The End Times | The Return of Nagash

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘That is not his fate,’ Aliathra said. Her blind eyes sought Volkmar’s. ‘He will burn in the end. As will we all.’

  ‘I see the stories of the good cheer of the folk of Ulthuan were just that,’ Sindst said. He hefted a broken length of bone in his good hand. ‘If we’re going, let’s go.’

  ‘The door is giving,’ Olf said. The door shuddered on its hinges as the Ulrican and the knight struck it again. Even half starved and beaten bloody, both men were still strong, as befitted the servants of war gods.

  Volkmar was about to reply, when a cloud of char and splinters cascaded down from above. He looked up and then turned, caught up Aliathra and Mordecaul and hurled them aside as the vargheist landed with a shriek and a crash. It reared up over Volkmar, wings filling the confined space of the chamber. It screamed again, jaws distending as it lunged for him. Then it jerked back as something soft struck Volkmar’s shoulder and hurled itself into the creature’s face. A second rat leapt from Volkmar’s other shoulder, and then a third leapt from the floor, and a fourth, a fifth – ten, twenty, until it seemed as if every rat and cockroach that had shared the chamber with the prisoners was crawling over the vargheist, biting and clawing. The monster staggered back, crashing into the lecterns with a wail as the tide of vermin knocked it sprawling.

  Volkmar turned and saw Russett watching him blankly. The nature priest was surrounded by rats, and his lips moved silently as he sent his furry army into hopeless battle with the vargheist.

  ‘Come on,’ Olf roared as he grabbed Volkmar and propelled him into the corridor. ‘Leave him and let’s go!’

  Erikan swept the femur out, and the holes he’d cut into it caught the breeze, making an eerie sound. He leaned back on his branch and placed the femur to his lips. The tune he piped out was an old one; he didn’t know what it was called, only the melody.

  ‘Very lovely,’ Markos said. ‘But weren’t you supposed to be helping us see to these strategies, Crowfiend?’

  ‘I am,’ Erikan said, not looking down. ‘I’ll take my hounds of night and silence the watch-posts along the Stir, as soon as we are able to leave. If we strike quickly enough, no one will have any idea that we are out and about.’ He whirled the femur again, enjoying the sound it made.

  ‘And by “hounds of night”, you mean those mouldering wolves and chattering ghouls that you seem content to spend your time with? What sort of warrior are you?’ Anark sneered, glaring up at him, his fists on his hips.

  ‘An effective one, Anark, and a reliable one – Elize, keep your trained ape muzzled, please,’ Markos said, poring over the map unrolled across the bench.

  ‘Ape, am I? I am your Grand Master, Markos, and you had best not forget it!’ Anark said, reaching for his sword. Elize caught his wrist and prevented him from drawing it. Which was wise, in Erikan’s estimation. Markos was just looking for an excuse to humble Anark. Then, so was everyone else. Anark was fine in small doses, but they’d been cooped up with him for weeks, and he was champing at the bit to bully someone into a fight. Mostly he seemed to want to fight Erikan, but anyone would do, by this point. Erikan looked down at Anark and smirked, then he brought the femur up and recommenced playing his tune.

  ‘Oh believe me, I have not,’ Markos purred, without turning around. ‘You deserve your new position as surely as poor, late Tomas did.’

  Alberacht cackled where he crouched, gargoyle-like, on the wall. Anark glared at him, but the monstrous vampire didn’t even deign to return it. Instead, he dropped from the wall and ambled towards Markos. He tapped the map with one of his claws. ‘Heldenhame, that’s where our trouble will come from, you mark me, children.’

  ‘The Knights of Sigmar’s Blood,’ Nyktolos said. He was running a whetstone along the length of his sword as he leaned against the garden wall. ‘Master Nictus is correct. I have encountered them before. They are dreadful creatures, pious and murderous in equal measure.’ He looked up and frowned. ‘And Heldenhame is a tough nut indeed. High, thick walls and an armed populace do not for an easy siege make, should we get that far.’

  ‘But it has its weak points. Everything has a weak point,’ Elize said. Hands behind her back, she paced back and forth. ‘We simply need to find it.’

  ‘And hit it,’ Anark added. Elize smiled and stroked his cheek. Erikan, still in his branch, rolled his eyes. He played an annoying little tune, causing her to look up at him. Her expression was unreadable.

  ‘Are you ever sorry that you taught him how to speak, cousin?’ Markos asked. Anark’s face flushed purple and he made a half-hearted lunge for the other vampire, only to be stopped by Elize and Alberacht.

  Erikan made to play accompaniment to the farce below, but lowered his femur as the sound of bells shook the air. He tossed aside the bone and dropped from his perch. ‘The bells,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Erikan. Any other blindingly obvious statement you’d care to make?’ Markos snarled as he swept aside his maps and shot to his feet. ‘It’s why the bloody bells are ringing that I’m interested in.’

  A pack of yowling, slavering ghouls surged past the garden entrance, accompanied by slower-moving skeleton guards, clad in rusty armour and brown rags. ‘The prisoners are making another escape attempt,’ Elize said. She spun and pointed at Alberacht and Nyktolos. ‘Get to the courtyard. That’s the quickest way out of the castle.’ She turned to Markos. ‘Rally the rest of the order. We’ll need to search the castle, if it’s anything like last time.’

  ‘And who put you in charge, cousin?’ Markos purred.

  ‘I did,’ Anark growled, drawing his blade. ‘You will obey her as you would me, cousin.’

  ‘She’s right, Markos,’ Erikan said, striding past the three of them. ‘And we have no time for arguments regardless. The prisoners are too valuable to risk either their escape or their deaths at the hands of Lord Mannfred’s other guests.’ Markos made a face, but fell silent. In the last few weeks, more than one attempt had been made on Mannfred’s inner sanctums by various vampires and necromancers enjoying his hospitality. If it wasn’t the Lahmians, it was the Charnel Circle, or one of the lesser von Carsteins, seeking, as ever, to supplant their betters.

  And while no one liked to mention it, food had been getting scarce. While Strigany caravans were still trundling along the old Vargravian road, bringing wagons full of kidnapped men and women to Castle Sternieste, pickings in Sylvania itself were growing distinctly thin. Only the Strigany or other human servants could pass through the barrier of faith, and fewer of them returned every day. Some likely fell to the Imperial patrols that guarded the hinterlands of the neighbouring provinces, but others had, perhaps, simply decided not to come back.

  Erikan was out of the garden a moment later, the others trailing in his wake or splitting off to do as Elize had commanded. Soon it was just himself and Elize and Anark, hurrying in pursuit of the ghoul pack they had seen earlier. The dead that stood sentry in every corridor and stairwell were all moving in the same direction, directed by their master’s will.

  Volkmar and the others had tried to escape before, with predictable results. Once, they had even made it as far as the stables. But as more and more vampires had flocked to Sternieste, so too had the likelihood grown that another such attempt would lead to more than a beating for Mannfred’s amusement. Hungry vampires had all the self-control of stoats in a hen house. Regardless, there were only so many ways that the prisoners could go. Erikan thought that it was likely that they would simply try to bull their way out this time. Subtlety had got them nowhere, after all.

  His conclusion was borne out by the trail of shattered bones and the twisted bodies of fallen ghouls that littered the stairs leading down to the lower levels of the keep. Erikan felt a grim admiration for the prisoners. That admiration only grew stronger when they found one of their own, a Drakenhof Templar, with his skull caved in and a jagged length of wood torn from a postern shoved through a gap in the side of his cuirass and into his heart. Anark cursed. Elize shook her head. ‘Th
ey know us of old, these mortals.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say… Familiarity breeds contempt,’ Erikan murmured. He didn’t recognise the vampire. Then, there were many in the order he didn’t know. Elize had kept him by her side at all times. That was one of the many reasons he’d left, and sought out Obald again.

  They heard the clash of arms and followed the screams of dying ghouls. Volkmar and the others had made it through Sternieste to the inner courtyard that separated the main keep from the outer. It wasn’t hard to figure out how they’d made it that far – though the castle’s population had increased, it was night, and almost all of its inhabitants were out hunting. Those who were left were likely trying to either avoid getting involved, or were waiting to see how far the escapees got. You had to make your own entertainment, in times like these. But it wouldn’t be long before certain vampires got it in their heads to try to get in on the fun.

  Erikan sprang out into the rain-swept courtyard and took in the fight roiling about him. Only seven of the prisoners had made it this far, but they were giving a good account of themselves. Most of that was down to Mannfred’s command that they not be harmed. A matronly woman swung a brazier about her with determined ferocity, sending ghouls tumbling and scrambling to get out of her way. A one-handed man guarded her back, a polearm held awkwardly in his good hand.

  Volkmar himself led the way, watching over the elf maiden, who sagged against the shoulder of the young priest of Morr. And the Ulrican and the Myrmidian kept the group’s flanks protected. The Myrmidian had found a sword from somewhere, and laid about him with enthusiasm and skill, crying out to his goddess all the while. The Ulrican had a spear, and as Erikan watched, he impaled a skeleton guard, hoisted it, and sent it flying towards the courtyard wall. Volkmar was leading the group towards the portcullis that separated the inner and outer keeps, where Count Nyktolos waited, leaning on his blade, his monocle glinting in the torchlight.

  Above them all, shapes, lean and a-thirst, ran along the walls, keeping pace but not interfering, not yet. Erikan recognised a number of Mannfred’s more recent hangers-on in that group, their eyes glazed with hunger and ambition as they looked down on the Grand Theogonist. Erikan understood that look, though he didn’t feel it himself. Volkmar was the living embodiment of the church that had made the scouring of Sylvania and the destruction of its bloodthirsty aristocracy a central tenet of its dogma. To see him like this, running frightened, dying on his feet, must be like a gift from the gods that Mannfred had barred from his kingdom.

  They wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to see the old man scream, command from Mannfred or no. He glanced at Elize, and he saw by her expression that she was thinking the same thing. She nodded sharply and sprang for the wall. Anark made to follow her, but Erikan stopped him. ‘No, we need to recapture them,’ he said. Anark snarled, but didn’t disagree.

  They split up, each approaching the prisoners from a side. Erikan hurtled the rolling body of a disembowelled ghoul and drew his sword. He arrowed towards the knight, reckoning him more dangerous than the Ulrican, so long as he had a sword in his hand. Even as their blades connected, Erikan saw Nyktolos lunge forward, his sword chopping into the haft of the spear the Ulrican wielded.

  The Myrmidian whirled his blade and stamped forward, moving lightly despite his wounds. He still wore the tattered remnants of his armour, and Erikan could smell the pus dripping from the sores beneath the metal, and the blood that had crusted on its edges. Their blades slammed together again. The man was smart – he didn’t intend to pit his strength against Erikan’s. He was simply trying to drive him back. Erikan allowed him to do so, trying to draw him away from his comrades. If he could get him alone, the ghouls could swarm him under through sheer numbers.

  A wild cry caused him to glance up. Mannfred’s pet vargheists circled the courtyard, screeching fit to wake whatever dead things had managed to ignore their master’s summons. Alberacht swooped between them, looking almost as bestial. He had obviously gone to rouse the beasts into helping with the hunt.

  Volkmar cried out as one of the vargheists plummeted down and plucked the elf from the ground. She screamed and struck out at the beast that held her, but it merely screeched again and carried her upwards. Volkmar cursed loudly and turned. Erikan saw Anark rush towards him with his sword raised. He cursed the other vampire for an idiot, albeit silently. The old man ducked aside and looped the length of chain he carried around the vampire’s throat. Anark snarled as Volkmar hauled forwards with all of his weight, pulling him off his feet. He fell with a clatter, and his sword flew from his grip. ‘Get the blade!’ Volkmar roared.

  The Ulrican snatched the sword up and spun on his heel, gutting a leaping ghoul. Erikan lunged to meet him, as Nyktolos blocked a blow from the Myrmidian meant to split Erikan’s spine. He forced the Ulrican back with a slash. The burly warrior priest swept his stolen blade out in a wild, looping blow. Erikan weaved back with serpentine grace, not even bothering to block the attack. He heard Nyktolos laugh and saw the other vampire back away from his opponent as a mob of ghouls surged forward.

  The knight, freed of Nyktolos, came at him from the side, hoping to flank him, even as the ghouls chased after him. Erikan pivoted, and avoided the knight’s lunge. He flipped backwards, evading the Ulrican’s blade a second time. The ghoul that had been pressing forward behind him wasn’t so lucky. It fell, choking on its own blood. More of the cannibals rushed into the fray, trampling their dying comrade in their haste to reach the enemy.

  Erikan sprang to the wall and dropped back behind the ghoul pack. Nyktolos had the right idea. There was no sense in risking himself. The two men fought hard, with desperate abandon. Bodies and blood slopped the floor. He saw that Volkmar had managed to get atop Anark and was hauling back on the chains, trying to snap his enemy’s neck. The vampire’s mouth was wide, and a serpentine tongue jutted from between his fangs as he writhed beneath the Grand Theogonist. Erikan hesitated. It was the perfect moment to be rid of Anark. He might not get another one. He heard Elize cry out and, almost against his will, began to move.

  Then, the second vargheist had Volkmar in its claws, and it hauled him upwards to join its fellow. Erikan lowered his sword. ‘He who hesitates is lost,’ he murmured as he rushed to help Anark to his feet in an obsequious show of concern.

  Above, Volkmar cursed and tore at the vargheist holding him, to no avail. The beast had him, and there was no escape. Erikan watched as his struggles became weaker and weaker, until at last he ceased entirely, and hung in its grasp like a corpse. The vargheist dropped him onto a parapet, and sank down on him, like a cat crouching atop its kill.

  The sound of applause swept across the courtyard, cutting through the sound of the rain and the whimpers of dying ghouls. Mannfred von Carstein stood on the parapet above the portcullis, Arkhan behind him. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Look how far you got. I am quite impressed, as I’m sure my comrade is.’ He gestured to Arkhan. ‘Aren’t you impressed?’ he asked, over his shoulder.

  Mannfred didn’t give Arkhan a chance to reply. Instead, he leapt down from the parapet and dropped lightly into the courtyard, drawing his blade as he rose. The torches that flickered, hissed and spat in the rain seemed to dim slightly, as if Mannfred’s presence were draining the heat and light from them. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said again, looking up at the gathered vampires who crouched or slunk about above the courtyard. ‘And yet, something puzzles me. Where did you think you were going to go? This castle is mine. This land is mine. I rule everything from horizon to horizon, every mountain, every bower, every ruin and river. All mine,’ Mannfred went on. He waved aside the ghouls, who retreated from him with undignified speed. ‘Where were you going to go?’

  ‘Back into the eyes of our gods,’ the knight said. His voice sounded thin and weak to Erikan’s ears. ‘Back to the light.’

  ‘There is no light, unless I will it,’ Mannfred said, extending his blade. He looked at the Ulrican and the Myrmidian. They were the only tw
o left, save for the priest of Morr, who crouched nearby. The woman and the one-handed man had been knocked sprawling and pinned to the wet ground by Alberacht in the confusion. ‘There are no gods, save me.’ Mannfred smiled, and Erikan felt a cold wind sweep through the hollows of his soul. Mannfred turned his blade slightly, so that the light caught the edge. ‘If you bow, I will not hurt you too much. If you crawl to me, I will not take your legs. If you beg me to spare you, I will not take your hands.’

  The stone, when it came, was a surprise, even to Mannfred, Erikan thought. The young priest had torn it from the ground and hurled it with such force that it drew blood when it caromed off Mannfred’s skull. He whirled with a cry that put his vargheists to shame and his blade nearly took the young priest’s head off. The young man fell back, face twisted in fear and defiance. Mannfred stormed towards him, but before he could reach him, a swirling storm of spirits erupted from the ground and walls of the courtyard and surrounded the man. Mannfred spun, and glared up at Arkhan, who lowered his staff silently, but did not call off the ghosts he had summoned.

  Mannfred turned back in time to block the Ulrican’s attack. The big man came at him in a rush, silent and determined. His sword drew fat sparks as it screeched off Mannfred’s cuirass. Mannfred stepped back and his fist hammered into the man’s chest. Erikan heard bones crack, and the Ulrican slumped, coughing redness. Mannfred caught the back of his head and hurled him to the ground hard enough to add to the tally of broken bones.

  The Myrmidian hacked at him, and Mannfred caught the blow on the length of his blade and surged forward, driving the knight back against the hall. He pinned him in place. ‘We need to sacrifice one, eh?’ Mannfred asked, glancing at Arkhan. The liche nodded slowly. Mannfred looked back at the knight, as the latter strained against his strength, trying to free himself. ‘This one, then. He’s been more trouble than he’s worth.’ He tore his blade away from the wall, and the Templar staggered forward, off balance. He recovered quickly, and lunged. The blade skidded off Mannfred’s side, staggering him. But before the knight could capitalise, Mannfred batted his guard aside and sent him flying backwards to bounce off the wall and topple to the ground, unconscious.