The End Times | The Return of Nagash

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘Yes,’ Elize said, over her shoulder. ‘Mannfred has seceded from the Empire. Our time for hiding in the shadows is done.’ The way she said it made him wonder if she were entirely happy about it. Most of their kind were conservative by nature. Immortality brought with it a fear of change, and a need to force the world to remain in place. Erikan had never felt that way. When you were born in squalor and raised amid corpses, a bit of change was not unwelcome.

  Erikan urged his horse on. ‘No wonder the bells have been sounded. If he’s done all of this, he’s going to need as many of us as he can get.’ The thought wasn’t a comforting one. Vampires could, by and large, get along, if there was a reason. But the inevitable infighting and challenges for status that would result were going to be tedious, if not downright lethal.

  Elize didn’t reply. They rode on through the night, galloping hard, the endurance of their steeds never faltering. More than once, Erikan saw distant campfires and smelt the blood of men. The armies of the Empire were on the move, but he could not tell in which direction they were going. Were they laying siege to Sylvania? Or were the rumours of another invasion from the north true? Was that why Mannfred had chosen now of all times to make such a bold statement of intent?

  All of these thoughts rattled in his head as Elize led him towards one of the ruins close to the bone bastion. It was far from any of the campfires that dotted the darkness and had been a watch tower once, he thought. Now it was just crumbled stone, blackened by fire and covered in weeds and moss. He saw that three men waited inside, as he climbed down from his horse and led it to join the others where they were tied to a gibbet. Elize led Erikan into the ruin, and he nodded politely to the others as he ducked through the shattered archway. There was no light, save that of the moon, for they needed none.

  ‘What is he doing here?’ one of the men growled, one hand on the hilt of the heavy sword belted to his waist. Erikan kept his own hands well away from his blade.

  ‘The same as you, Anark,’ Erikan said, as Elize went to the other vampire’s side, and put her hand over his, as if to keep him from drawing his blade. Anark von Carstein was a big man, bigger than Erikan, built for war and clad in dark armour composed of serrated plates and swooping, sharp curves. The armour had seen its share of battle, to judge by the dents and scratches that marked it. Anark had been fighting in the Border Princes, the last Erikan had heard, leading an army of the dead on behalf of one petty warlord or another.

  Elize leaned into Anark and whispered into his ear. He calmed visibly. She had always had a way with the other vampire, Erikan recalled. Then, much like Erikan himself, Anark was a protégé of the Doyenne of the Red Abbey, and had even been allowed to take the name of von Carstein, something Erikan would likely never achieve. Nor, in truth, did he wish to. He had his own name, and he was content with it. That, he thought, was why she had cooled to him, in the end. She had offered him her name, and he had refused. And so she had found another blood-son, lover and champion. And Erikan had left.

  He looked away from them, and met the red gaze of the other von Carstein present. ‘Markos,’ Erikan said, nodding. Markos was hawk-faced and his hair had been greased back, making him resemble nothing so much as a stoat. Where Anark was a simple enough brute, Markos was more cunning. He had a gift for sorcery that few could match, and a tongue like an adder’s bite.

  ‘Crowfiend, I never thought to see you again,’ Markos said. ‘You know Count Nyktolos, I trust?’ He gestured to the other vampire, who, like Anark and Markos, was clad in a heavy suit of armour. Nyktolos wore a monocle, after the fashion of the Altdorf aristocracy, and his grin stretched from ear to ear, in an unpleasant fashion. Unlike Anark and Markos, his flesh was the colour of a bruised plum, flush with a recent feeding, or perhaps simply mottled by grave-rot. It happened to some of them, if the blood-kiss wasn’t delivered properly.

  ‘Count,’ Erikan said, bowing shallowly. He’d heard of the other vampire. He’d been a count of Vargravia once, before Konrad had stormed through, in the bad old days. Nyktolos smiled, revealing a mouthful of needle fangs, more than any self-respecting vampire needed, in Erikan’s opinion. If he was Konrad’s get, that and his odd hue were probably the least of his problems.

  ‘He’s polite. I like him already,’ Nyktolos croaked.

  ‘Don’t get too attached,’ Anark said. ‘He won’t be staying long. Erikan doesn’t have the stomach for war. A real war, I mean. Not one of those little skirmishes they have west of the Grey Mountains.’

  Erikan met Anark’s flat, red gaze calmly. The other vampire was trying to bait him, as he always did. Just why Anark hated him so much, Erikan couldn’t really fathom. He was no threat to Anark. He tried to meet Elize’s eyes, but her attentions remained on her paramour. No, he thought, no matter how much he might wish otherwise, he posed no danger to Anark, in any regard. ‘I hope you weren’t waiting for me,’ he said to Markos, ignoring Anark.

  ‘No, we were waiting for– Ah! Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,’ Markos said, looking up. The air was filled with the rush of great wings, and a noisome odour flooded the ruin as something heavy struck its top. Rocks tumbled down, dislodged by the new arrival as he crawled down to join them, clinging to the ancient stones like a lizard. ‘You’re late, Alberacht,’ Markos called out.

  The hairy body of the newcomer remained splayed across the stones above them for a moment, and then dropped down. Erikan stepped back as Alberacht Nictus rose to his full height. The creature, known in some quarters as the Reaper of Drakenhof, extended a hooked claw and caught Erikan gently by the back of his head. He didn’t resist as the monstrous vampire pulled him close. ‘Hello, boy,’ Alberacht rumbled. His face was human enough, if horribly stretched over a bumpy, malformed skull, but his bloated body was a hideous amalgamation of bat, ape and wolf. He wore little armour, and carried no weapon. Having seen him at work, Erikan knew he needed none. His long claws and powerful muscles made him as dangerous as any charging knight.

  ‘Master Nictus,’ Erikan said, not meeting the vampire’s bestial gaze. Alberacht was unpredictable, even for a vampire. He looked less human every time Erikan saw him. Sometimes he wondered if that was the fate that awaited him, down the long corridor of centuries. Some vampires remained as they were, frozen forever in their last moment. But others became drunk on slaughter and lost their hold on what little humanity remained to them.

  ‘Master, he says,’ Alberacht growled. His face twisted into a parody of a smile. ‘Such respect for this old warrior. You see how he respects me?’ The smile faded. ‘Why do the rest of you fail to follow suit?’ He turned his baleful gaze on the others. Bloody spittle oozed from his jowls as he champed his long fangs. ‘Am I not Grand Master of our order? Must I break you on discipline’s altar?’ The others backed off as Alberacht released Erikan and turned towards them. He half spread his leathery wings and his eyes glowed with a manic light. He stank of violence and madness, and Erikan drew well away. Alberacht was fully capable of killing any of them in his rage.

  ‘Not for centuries, old one,’ Elize said smoothly. ‘You remember, don’t you? You gave up your post and your burdens to Tomas.’ She reached out and stroked Alberacht’s hairy hide, the way one might seek to calm an agitated stallion. Erikan tensed. If Alberacht made to harm her, he would have to be quick. He saw Anark gripping his own blade, and the other vampire nodded tersely when he caught Erikan’s eye. Neither of them wanted to see Elize come to harm, however much they disliked one another.

  ‘Tomas?’ Alberacht grunted. He folded his wings. ‘Yes, Tomas. A good boy, for a von Carstein.’ He shook himself, like a sleeper awakening from a nightmare, and stroked Elize’s head, as a weary grandfather might stroke his grandchild. ‘I heard the bells.’

  ‘We all did, old beast,’ Markos said. ‘We are being called to Sternieste.’

  ‘Then why do we stand here?’ Alberacht asked. ‘The border is just there, mere steps from where we stand.’

  ‘Well, the giant bloody wall
of bone for one,’ Count Nyktolos said, shifting his weight. ‘We’ll have to leave the horses.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ Elize said. She looked at Markos and asked, ‘Cousin?’

  ‘Oh, it’s up to me, is it? Since when did you take charge?’ Markos asked. The flat gazes of Anark and Alberacht met his and he threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Right, yes, fine. I’ll get us in the old-fashioned way. Subtlety, thy name is Elize. Form an orderly queue, gentles all, and Erikan as well, of course. Let’s go home.’

  TWO

  Stirland-Sylvania border

  Dawn was cresting the tops of the hills by the time they reached the foot of the bastion. As the red, watery light washed across the ridges of pale bone, Erikan sought some sign of an entrance, but he saw none as they galloped along its base. ‘How are we getting in there? There’s no gate,’ he shouted to Markos. The other vampire glanced at him over his shoulder and grinned.

  ‘Who needs a gate?’ Markos laughed. He jerked his reins, causing his horse to rear, and flung out a hand. Dark fire coruscated about his spread fingers for a moment as he roared out a few harsh syllables. A bolt of energy erupted from his palm and slammed into the bone bastion, cracking and splintering it. ‘Master Nictus, if you please!’

  There was a shriek from above as Alberacht hurtled down, swooping towards the point of impact. The gigantic vampire slammed into the wall and tore through it with a thunderous crash. Markos kicked his horse into motion before the dust had cleared, and Erikan and the others rode hard after him. The wall began to repair itself with a horrible rustling sound as they rode through the gap. And there was something else – a weirdling light that spread about them as they rode, and Erikan felt as if something had opened a burning hole in his belly. He heard Elize gasp and Count Nyktolos curse out loud, and saw that they were all lit by witch-fire, but only for a moment. Then they were clear of the wall, and the feeling faded.

  The first thing he noticed was that the sky was dark. The second thing he noticed was the dull, rhythmic pealing of distant bells. ‘The bells of Sternieste,’ Alberacht crooned, swiping shards of bone from his shoulders. ‘I thought never to hear their lovely song again.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Markos muttered. Erikan saw that he was looking at the wall.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. Thunder rumbled somewhere amongst the thick charcoal-coloured clouds that choked the dark sky. There was lightning over the distant hills. Erikan felt invigorated and captivated, all at the same time.

  ‘Did you feel something? As we passed over the border?’ Markos asked.

  ‘I did. You?’

  ‘Aye,’ Markos grunted. His eyes narrowed to slits for a moment. Then, with a growl, he shook himself. ‘We should go. If the bells are sounding, then Mannfred will be at Sternieste. And so will Tomas and the others.’

  They rode on, more slowly now. Sylvania was much as Erikan remembered it, from his last, brief visit. He had been at Elize’s side then, learning the ways of their kind, and she had brought him to Sternieste for a gathering of the Drakenhof Order. Elize had spoken for him, and Alberacht had welcomed him into the order with terrifying heartiness. The old monster had been a good Grand Master, as far as it went. Erikan glanced up at Nictus as he swooped overhead, and felt a pang of what might have been sadness.

  They made their way to the castle by the old paths, known to their kind. They passed isolated villages and outposts that sought to throw back the omnipresent darkness with torches mounted on posts and lanterns chained to the walls. There was still life of sorts in Sylvania, though how long that would be the case Erikan didn’t care to guess. Most vampires needed little in the way of nourishment, but then, most had the self-control of a fox in a chicken coop. Many of those little villages would not last out the week, he knew.

  They rode through the camps of Strigany nomads and sent ghoul-packs scrambling from their path as their deathless steeds sped along the dark track. Loping wolves and shrieking bats kept pace with them from time to time, as did other, worse things. Erikan had heard that when Mannfred had returned to the damned province and first set about the taming of Sylvania, he had thrown open the vaults of Castle Drakenhof and let loose every foul thing that Vlad had ever interred. All were heading east, towards Castle Sternieste. It was as if every dark soul were being drawn to that distant manse, like metal splinters to a lodestone.

  It looked like a grasping talon, its trio of crooked towers jutting ferociously towards the moon above. Even from a distance, the crumbling citadel was magnificent. It was a feat of engineering that had, in its day, claimed a third of the lives employed in its construction, and their tattered souls still clung to the rain-slick stones. It crouched in the open, seemingly in defiance of those who might march against it, and Erikan could guess why Mannfred had chosen it – Sternieste was impressive, as citadels went, but it was also situated perfectly along the main artery of Sylvania. Any invaders who took the traditional routes would have to take Sternieste, before they could do anything else. Sternieste, more so than Fort Oberstyre or Castle Drakenhof, was the keystone of the province.

  There was also the fact that Castle Sternieste rose high over a field of rolling hillocks. Each of the latter was a cairn of stupendous size and depth, from a bygone age. It might contain a hundred corpses or merely one, but whatever the number of its inhabitants, each dome of soil and withered, yellow grass pulsed with dark energy. And each and every one of them had been broken into. As they rode through the sea of graves, Erikan could feel the ancient dead stirring, disturbed by the passing presence of the vampires.

  They passed the burgeoning earthworks being erected by an army of the recently dead. Zombie knights in shattered armour laboured beside equally dead handgunners and militiamen in the mud and dirt, raising bulwarks and setting heavy stakes. Sternieste’s master was readying his lands for siege.

  Anark had taken the lead, and he led them towards the gaping main gate of the castle. The portcullis had been raised and the gates unbarred and flung open. There were no visible guards, but then, did a citadel of the dead really need them?

  As they clattered into the wide, open courtyard, a flock of crows hurtled skywards, disturbed from feasting on the bodies inside the gibbet cages that decorated the inner walls. Heaps of rotting bodies lay everywhere in the courtyard, strewn about like discarded weapons and covered in shrouds of more squabbling carrion birds.

  ‘Lovely,’ Markos said, as he slipped out of his saddle. ‘It’s like paradise, except not.’

  ‘Quiet,’ Elize murmured. She tapped the side of her head. ‘Can’t you feel it, cousin? Can’t you feel him? He’s watching us.’

  ‘Who?’ Erikan asked, though he knew the answer as well as any of them. He could feel the presence of another mind scrabbling in the shadow of his own, prying at his thoughts and probing his feelings.

  ‘Who else? Welcome to Sylvania, my brethren,’ a voice called out as the doors of the outer keep opened with a squeal of long-rusted hinges. The heavy, bloated bodies of two gigantic ghouls, each the size of three of its lesser brethren, burdened with chains and rusty cow bells, moved into view as they shoved the doors open. Each of the creatures was shackled to a door, and they squalled and bellowed as a group of armoured figures stepped between them and moved to meet the newcomers.

  ‘Well, look what the dire wolf dragged in, finally. Elize, Markos and… some others. Wonderful, and you’re all late, by the way. I expected you days ago,’ Tomas von Carstein said as he drew close. The current Grand Master of the Drakenhof Templars looked much the same as he had when Erikan had last seen him. He’d been handsome enough as a living man, but centuries of undeath had crafted him over into a thing of cold, perfect beauty. The warriors who accompanied him were cut from much the same stripe – blood knights, Templars of the Drakenhof Order, who’d fought on thousands of battlefields. Each of them was a capable warrior, more than a match for any living man or beast. Erikan knew one or two of them, and these he nodded to politely. They returned the gestu
re warily – as Elize’s get, he’d been inducted into the inner circle of the order almost immediately, and Tomas was among those who’d been somewhat incensed by what he saw as her profligate ways.

  ‘Welcome to Castle Sternieste, where the seeds of our damnation have been sown,’ Tomas continued, extending his arms in a mocking gesture of welcome.

  ‘Very poetic, cousin. But I, for one, have been damned for a very long time,’ Markos said. Tomas laughed harshly.

  ‘This is a different sort of damnation, I’m afraid.’ He frowned. ‘We’re trapped.’

  ‘What do you mean? Explain yourself,’ Anark demanded. Tomas made a face.

  ‘Must I? You felt it, didn’t you? That grotesque frisson as you crossed the border?’ He looked at Anark. ‘We are trapped here, in Sylvania. We cannot cross the borders, thanks to the sorceries of our enemies – rather, say, Mannfred’s enemies.’

  ‘Lord Mannfred, you mean,’ Elize corrected.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Tomas said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘Lord Mannfred, in his infinite wisdom, decided to openly secede our fair homeland from the Empire. They responded in kind.’ He laughed. ‘They locked the door behind us after we left, it seems.’ His laughter grew, becoming a harsh cackle. He shook his head and looked at them. ‘Still, I am glad to see you. At least I’ll be in good company for the next millennia.’

  ‘Are we the only ones to arrive?’ Alberacht rumbled. ‘Where are the others? Where is the rest of the inner circle? Where is my old friend Vyktros von Krieger? Where are the Brothers Howl and the Warden of Corpse Run?’

  ‘Maybe some of us were smart enough to run the other way,’ Markos muttered.

  Tomas laughed harshly. ‘Vyktros is dead, killed trying to breach the damnable sorceries that have us trapped. As for the others, I don’t know. What I do know is that Mannfred wished to see us – you – as soon as you arrived. And he’s been getting impatient.’ He smiled. ‘It is to be as it was in the old days, it seems, with us at his right hand. Exactly what it is that we’ll be doing, seeing as we are confined to this charming garden of earthly pleasures, is entirely up for debate. Come,’ Tomas said. He turned and stalked across the bridge. Erikan and the others shared a look, and then followed their Grand Master through the dark gates of Castle Sternieste.