The day's journey had been hard on them both, and they had abandoned all pretence of hiding their chain. If they were taken now, they could at least tell their story and pass on their responsibility. But they met no one on the road save a party of dwarfs who vanished into the forests at the first sight of them. Genevieve had been quiet since she convinced the Elementals to destroy themselves, and Vukotich had saved his lungs for walking. Something invisible hung between them, a communion of blood that linked them as surely as their chain of silver and iron. Weary under the sun, Vukotich had tasted the vampire's dreams. There was nothing coherent, just a set of impressions, of tastes, of images. Last night, taking her into his bed, he had felt a certain shame mixed in with his desire. Although he could not deny his attraction to the girlshape, he had still felt almost a disgust at himself for so wanting the monster. Now, he had changed his opinion. Genevieve Dieudonne was a creature of the night, but she was no thing of Chaos. Her flesh might be cool, but she was more truly human than many he had known. Feelings he had never allowed himself danced just beyond his thoughts, waiting to move into his mind just as the forces of Chaos wait forever to overwhelm the world.

  The Blackwater was still, two moons reflected in its dark, glassy surface. All the harbours and jetties for pleasure boats and fisherfolk were on the other side, at Zhufbar and Karak Varn. This was the further shore, where the forests stood at the edge of the inland sea, and the mad wolves drank the salt water.

  It would take too long to travel around the Blackwater. They must find a boat and cross.

  The moons were high, and Vukotich's blood was singing. He could hardly contain his energies, and found himself fidgeting with the chain.

  "Stop that," Genevieve said. "It'll wear off in a few days. You've a trace of my blood in you. With Ulric's blessing, it will give you the strength to get us across the sea."

  Vukotich wanted her again. Here, where the dark waters lapped the stony shore, he wanted to make a bed and force himself upon her. He was dizzy with lust. But more than he wanted her, more than he needed a release for his desires, he wanted her to open the wounds on his neck, and bleed him. If she drank from him again, he felt sure that the vague impressions she had left him with would become glass-clear in his mind. Knowledge would be his. He would be stronger, better, purer. He pulled his shirt away from his bites. They were bleeding.

  Delicately, like a clean-minded cat, she licked his throat. A thrill coursed through his body. He could taste the spices in the night air. His hearing was as acute as hers. He waited for the prick of her teeth.

  "Come on," she said, yanking his chain, "we've no time for that. Stop mooning like a lovestruck poet, and help me find a boat."

  Her words were like slaps across the face. She turned, and pulled, and he stumbled along after her.

  He thought of the silver he was being paid, and he was ashamed of himself. He thought of her flat, closed, understanding face as he made love to her, and he hated himself.

  He thought of her sharp-furred tongue cleaning away the blood seeping from his wounds... and he made himself pick up his feet and trail after her.

  They found an old rowing boat tied up at a disused quay. Genevieve thanked the gods, and Vukotich examined it closely.

  "It's rotten," he said. "The bottom will give way. It's a miracle it hasn't sunk at its mooring."

  "But it will get us across the Blackwater," said Genevieve, the bloodfire in her eyes. "Because it must."

  Emerging at dawn from his trance of preparation, Dien Ch'ing pulled on his Acolyte's robes. He would join the others of the Temple of Purity outside the city walls, on the shores of the Blackwater. This small inland sea, one hundred miles in length, fifty miles across, was famous for the impenetrability of its depths. A fabulous monster was rumoured to inhabit it, and the fishermen were always competing with tall tales of the creature's size, ferocity and mysteriousness. After today, there would be other stories told about the Blackwater. The story of Claes Glinka's death on its shores.

  Ch'ing joined the procession as it left the Temple, and bowed his hooded head. Under his robe, he carried the magical blade that could strike from afar.

  Wladislaw Blasko would have his speech of vengeance rehearsed. And his confederates in the conspiracy would have an especially hideous mutant - a dog-headed retard - ready to take the blame and be promptly put to death by the militia. Then, quietly, he would be able to depart the city for Kislev, where Lord Tsien-Tsin and High Priest Yefimovich would have other missions for him. The Invisible Empire rewarded its faithful servants.

  The sun shone down on the inky black waters, and the delegates to the Festival of Ulric were waiting in the especially erected stands. It had been a hard week of ceremony, secret negotiation, planning, bargaining, speech-making and decorous feasting. Glinka's coffee houses had been overflowing with officers searching in vain for entertainment.

  Glinka was at the head of the procession of purity, his hood thrown back. Ch'ing was a few Acolytes behind him, focusing his attention on the small of the Moral Crusader's back, where the shadowblade would strike.

  Everyone was quiet. Glinka would have no music for this parade. Ch'ing had read the speech the Crusader intended to deliver, and mused to himself that even the staunchest defender of the Empire would secretly bless him for cutting it short.

  There was a stage put up on the beach, the shimmering black waters lapping at its foundations. Blasko stood upon it, with several of his men-at-arms, and with some heroes of the Empire. Maximilian von Konigswald looked bored and sullen. A week without strong drink or a pretty girl does that to a soldier.

  Blasko was calm, collected, prepared. There would be no trouble there. He was perfectly schooled in his part.

  Blasko shook Glinka's hand as the Crusader took the lectern, and was brushed off. He smiled at the slight. Ch'ing kept well away from Glinka, but felt the magical buzz building up in the knife. Without removing it from his robe, he could thrust into the Moralist's vitals...

  Glinka began his address, and the distinguished audience grew restless.

  Ch'ing called for the strength of Tsien-Tsin to do the bidding of the Invisible Empire of Chaos.

  Glinka got worked up about the sorry state of the Empire's morals, and pointedly lo
oked from face to face as he listed the sins even the most exalted were prone to. Lechery. Drunkenness. Dishonesty. Gluttony. Questioning of Authority. Sacrilege.

  Ch'ing's fist grew hot as the magic charge grew.

  Suddenly, from behind, there was a commotion. Glinka paused, and everyone turned...

  There was a small boat on the water, near the stage. Two people were climbing out of it, hauling themselves up the support beams. A man and a girl, chained together at the wrist.

  Ch'ing pulled out the knife and pointed. A bolt of blue flame squirted across the stage. The vampire twisted out of the way.

  Maximilian's sword came into his hand, and Ch'ing had to give him a jolt. He couldn't waste the magic. Glinka had to die.

  The Moralist was white with terror. He turned to run, and Ch'ing discharged the killing fire in his direction.

  Someone got in the way - an unlucky Acolyte - and burst into flames. Robes streaming fire, he leaped into the waters.

  Vukotich and Genevieve were on him now, and he was using the magical implement as a simple dagger.

  The mercenary was heavy, but would be an experienced hand-to-hand fighter. The vampire seemed frail, but he knew that must be an illusion. He would not underestimate these foes.

  He stabbed, and slashed, but there was a coil of rope under him and he lost his footing. The gods were being unkind to him, punishing him for his arrogance. So be it.

  The devil-dagger clattered across the stage. He threw off his assailants, and leaped upright, balancing perfectly. He called for the strength of Lord Tsien-Tsin.

  He was alone among his enemies. Very well. It was time to demonstrate his own mastery.

  It was time these big-nosed westerners learned the meaning of the Mystic Martial Arts.

  The Celestial took up an unfamiliar fighting stance, standing lightly on his feet, his arms casually outstretched, his hands like chopping blades. Vukotich had heard something of the combat techniques of Cathay and Nippon. Now, he supposed, he was going to get a taste of them.

  Dien Ch'ing leaped, feet out. Vukotich knew he was going to take a terrific blow on the chest, and probably lose his ribs. But Genevieve was fast, and yanked him out of the way, launching a fast blow of her own.

  She punched Ch'ing in the side, and brought him down.

  Blasko had a knife out, and was panicking. He stabbed at the girl, ordering his men to follow suit.

  Genevieve avoided the daggerthrust, and kicked Blasko's weapon from his grip. Ch'ing launched a toe-point kick at the vampire's head, and struck the empty air where it had been.

  Blasko's men had their halberds up, but Maximilian put up his hand, and overruled their master. Of course, as Prince Oswald's father, he must know who she was.

  "Treachery!" shouted the Grand Prince.

  Blasko reached for Vukotich's neck. The mercenary grabbed the Lord Marshal's wrists and squeezed. Blasko sank to his knees, but as Vukotich bent over him, he pulled the chain, and Genevieve was off-balanced.

  Ch'ing chopped at her face with his hands. Another girl would have been killed, but she was just pushed backwards. The Celestial was unbalanced, and launched himself into the air. Twisting like a daemon acrobat, he sailed over the halberdiers, and landed rightside-up behind Genevieve, landing a snake-swift punch on her shoulder as she turned to face him.

  Someone started screaming in a loud, high-pitched voice. It was Claes Glinka, howling for help while people fought for his life.

  Blasko struggled out of Vukotich's grip, and made a dash for safety, careering through his own men. His nerve had gone completely. He came to the edge of the stage, and tottered over. There was a splash.

  Vukotich and Genevieve stood up, their chain taut between them. Dien Ch'ing smiled at them, bowed, and launched his last attack.

  His hands took on a golden glow as he passed them through the air, and his eyes shone. He muttered in his own language, calling down unholy powers. Lightning crackled around him, and a wind came up from nowhere.

  He levitated off the stage and floated towards them, gesturing wildly.

  "Sorcery," shouted someone. A couple of mages tried working spells of their own. Maximilian ordered everyone to stand back.

  The Celestial rose slowly, wisps of white matter emerging from his mouth and taking a shadowform around him. He was floating in the middle of a phantom creature, his eyes glaring out through the horned sockets of a snarling dragon, his outstretched arms the leading edges of ragged spectre wings. A pike was flung at his heart. It turned aside, and clattered to the stage, the force of the throw spent. A mage, the symbols of power standing out on his cloak, strode forwards, his hands up, chanting wildly. Dien Ch'ing let rip with a laugh that literally froze the blood, and the mage was struck with the full impact of it, frost sparkling on the surface of his eyeballs, white droplets of iced sweat starting out on his exposed face. He tumbled like a broken statue, and cracked against the stage.

  Everybody stood back.

  Vukotich looked at Genevieve, who was staring up at the Celestial, her face set, her body tense.

  Ch'ing grew a foggy grey claw from his chest, and it drifted out at the end of an arm, reaching for Glinka. The Moralist shrieked and sobbed, and clutched at the robes of an Acolyte who was trying to flee. The ghost hand settled upon Glinka's head, and closed into a fist. Glinka's screams shut off, but his twisted features were dimly discernible through the thickening murk.

  The Celestial's wings were spreading, casting an expanding shadow over the crowd below. The rope of ectoplasm that linked him to Glinka pulsed and thickened. A flower opened in his chest, and bubbles of purple erupted into the ghost arm, drifting through the grey fog towards Glinka's head. Vukotich sensed that if the purple touched the man's face, he would be dead.

  "Silver and iron," said Genevieve, raising her left arm, dragging Vukotich's right up with it. "Silver and iron."

  The links touched the spectral arm, and jerked up into it, cutting like a heated wire through hardened cheese.

  In their attempt to bind them, their captors had given them two of the most magical elements known to alchemy. Silver, anathema to vampires, shapeshifters and spirits. And iron, the scourge of daemonkind.

  The chain emerged from the top of the ectoplasmic tube, and the spectral limb came apart, a light dew falling from the air where it had been. Glinka was screaming again, and pleading with someone for help. Maximilian slapped him with the pommel of his sword, and shut him up.

  Vukotich and Genevieve, their chain stretched between them, looked up at the Celestial. Ch'ing beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

  Maximilian ordered the archers to bring him down, but their shafts snapped in two as they neared the mage. He was still protected by powerful daemons.

  Before he vanished into the clouds, Dien Ch'ing waved a cloaklike wing in mocking farewell. To Genevieve, he said, "we'll meet again, my lady," and then he was gone. Vukotich felt a spurt of anger. Why did the Celestial see Genevieve as his chosen foe? Was he so insignificant as to be ignored? Then, a bone-deep tiredness hit him, and his head was as heavy as lead. He watched the mage blend with the grey clouds, and sank to his knees, pulling at Genevieve.

  "Blasko's gone," Maximilian said. "All that armour has taken him to the bottom. He'll be food for the Blackwater Beastie."

  "Grand Prince," said Genevieve, between breaths, "there was a plot. The Lord Marshal was in league with the Proscribed Cults."

  Maximilian snorted. "I thought as much. Never cared for the fellow. Wouldn't put an egg in his broth. No taste."

  Vukotich tried to get up, but his limbs were too much for him. His aches were beginning to tell. And he hadn't eaten for days.

  "Sir," said one of the men-at-arms to Maximilian. "Look."

  The Grand Prince strolled over. Genevieve followed, and Vukotich had to crawl after her on his elbows like a dog.

  Attendants were trying to calm down Glinka, whose robe had fallen open.

  "Glinka's an altered," said the guard.

&nb
sp; It was true. There were spindly extra arms descending from the Moralist's armpits.

  "Not so pure, after all, eh?" Maximilian was trying not to gloat. Vukotich knew this revelation would mean the end of the Moral Crusade. The Grand Prince turned to an attendant. "Get me a drink," he said. "Get us all a drink. And I don't mean blood-and-be-damned coffee!" A blacksmith was found, and their shackles sawn off. Genevieve was quiet, surrounded by officials asking her questions. She was polite in her answers, but distant. Vukotich rubbed his wrist. It felt strange to be free. It was amazing what you could get used to if you had to. Then, he collapsed again.

  He woke up to find Maximilian von Konigswald by his bed, with a bottle of Alte Geheerentode rum.

  He had slept for two days.

  During that time, mobs had torn down the Temple of Purity, and Claes Glinka had been imprisoned for his own protection. Since his exposure as an altered, he had been a raving madman. His coffee houses closed down, and mainly reopened as the taverns they had once been. The second-hand bookstalls in the market were burdened with unsaleable tracts of moral improvement. Wladislaw Blasko's body had not been found, and a new Lord Marshal had been appointed from among the ranks of the city's best men. Dien Ch'ing had disappeared completely, spirited away by daemons. According to Celestial lore, any follower of the dread Tsien-Tsin who failed in the accomplishment of a mission could expect a long and painful afterlife in the Netherhells, and so Ch'ing was not thought to have escaped Justice by his disappearance. The Courtesans' Guild had declared that its members would work one evening for free in celebration at the downfall of the Moral Crusade, and the largest city-wide festival ever to be seen in Zhufbar had taken place. And Vukotich had missed it.

  "Where's..."

  "The girl?" Maximilian looked puzzled. "Gone. She slipped away before all the celebrations started. A pity. She'd have been a heroine all over again. It's her way, though. She did the same thing after she and my son... well, you know the story."