by C. L. Werner
‘What else do you know?’ Sibbechai hissed into Carandini’s face. The vampire held the sorcerer pinned against the wall, one talon gripping his neck, the other closed about the arm in which sleeve he kept a vial of holy water. ‘What else did that daemon’s paw show you?’
Carandini struggled to sneak air into his lungs. ‘It… you will… the castle…’ Carandini forced himself to make the words before Sibbechai crushed his neck. ‘You’ll die… if you go.’ Sibbechai let the necromancer slide to the floor, the vampire’s horrible gaze burning into his body.
‘The castle is protected,’ Carandini gasped as he sucked in huge lungfuls of air. ‘Almost as potent as what the Klausners were using. Try to climb the castle’s walls or fly up to its roof and the magic protecting it will destroy you.’
Sibbechai’s skeletal features contorted into rage. Its withered claws smashed into the wall, crumbling the old brickwork as though it were sand. Carandini watched the vampire vent its anger. The vial of holy water had shattered when Sibbechai dropped him, removing his best defence. Now he was desperately trying to remember a spell that might work against such an undead horror.
‘If the book is not mine, then neither shall it be yours,’ Sibbechai snarled, fangs bared. The vampire advanced upon the cringing necromancer. Death was at hand.
‘Wait!’ Carandini cried out. ‘There is a way! Listen to me!’ The vampire halted, suspicion in its eyes. ‘The wards are not infallible,’ Carandini continued. ‘There is a way to elude them, something their creators never accounted for.’
‘You say it is protected from without and from above,’ Sibbechai said. Carandini nodded in hasty agreement.
‘Yes, but not from below,’ the necromancer declared. ‘It would be possible to dig into the castle’s dungeons and bypass the wards.’ Sibbechai grinned at the Tilean.
‘A clever plan,’ the vampire conceded. ‘It is almost a pity that you won’t be around to see it employed.’ The vampire closed in upon him.
‘You still need me,’ Carandini insisted. ‘It will take an army to dig up into the castle. I can raise that army for you.’ Sibbechai shook its head in amusement.
‘I am a necromancer too, remember?’ the vampire laughed. ‘I am very capable of raising a few zombies.’
‘But the magic will be much more potent, faster, with my help,’ Carandini pointed out. ‘The witch hunter is looking for the book too. If he finds it before we do, then it belongs to neither of us. Are you willing to gamble that you have enough time to deal with this alone?’
Sibbechai stepped back. It nodded its head and folded its arms once more. ‘Well spoken, necromancer. It seems your usefulness to me is not at its end after all.’
‘The great and good of Wurtbad,’ Baron von Gotz scoffed between swallows of wine. ‘The leaders of the Empire’s greatest city besides Altdorf.’ He tore a scrap of mutton from the plate set before him, stuffing it into his swollen face. The meeting he had called was held in the smaller of the castle’s three dining halls. With the baron’s return to health had come a vigorous appetite. The nobleman felt it would be unseemly to appease that appetite during the meeting if it were conducted in any other environment.
Not that any of his prestigious guests displayed any trace of hunger. Choice wines from the cellars, plates of expertly prepared meats, mutton, veal and venison, sat untouched. The baron was oblivious to the fact that it was he who diminished their appetites. He was no longer able to smell the loathsome stench of the salve Furchtegott applied to his skin, so accustomed to it had his senses become. He did not seem to appreciate the ugliness of the boils that peppered his face and hands, grateful only that they were not those of the deadly Stir blight. But the man sitting beside him did. Had the baron condescended to look in his direction, he would have seen his trusted Furchtegott grow pale.
The assembled, abstemious diners represented the ruling elite of the city. The richest merchants, the most powerful nobles, the masters of the largest guilds. Commanders of the river guard, the city watch, and Wurtbad’s standing army regiments. Even the Lord High Justice, Igor Markoff, who made a show of moving peas around his plate whenever von Gotz’s gaze drifted toward him. They had been discussing for the better part of two hours how to destroy the plague before winter set in. If the quarantine was not lifted by then, if more supplies of food were not brought in, then the famine that would result would claim far more than the pestilence itself.
None of them had any answer. Indeed, several of them had openly decried the measures von Gotz had already taken, herding those infected into Otwin Keep. The heads of the different temples were particularly vocal on that point, furious that von Gotz had ordered the sanctity of the Temple of Shallya violated. The baron grumbled as he lifted a steaming bowl to his lips and began draining it of soup. Miserable, pious zealots, they’d all stand around waiting for their precious gods to save them while the entire city rotted away beneath their feet!
‘A pack of pampered idiots,’ von Gotz snarled, slamming his fist against the table. Several of his more timid guests jumped in surprise. ‘Not a single one of you has any ideas? Not one? Maybe the Stir Blight isn’t the only rot that I should confine to Otwin Keep.’
‘Begging your pardon, excellency,’ a tremulous voice called from the end of the table. ‘But I may have a solution.’ All heads turned to see the swinish countenance of Witch Hunter Captain Meisser. Many of those present had complained about the templar’s inclusion in the meeting, the Lector of Sigmar among them. Fortunately, the witch hunter had kept silent, nursing some private trouble of his own. Until now.
‘You spoke…’ von Gotz hesitated a moment, trying to recall the witch hunter’s name, ‘…brother templar. There is something you’d like to propose?’
Meisser stood, trying to look dignified despite his bandaged arm. He had the attention of every person in the room. ‘We must convince the elector count that the plague has been exterminated,’ he said, redundantly repeating the entire premise of the meeting. ‘Now that we have most of those infected locked up in one place, why do we not exterminate the plague? It would be an easy thing to seal the doors and set fire to the keep.’
Gasps of horror and disbelief swept the room, along with muttered oaths of outrage. ‘That’s his solution to everything,’ one elderly guildmaster called out. ‘Put somebody to the torch!’ It brought a round of laughter from the table.
One man was not laughing. Baron von Gotz hurled his wine glass to the floor, drawing all attention back to himself. The nobleman’s face was turned toward the witch hunter. ‘An inspired suggestion, brother templar,’ von Gotz declared. More gasps and oaths greeted the baron’s statement. ‘Tell me what you will need to accomplish this.’ Incredulous voices fell silent as the hideous reality of the situation became apparent.
‘I’ll need a goodly supply of oil and timber,’ Meisser replied. ‘And some men. My own are… otherwise occupied for the moment.’
‘You shall have them,’ von Gotz declared, stabbing his knife into a loaf of bread. The fat nobleman grinned at his shocked guests. ‘Eat up gentlemen,’ he laughed. ‘No need to be timid now. Once the quarantine is lifted there will be plenty more where this came from!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mathias Thulmann found Streng waiting for him just outside the alchemist’s shop. The bearded thug had even less of a taste for magic than the witch hunter. Thulmann supposed that it might be another reason why the man had entered his employ. The foremost, of course, being the Temple’s gold. There was a keen look in Streng’s eyes that Thulmann recognised as agitated excitement. Clearly Streng believed he had found a worthy subject for his barbarous talents.
‘You have the demeanour of the orc that swallowed the halfling,’ Thulmann commented. The mercenary detached himself from the wall he leant on. He still moved stiffly, Thulmann noted, but at least the colour had returned to his face. Either he was somewhat improved or had managed to slither his way into a tavern on his way from the chapter house. Either
possibility was equally likely.
‘They caught one of my plague doktors,’ Streng grinned. ‘That young templar, Emil. Had a bit of trouble bringing him in, but they got him.’ Thulmann digested the report.
‘Has he said anything?’ he asked. ‘We don’t know that this fellow is one of those we want. There might be any number of thieves and charlatans posing as plague doktors as well as Weichs and his scum.’
Streng gripped Thulmann’s shoulder, forcing the witch hunter to stop. ‘You’re certain it’s Weichs then?’ he demanded. Thulmann gave a solemn nod.
‘The alchemist found traces of warpstone burned into the glass of that bottle you found. We followed Weichs’s trail to Wurtbad and now we find men posing as healers using warpstone. It does not take an overly analytical mind to accept that two and two make four.’
‘Makes sense at that,’ Streng agreed. He hurried to match pace with the witch hunter as Thulmann walked down the street. What little traffic there was parted before the templar. Thulmann wondered if it was the natural trepidation people felt in the presence of such grim agents of justice, or testament to the contempt and fear they felt towards Meisser’s methods. He realised sadly that it was most likely the latter.
‘Captain Meisser,’ Thulmann said, ‘has he caused any more trouble?’ Streng shook his head.
‘No,’ the mercenary laughed. ‘Hasn’t showed his face. Still skulking in his room. Don’t suppose you could ask old Sigmar to make that weasel stay there until after we leave?’
Thulmann chose to ignore his associate’s casual blasphemy. ‘This plague doktor Brother Emil apprehended, has he said anything?’ he returned to the topic at hand.
‘Just the usual nonsense about being innocent,’ Streng replied. ‘We’ve got the wrong man and all that. Never mind the fact that he tried to gut Emil with a fair-sized pigsticker, or that he’s got pasty green stuff oozing out of the bullet hole Emil put in his shoulder.’ Streng grinned again. ‘Fair number of pint-sized tentacles, too, wriggling round his armpits. Be a bit of fun pulling those out.’
Thulmann sighed. His henchman’s enthusiasm for the more violent aspects of his employment often troubled him, perhaps more so than the deeds themselves. Still, they were a necessary evil. This man was, by Streng’s account, an obvious mutant and would need to be destroyed lest his corruption spread to others. But before that, Streng would need to extract the information Thulmann required from the wretch. By whatever means necessary.
‘I don’t care a damn for your vile amusements, Streng,’ Thulmann stated. ‘As long as you can make this animal talk, that is all I care about. If his information leads me to Weichs, there will be a bonus in it for you.’
Streng spat into the gutter, causing a mangy cur to flinch away. ‘If we find Weichs, you can let me have a go at that bastard scum,’ the mercenary swore. ‘I don’t know if I can think of anything horrible enough for him, but I’ll enjoy trying to find out.’
Father Schoenbeck had been a servant of the Temple of Morr for most of his forty years. He had seen much death in that time and buried many. But in the last few weeks, he considered he had seen more death than in all the years preceding, more bodies consigned to the plague pit than he had ever interred in Wurtbad’s cemeteries. He shook his head at the massive pit, filled almost to the brim with a tangle of arms and legs. Soon they would need to dig a bigger one, the priest observed. The plague showed no sign of satisfaction with the toll already taken on the city.
Father Schoenbeck turned away from the morbid vista of the pit, shuffling over to the small fire where his fellow servants of the Temple warmed themselves. Three of these were lesser acolytes, initiates who wore the same black robes as the elder priests. There had been many new converts to the Temple, men whose lives had been destroyed as they consigned their families to the plague pit. There was great need of them, for the rituals and prayers required to sanctify the dead were important. The dead had suffered enough indignity by being cast into a mass grave; if they were not properly consecrated the corpses could become a terrible threat. Sylvania was not so far away, and the sinister tales of that cursed country were well known in Wurtbad – legends of the restless dead rising from their tombs to avenge themselves upon the living. Among the duties of Morr’s priesthood was to ensure that such an abomination never occur.
Not all of his companions were priests, however. Two sombre black giants stood near the fire, their bodies similarly covered by the hooded habit of Morr’s servants. But beneath their black robes they wore armour, plates of blackened steel as strong as obsidian. These were the dour templars of Morr, the fearsome Black Guard. These terrifying warriors were charged to ensure the sanctity of the pit was not violated by grieving relations, desperately trying to steal back their loved ones.
Father Schoenbeck clapped his hands together above the little fire, trying to force warmth back into his numbed fingers. The priest’s attention was pulled away from the flames as the sound of a creaking cart grumbled out from the darkness. It was a sound he had heard far too many times, a plague cart emerging from the city to deposit its cargo. He walked away from the fire, motioning for the acolytes to remain where they were. There were rites to perform before a body could be consigned to the ground, but the priest felt fully capable of performing them on his own. It would help break up the tedium of another night camped beside the pit.
The plague cart was as dilapidated as the others Father Schoenbeck had seen, drawn by a sorry-looking mule that might have been lying inside the death wagon rather than pulling it. The man who drove it was similarly repulsive, scrawny and sickly. The priest nodded in greeting to the carter, circling toward the back of the wagon to begin removing its cargo of corpses. The sickly man dropped from the seat of the cart, brushing a ratty lock of hair from his face as he followed the priest.
Father Schoenbeck stopped, puzzled, when he reached the rear of the cart. The bed of the wagon was empty. ‘Where are they?’ he asked aloud. His mouth dropped open in a gargled scream as the pallid man cast a handful of dust into his face. The foul powder sizzled where it struck, its unholy energies withering the life from his flesh.
‘I am afraid I came here to collect, not deposit,’ Carandini said as the priest withered and writhed at his feet. The necromancer spun around, eyes glowing as terrible energies gathered within his corrupted soul. One of the acolytes rushed forward, a shovel gripped in his hands as though it were a battleaxe. Carandini smiled and uttered a word that was obscene centuries before even Sigmar was born. The dark energies responded. The acolyte crumpled into a screaming pile of rags, steam rising from his skin as the blood boiled within his veins.
The two templars of Morr reacted no less quickly than the shovel-wielding acolyte, but, weighed down by their armour, they were several paces behind. Carandini conceded they were a fearsome sight, black giants with cloaks billowing, the naked steel of their swords gleaming in the starlight. But there were far more fearsome things at large this night than mere mortal man.
From the darkness, a gaunt shape emerged, interposing itself between Carandini and the templars. The Black Guardsmen came to a hasty stop, hesitating to consider this new foe. Sibbechai’s eyes burned from the pits of its face. Even the most ignorant peasant could not fail to recognise the vampire for what it was. Carandini was mildly impressed when the templars pressed their attack, instead of fleeing into the night as the surviving acolytes had done. Not that their bravery would count for anything.
The knight to Sibbechai’s right slashed at the vampire with the edge of his massive broadsword. The undead creature did not so much evade the blow as shift position, the steel cleaving only through the edge of the vampire’s shroud-like cloak. However, in avoiding the first knight’s attack, Sibbechai left itself open to the assault of the second. It was a manoeuvre that the Black Guardsmen were very accomplished in, to allow their numbers to overwhelm the preternatural speed of the creatures they were called upon to destroy.
If the black helmets of the temp
lars had left their faces exposed, perhaps they would have showed satisfaction as the second knight’s sword crunched into Sibbechai’s spine; as the force of the blow knocked the gaunt, cadaverous apparition back toward the first knight. The first Black Guardsman raised his sword upward, ready to deliver a decapitating blow to the vampire’s neck.
Sibbechai had underestimated its adversaries. These were men who displayed no fear before it, whose wits and skills were not dulled by the clumsiness of terror. But they had underestimated Sibbechai as well. The simple tactics that allowed them to dispatch the debased, bestial strigoi vampires they discovered hiding in Wurtbad’s Old Cemetery three years before were not enough to overcome a necrarch. Even as the first knight’s sword slashed towards the vampire’s neck, it was twisting around, claws gripping the blade lodged in its spine, spinning the second Black Guardsman around with it.
The first knight’s reflexes were far quicker than those of most men. As the vampire used his comrade for a living shield, the knight changed the course of his blow, lowering the cutting edge. Instead of slashing into the other templar’s neck, the blade glanced from his shoulder guard. However, even if the action preserved the life of his comrade, it left the guardsman momentarily defenceless. Sibbechai exploited the opening, hurling the overbalanced templar into the other who had thought to decapitate it. The two knights crashed against the earth in a pile of clattering steel. Sibbechai glared at them as it ripped the sword from its body and hurled the weapon away into the night.
‘Servants of death,’ the vampire hissed, extending its clawed hand. The templars struggled to regain their feet, dragging daggers from their boots as they rose. ‘I send you to meet your master,’ the vampire sneered. A hideous force seemed to erupt from its palm, a bolt of darkness that struck the armoured knights. The screams of the warriors echoed within their helmets as the necromantic force began to crush them, crumpling their armour as though crafted from paper, pulverising the bones within. Soon the screams stopped, leaving only two piles of twisted metal. Sibbechai regarded the sanguine pool slowly spreading from the mangled wreckage with satisfaction.
