The dead behind him moved towards the chasm, their rotting bodies shuddering as Mannfred gestured sharply. The dead flesh of the zombies split and tore as their bones began to lengthen and grow. Hooks of bone sank into the rock as the dead toppled forward. More zombies, some little more than burned skeletons, climbed over these, their bones going through a similar transformation. A symphony of bursting flesh and cracking bone overshadowed the crack of skaven weaponry as the gruesome bridge took shape.
The skaven’s rate of fire grew more intense, and Mannfred’s smile grew as a warpfire thrower, pushed past its limits, exploded and consumed its crew. Pistols and jezzails snapped and snarled, and bullets struck the bridge or hissed past Mannfred. More weapons began to misfire. The skaven began to retreat in ragged formation as the bridge drew closer and closer to the opposite ledge. Some continued to fire as they fell back, but most simply dropped their weapons and ran.
‘Oh well done, cousin,’ Markos said from behind Mannfred. He led his own mount and Mannfred’s by their reins. ‘Not subtle, mind, but we’ve dispensed with subtlety, haven’t we?’
‘Markos… shut up,’ Mannfred growled, fixing Markos with a glare. He hauled himself up into his saddle. ‘All of you, mount up. We are close to our goal, and I would tarry no longer. I want this business done. I grow tired of these reeking tunnels.’
So saying, Mannfred jerked his mount’s reins and galloped over the bridge. Markos and the others followed suit. The bridge squirmed beneath the pounding hooves of their fiery-eyed horses. Seeing the onrushing knights, the remaining skaven turned to flee. But not one of the vermin made it to the dubious safety of the tunnels as Mannfred and his followers laid about them with their blades, lopping off heads and tails, and shattering spines as they crushed the ratkin to a red mulch beneath their hooves.
The dead flowed after them. Howling spectres led the way, filling these new tunnels as they had the others, flowing through every flue, nook and cranny that the skaven had dug. Hastily erected barricades of wood and metal were no barrier to immaterial beings, and skaven clanrats died in droves, unable to fight back or even flee. Zombies too pressed forward, flooding those passages wide enough to accommodate their sheer numbers. The dead skaven left in Mannfred’s wake staggered up to join the advancing host, adding to the sheer bulk of corpses that choked the inner tunnels of the skaven stronghold.
As the dead fulfilled their function, Mannfred led his Templars on through the crooked burrow, Kadon’s staff held out before him like a standard pole. The Claw of Nagash pulled him on, drawn inexorably towards its nemesis. Over the hours that followed, Mannfred and his warriors fought their way through waves of mutated beasts, armoured stormvermin and limitless ranks of skaven warriors. Some vampires were pulled down, but even outnumbered seven to one, Mannfred and the others were more than a match for the best that the ratkin could throw at them. Where blade and muscle would not suffice, Mannfred, supported by Markos, unleashed volley after volley of devastating spellcraft, scouring entire tunnels and caverns of all life before drawing their victims to their feet and sending them ahead to attack their fellows.
So it went for hours, until at last, Mannfred, at the head of his host, stood before the walls of the fortress-lair of the skaven. The walls were, like all skaven constructions, a derelict mismatch of materials, most of which had never been intended for such a purpose. The gates were a different, and much more interesting, matter. They were made from the bones of what appeared to be a great dragon, and as Mannfred examined them, he smiled.
‘We can take the walls,’ Count Nyktolos said, calming his restive steed. Mortar fire and warp lightning began to streak from the lopsided towers, as if in reply to his statement. He whistled. ‘Or not,’ he added.
‘I lack the patience for a siege,’ Mannfred said.
‘Then what – surely you don’t mean to parley with vermin?’ Markos asked. Mannfred’s smile spread. The other vampire sounded affronted.
Mannfred lifted the Claw of Nagash, and black lightning began to spit and spark from the twitching, spidery fingers. He chuckled. ‘No, Markos. I have a more… elegant solution in mind.’
La Maisontaal Abbey, Bretonnia
Erikan bounded through the line of trebuchets, his blade singing out to open up an unlucky peasant’s throat. The man fell, gagging on his own blood, and the ghouls that had followed Erikan pounced on him, ending his troubles with a few well-placed bites. Erikan watched them feed for a moment, and then continued on, pursuing the fleeing peasantry. More ghouls followed him, baying hungrily as they knuckled across the uneven ground.
The true dead were barred from the abbey grounds for the moment, leaving only creatures like himself and the ghouls capable of crossing the boundary stones in pursuit of the peasants. He’d left his horse somewhere amongst the abandoned artillery pieces. He’d never been very comfortable fighting from the back of a steed. He felt like too much of a target. Let Anark and the others play at hammer and anvil with the flower of Bretonnian chivalry. He would hunt amongst the stones and take his share of scalps there.
The air sizzled with sorcery, and he heard a thunderclap, which shook the ground beneath his boots as he moved. In the next moment, Krell bulled into the line of archers, his great black axe chopping through armour, flesh and bone with ease. Men died screaming. Smoke coiled through the air, obscuring his vision for a moment.
When it cleared, he saw a hunched shape hurrying towards the abbey. Kemmler, he realised, after a moment. The necromancer was far ahead of them, and moving more quickly than Erikan had thought possible for such a broken-down wreck of a human being. Another curl of smoke obscured the Lichemaster, and when it cleared he was gone. Erikan considered pursuing him, and then decided that it wasn’t even remotely his problem.
An armoured knight, unhorsed and bare-headed, charged towards him. He shouted unintelligible oaths and awkwardly swiped at the vampire with his blade. He was barely more than a youth, and his eyes were wide with fear and determination. Erikan parried his next blow, and for a moment, duelled back and forth with the young knight. He felt no satisfaction when his blade slid through his opponent’s guard and crunched into his throat. He kicked the body off his sword and spun in time to chop an inexpertly wielded halberd in two.
He stepped back as the man who’d thrust it at him was bowled over by a ghoul sow and her mate. The two creatures smashed the wailing peasant to the ground, but didn’t kill him. The sow shrilled a question at Erikan. He looked at her, and then at the cursing, struggling man she held down. Men just like him had taken Erikan from the only home he knew, and put his parents to the torch. The knights had ordered it, but men like this one… They had taken pleasure in it. They had enjoyed seeing his family die.
For a moment, as he stared down at the pale, frightened features, he remembered that night – the stink of torches cutting through the comforting miasma of the tunnels, his mother shrieking in anger and fear as his father bellowed and hewed at the invaders with his fine sword. He remembered his brothers and sisters fleeing into the darkness as men rode the slower ones down. He remembered a white sun on a red sky turning black. He remembered Obald saving him from the flames, and a red-haired woman – had it been Elize, even then? The memory was fuzzy and he couldn’t be sure – tending his burns.
But mostly, he remembered fire and blood.
Erikan snarled and hacked the helpless man’s head from his shoulders. He lifted his blade and licked the blood from it, as the ghouls fell to their feast. He looked about him, watching as the battle became a massacre. A new day was dawning, but the skies were mournful, as if the clouds were weeping for the fate of the defenders of La Maisontaal.
He smiled, amused at the thought. Let the world weep, if it wished. Crying never made anything better. The first drops of rain had begun to fall when he heard the horns. He turned, and his eyes widened. A curse flew from his lips as he saw the standards rising over the melee.
The new arrivals came by the south road, as if they’d
followed in the footsteps of the dead. Ghouls scattered before them, and zombies were trampled beneath the hooves of their steeds as the column of knights plunged deep into the undead ranks, further fracturing an already divided army. The knights struck the dead like a battering ram, their lances thrust forwards to catch the enemy. When the lances had done their work, swords came into play, hacking apart rotting limbs and splintering ancient bone.
The undead reeled, and those with any spark of initiative converged on the newcomers. Erikan saw Anark and the other Drakenhof Templars fighting their way towards the knights, and Krell as well. Satisfied that he wasn’t needed, he turned back, ready to order his ghouls into the abbey. Before he could do so, a shadow fell over him.
He looked up as the ghouls scattered, wailing. A lance crashed into his shoulder and knocked him sprawling. The pegasus swooped overhead as its rider released his shattered lance and drew his sword. ‘Filthy flesh-eater,’ the knight roared as his flying steed dived back towards Erikan. He scrambled aside, narrowly avoiding the blow. He snatched up his sword from where it had fallen and flung himself into the frame of a trebuchet. The pegasus galloped past, wings snapping like thunderclaps. More pegasus knights plunged through the air, attacking the ghouls and wights.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Krell swat one of the newcomers from the air, killing both pegasus and rider with a single blow. The wight was steadily chopping his way through enemy and ally alike as he fought his way towards the knight in the fanciest armour. From long, bitter experience, Erikan knew that one was likely the leader. He silently wished Krell luck, though he doubted the creature would either need or appreciate it.
Erikan skinned up through the frame of the trebuchet, climbing towards the arm. His attacker circled the trebuchet, rising back into the air as Erikan burst out into the open, and as quick as lightning, climbed the arm. He ran upwards, sword held low, and sprang into the air as the pegasus passed overhead. His hand snapped out and caught hold of the saddle.
With a twist of his shoulder, he flung himself up and landed on the back of the snorting, bucking beast. The knight twisted in his saddle but not quickly enough, and their blades locked. Erikan’s lunge carried him and his enemy off the pegasus, and they hurtled towards the ground.
Erikan struck the earth first, and he shrieked as he felt bones crack. Thrashing wildly, he sent the knight flying. The man climbed awkwardly to his feet, his armour rattling. Erikan slithered to his feet, his body already healing. The knight had lost his sword in the fall, as had Erikan. The former scooped up a spear and lunged smoothly, faster than Erikan expected, and caught him in the belly. With a single, powerful thrust, he shoved Erikan back and up. Erikan howled and grasped at the haft of the spear.
‘When you get to whatever damnation awaits you, tell them it was Fastric Ghoulslayer who sent you,’ the knight roared, shoving the vampire back. The point of the spear burst out from between Erikan’s shoulder blades, punching through his armour and pinning him to the frame of a trebuchet. He screamed in agony. The spear had only just missed his heart, but agony sizzled through him, causing his limbs to spasm helplessly.
‘Do it yourself,’ Erikan spat, through bloody teeth. He kicked out and knocked his enemy sprawling. He tore the haft of the spear to flinders and fell to the ground. With a snarl, he ripped the splinter of wood from his chest and flung himself onto the knight before the latter could get to his feet. He clawed at the man’s helm as the latter struggled, and shoved the edge of it up, exposing a small expanse of flesh. With a triumphant howl, Erikan plunged the splinter of wood into the soft flesh just below his opponent’s jaw, and shoved until the tip scraped metal. The man shuddered beneath him, and went still.
Erikan rolled aside and looked up into the cold, burning gaze of Arkhan the Black. ‘Kemmler… Where is he?’
Erikan pointed weakly towards the abbey. Arkhan nodded and stepped over him. Erikan watched the liche stalk towards the abbey. ‘You’re welcome,’ he coughed, and shoved himself to his feet. Then he began to search for his sword, one hand pressed to the wound in his chest.
There was still a battle to win.
SEVENTEEN
Mordkin Lair, the Border Princes
The gates twisted and then shrieked, the dark spirit that still clung to the ancient dragon’s bones giving voice to its frustration and rage. Ropes snapped and wood ruptured as the creature tore itself free of the fortress walls that rested upon it, and the dragon’s skeleton rose to its full terrifying height for the first time since its death at the hands of the skaven. The walls sagged and crumbled as the great beast thrust itself into the lair of its murderers, seeking vengeance on the descendants of those who had long ago feasted on its flesh. Skaven died in droves as they tried to flee.
The reanimated dragon reared up and ripped an artillery tower apart. Its whip-like tail curved out, the sorcerously hardened bone cutting through stone and wood like a scythe through wheat, and part of the outer wall exploded into ragged fragments.
‘Elegant, he says,’ Markos muttered, as he stared at the ensuing devastation.
‘Perhaps we have different definitions of the term,’ Mannfred said, smiling thinly. ‘Regardless, we have our path.’ He raised the staff. ‘For Drakenhof! For Sternieste! For Sylvania – ride!’ He drove his spurs into the fleshless flanks of his horse of bones, and it shot forward, galloping faster than any living creature. His knights, vampire and wight alike, followed in his wake. They charged towards the shattered walls and on through, riding hard amidst the dust and smoke. Zombies poured through in their wake, hungry for the flesh of the living, as Mannfred allowed his control to lapse. Let the dead go where they would, and cause what mischief they wished. The more confusion, the better for him.
Skaven weapons overloaded and exploded as the gunners on the walls tried to bring down the reanimated dragon. Warp lightning arced out, destroying the ramshackle buildings and obliterating knots of skaven who rushed to repel the invaders.
Mannfred gave vent to a primal howl as he rode down a mob of clanrats. In the days since he’d entered the tunnels, he’d refrained from engaging in battle more than was necessary. But now he was free to unfetter his accumulated frustrations. His knights scattered, similarly hungry for carnage. Their lances and swords tore the life from the clanrats and stormvermin who sought to keep them at bay, or else escape them.
Mannfred unleashed baleful magics and laid about him with his blade, following the pull of the Claw. The Fellblade was close. He could feel it, like an itch behind his eyes. He pursued the sensation, galloping down the central thoroughfare of the fortress-lair, eliminating anything that dared cross his path.
Then, at last, he saw it. The Fellblade seemed to blaze with a darkling light, as its wielder swept it through the air in a gesture of command. The skaven warlord – for so Mannfred judged the heavily muscled, grey-furred beast to be – crouched atop a heavy shield, carried by four of its black-furred bodyguards. It was surrounded by a phalanx of stormvermin, and as it caught sight of him, its eyes bulged with rage. It gestured at him and chittered shrilly. The stormvermin began to advance cautiously towards him. Mannfred brought his steed to a halt and watched them come.
He considered simply charging into their midst. Kill a few, and the rest would flee. And, as big as the warlord was, it was little more than a beast and no threat to him. But the presence of the Fellblade in its paw gave him pause. Craven though its owner might have been, the blade was still dangerous. Even a lucky blow might harm him greatly. So… the oblique approach, then.
Mannfred slid from the saddle. Then, mustering the quicksilver speed of his bloodline, he sped towards the advancing skaven. But rather than attacking them, he sprang aside, skirting them and winnowing through their ranks faster than their beady eyes could follow. He let his blade lick out, and the shield-bearers who held the warlord’s makeshift palanquin aloft fell, blood spraying from their wounds. The warlord was spilled to the ground with a wail. The other stormvermin reacted much as
he’d predicted, and panic swept through them. He ignored them, and circled the warlord as the beast struggled to its feet.
It whirled with commendable speed, launching a blow that, under other circumstances, might have split him crown to groin. But to Mannfred, the beast was moving in slow motion. He watched the blow descend before casually stepping into the arc of the swing. He grabbed the warlord’s forearm, and snapped it with a twist of his wrist as he slid the point of his own blade through the creature’s rusted breastplate and scabrous chest.
The skaven gave a shrill, agonised cry, and sank down to its knees. The Fellblade fell from its worthless paws and clattered to the ground. With a final whimper, the creature toppled forward, and kicked in its death throes. Mannfred watched it die, and felt little satisfaction.
Well, he was hardly a worthy opponent, was he? A bit anticlimactic, wasn’t it? Vlad laughed. More like pest control than a true battle.
Mannfred ignored the shadowy presence and scooped up the Fellblade. It seemed to writhe in his grip for a moment, like a spiteful cat, before it grew still. He peered down the length of the sword, studying the eerie patina of the black blade. Then he shoved it through his belt without flourish and remounted his steed.
He summoned his remaining knights and Templars to him as he rode back through the ruined gates of the fortress-lair, ignoring the battle that still raged all around him. The reanimated dragon and the zombies would serve to keep the skaven occupied for several days to come, until the magic he had used to reanimate them at last faded. After that, let the skaven do as they would. He couldn’t care less whether they survived, flourished or perished. Whatever their fate, they were no longer of any importance.
The End Times | The Return of Nagash Page 27
