The foremost of the two riders was quiet, his face hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat, his thoughts turned inward, contemplating things and decisions he did not wish to speak. The witch hunter’s companion continued to grumble into his beard, bristling under the chill of the morning air.
“We might at least have waited for the frost to clear,” Streng groused. “Why the haste, Mathias? You could make your report in a week and no one would complain.”
The witch hunter did not regard his henchman, his eyes studying instead the slopes of the hills, the clusters of rock and tree that huddled about and upon them and the cold breeze that slithered around them. “I should think you’d be eager to fill your pockets with the temple’s gold,” Thulmann returned, a note of reproach in his tone. As usual, Streng chose to ignore the witch hunter’s distaste for his openly mercenary motivations.
“Aye, it’ll be nice to have full pockets again,” the mercenary observed. “Though we could have turned a better coin,” Streng added with a sullen grunt. Thulmann turned about in his saddle, fixing the man with a stern look.
“What larcenous drivel are your spouting?” Thulmann demanded.
“I was only remarking that we could have had a bit more coin for our efforts,” Streng said. “Five gold for old man Klausner, another seven for his vampire son, and another nine for Kohl and his lads.” A greedy gleam twinkled in the mercenary’s eyes. “We could have done a bit better is all I was considering.”
“Speak plainly,” Thulmann snapped. “I tire of your insinuations.”
“Well,” grinned Streng, leaning back in his saddle. “That vampire did attack Gregor Klausner, and now the boy is sick. Might have gotten another seven gold if we’d waited around.” Thulmann shook his head in disgust, returning to his contemplation of the countryside.
“There was nothing about him to suggest that the vampire’s taint flows through his veins,” the witch hunter stated. “The violence of the creature’s attack and the death of his father, coupled with the hideous truth about his family’s legacy would naturally have undermined his health.” Thulmann’s voice grew sombre. “There are monsters enough in this world without you inventing more.”
“I rather did like the feel of his sword,” pressed Streng. “Fine blade. Hated giving it back to him. If he’d been a vampire or involved in his father’s heresy…”
“You can have half of my payment,” Thulmann snarled, “if it will quiet that scheming tongue.” It was an old argument between the two men. The materialistic, hedonistic Streng saw ample opportunity to exploit the office of witch hunter for petty gain and was always quick to give voice to his suggestions.
Thulmann knew that there was no lack of men who did just that, exploiting the power and respect demanded by their profession toward their own selfish ends. It was a sore point with Thulmann, because it was a temptation that he was never entirely convinced he himself had not yielded to.
“Keep your filthy money, Mathias,” Streng sighed. “You know me better than that.” There was a note of genuine injury and offence in the mercenary’s tone. After a moment he regained his composure. “Back to Wurtbad then, eh?” he asked.
Thulmann nodded, straightening in the saddle as new thoughts occurred to him. “There is some chance that we may yet pick up Weichs’ trail, and I’ll not let that man slip through my fingers if there is even the remotest chance of catching him.” There was a venom in the witch hunter’s voice, as he recalled the nefarious doctor and his disfiguring, corrupting experiments with warp-stone.
He’d hunted the man for many years, and been forced to kill far too many of his tainted victims. Then there was the matter of Helmuth Klausner’s book of unholy lore. With his dying breath Wilhelm Klausner had confessed that he had entrusted the tome to someone in that city. It might take quite a bit of investigation to discover who the old man had trusted enough to leave the book with. The fact that the vampire Sibbechai was still at large and still hunting for the book was enough to make the witch hunter doubly keen on tracking it down and destroying it.
The thought of the uses to which a necrarch would put such a blasphemous work caused Thulmann to urge his horse into a gallop, and soon he was many lengths ahead of his henchman.
“Ah well,” grumbled Streng, urging his own horse to greater effort. “There’s wine and wenches enough in Wurtbad, I suppose.”
Gregor Klausner lay upon his bed, heavy fur blankets wrapped about him, his head propped upon pillows. He could hear the soft, concerned voice of his mother giving directions to her servants to attend her son. He could feel the soft towel that wiped away the feverish sweat beading upon his brow, and smell the heavy pungent aroma of the medicinal herbs smouldering in the urn beside his bed. But it was with a detached, almost unreal way that he perceived these things. It was like his mind was outside his body, observing it from afar.
His thoughts brooded upon the deaths of his brother and father, slaughtered by the filthy monster that had invaded their home and profaned their name. The ghost that had so haunted the Klausner line that for fear of its wrath, generations of noble Klausner men had practised a filthy and unspeakable ritual. The vampire had very nearly slaked its thirst for vengeance, but it had made one mistake. It had not finished what it had started with Gregor Klausner.
The young noble could still taste Sibbechai’s vile blood upon his mouth, a few drops of filth forced upon his lips when the vampire had hurled him aside after threatening his father.
His father had led the monster away trying to save him, but the truth was that the vampire had already done its worst. The thought of the creature’s cruel treachery brought a groan of anger from Gregor’s feverish lips. At once, soft warm hands caressed his cheeks, trying to soothe his pain.
Somewhere within the back of his mind, Gregor was laughing. Why did they try? Couldn’t they see? Didn’t they know?
The witch hunter had known or at least suspected, which was why he had made his departure with such awkwardness and haste. He had known what he would have to do if his suspicions proved themselves. He’d left, hoping against hope that Gregor would recover, that his lust for life would drive out the filth that clawed at his soul.
But Gregor had no lust for life. Only one thing mattered now. He had to find and destroy the creature that had damned him and his family. He had to track down and destroy the vampire Sibbechai, for there was no one else left to do so and no other way to redeem the name of Klausner. Gregor could sense the vampire’s presence, sense the creature as it fled through the early morning back to its refuge. There was a link between them now, a tether of corruption that bound them together.
Gregor would follow that bond, follow it back to its source and force Sibbechai to answer for all its monstrous sins. Before he could allow his own tainted existence to be put to an end, Gregor would see the necrarch destroyed.
The young noble sank back, staring up at the shadowy forms of his mother and their servants, ignoring the bright gleaming lines that burned within the grey and indistinct shapes, ignoring the warm flowing blood that called out to him. Gregor cried as he wondered how long he would be able to deny that call.
The shadows within the gloomy, dank cavern grew even darker, as though the nebulous pockets of blackness were striving to become things of solidity and form. The chill of the forsaken and blighted place sank into an almost icy atmosphere and the rank stink of the place became unspeakable in its foulness. The small wooded hill had been a barrow once, burial mound to the naked half-intelligent savages who had wandered the lands of the Empire in the aeons before Sigmar’s birth. There was a power to such places of ancient death, and that grim power seeped into the stones and earth, making animals snarl and men avert their gaze. Such shunned places called out to their own, shining like black beacons to the creatures of night and horror.
A shape emerged from the shadows. Tall and thin, its body draped in a grim black robe, ghoulish adornments dripping from its garb. The vampire Sibbechai turned its head, its fier
y eyes narrowing with disgust at the faint flicker of dawn that danced about the small opening to its refuge.
Unlike many of its diseased kind, the necrarch could endure the sun for limited periods, provided that the proper enchantments were invoked. But it did so at great peril, for the creature would lose much of its strength, and the ravages of the purifying rays of the sun could not be fended off completely. The sun was forever the bane of Sibbechai’s kind, dispelling the night with which the vampire shrouded itself, providing the monsters with no shadows in which to hide but revealing them for what they truly were.
The necrarch hissed its anger. It had been cheated once again, cheated when it was so very close to achieving what had been denied it for so very long. But it would endure and it would prevail. It was only a matter of time now, and time was one thing that Sibbechai had an in abundance.
The vampire’s withered face spread into a malevolent grimace as it considered the events that had unfolded in Helmuth’s tomb. Its pet had been destroyed, which was irritating. But far worse had been the humiliation of being forced to retreat from that mortal swordsman.
Still, even so slight a risk as the witch hunter had posed was to be avoided when there was yet so much to accomplish. The vampire could afford to swallow its pride; there would be ample opportunity to claim restitution from the man’s mangled bones in the future, when their meeting would be under circumstances of Sibbechai’s choosing.
The vampire strode back into the gloomy tomb, its gaze fixed upon the large coffin of polished Drakwald timber that rested against the far wall. It was one of a matched set of twenty that Sibbechai had commissioned long ago. Its black surface was edged in gold, the griffon and wolf emblem of the Klausners worked upon the sides and the top of the lid.
The flawless wood had been polished to a sharp shine, so that even the tiny embers of Sibbechai’s eyes shone back at the vampire from the walls of its casket. The vampire still smiled at the ingenuity of the device, the cunning lock it had taken a dwarf craftsman the better of a decade to design. It had been the dwarf’s finest work, a perfection of craftsmanship that the fellow had never exceeded. The insidious traps in the lock were themselves tiny masterpieces: needles that would stab at the flesh of any would-be trespasser, delivering a lethal dose of a most unkindly poison, a small glass vial that would shatter and release a mephitic vapour, safeguards that had ensured the sanctity of the vampire’s slumber for many years.
Sibbechai removed the iron key from the chain that hung about its neck, leaning down toward the dwarf lock then stepped away hissing in rage. The lock had been destroyed, nor by any simple, crude means. The ancient device had been reduced to a glob of molten metal clinging to the singed side of the coffin.
The vampire uttered a savage snarl of rage, its claw lashing out to rip the heavy lid of its coffin from its hinges. The panel of Drakwald timber crashed against the wall of the tomb and Sibbechai glared down at the velvet-lined bed of its coffin. The necrarch hissed again and flinched away as it saw the silver icon resting there.
“I thought it might be prudent to make certain changes in the decor,” a malicious voice called out from the darkness.
Sibbechai spun around, glaring at the shadows. The sneering face of Carandini greeted him. The necromancer had been waiting for his treacherous ally for some time, veiling himself in a cloak of sorcerous shadow that even the necrarch’s unnatural gaze had not penetrated.
“Get rid of it!” Sibbechai demanded.
The necromancer laughed back at it.
“Patience,” he scolded the monster. “Patience. You act as though a few minutes were a matter of life and death. Or undeath,” Carandini smiled, casting a sidewise look at the growing glow clawing at the mouth of the barrow.
“Take it away!” the vampire repeated, its words more snarl than speech. Carandini smiled back at the monster, apparently unconcerned by the creature’s barely restrained fury.
“If I am to help you,” the necromancer observed, “then you should help me.” The mocking smile fell away and the man was at once as serious as the grave. “Hand over the book,” he told it. “I could of course dig it out of your ashes after the sun has done its work, but I’d rather not risk the book coming to any harm.”
Sibbechai glowered at the necromancer, jaws clenching and unclenching. He lunged toward the gloating sorcerer, but flinched away as Carandini held up an identical icon. The vampire paced before Carandini like some caged beast, averting its gaze every time it chanced to glance at the silver hammer clutched in the necromancer’s hand.
“You really should at least try to be helpful,” Carandini said. “Otherwise I think things are going to go rather badly” The necromancer laughed as Sibbechai again reached for him, then recoiled from the hurtful aura of the Sigmarite relic. “One of the benefits of being a man in my position, vampire, is that one can enjoy the benefits of both worlds, that of the living and that of the dead.”
“I don’t have the book,” the vampire snarled as it retreated before Carandini’s holy symbol once more. “It wasn’t there.”
A blank look fell upon Carandini’s features. The necromancer pushed a wisp of ratty hair from his pale face, then sighed in disappointment. “I suppose we really have nothing more to discuss then. I must confess, however, that after your little trick with the wolves, I will find a great deal of enjoyment in watching you shrivel into a cinder.”
Sibbechai snarled at the man, more infuriated by the contempt with which Carandini dismissed the vampire’s attempt to kill its partner than anything else. Its pride had been injured enough this night. Yet Sibbechai knew that if its pride did not suffer still one more time, then it would shortly discover the grave it had defied for so long.
“I know where the book is,” the vampire growled. Carandini’s expression shifted between amusement and doubt as he heard the monster speak.
“Really?” the necromancer snickered. “Why does this sound like something I’ve heard before?”
“The old man knew I was coming for it,” Sibbechai explained. “He had it removed, gave it to a friend.” Sibbechai considered the fragmentary memories and images the necrarch had ripped from the dying man’s mind, the secrets which by his very determination to keep from the vampire had risen to the forefront of Wilhelm’s thoughts.
“And where might that be?” Carandini asked. Sibbechai looked away from the man, pointing once more at the casket.
“We bargain for that information,” the vampire snarled. “Take that filthy thing away!”
The necromancer studied his undead adversary, pondering just how far he could trust the monster. It could not possibly be dealing false with him. It would know that he would search it as soon as it slipped back into its grave, and slipped into the half-sleep of its kind.
Sibbechai could be under no delusion as to what the necromancer would do to it if he found the book hidden away nearby.
A sly smile on his face, the necromancer strode across the cave, careful to keep the holy icon between himself and the vampire.
Still facing the necrarch, he put his hand into the open coffin, fumbling about until he grasped the Sigmarite symbol. Carandini held both symbols before him, staring in open challenge at the vampire. Sibbechai covered its eyes with one clawed hand. The glow of dawn was strong at the mouth of the barrow now, and the necromancer could see that the vampire’s movements were growing slower and more ungainly by the second.
“What is your bargain?” the necromancer asked, a tone of mirth in his voice.
“I know where the book has been taken,” Sibbechai replied in a desperate hiss. “We can still share its secrets!”
Carandini was silent for a moment, pursing his lips as he considered the vampire’s offer. Sibbechai fidgeted before him, the vampire’s body twitching and twisting with anxiety. “Are you proposing a return to our earlier arrangement?” the necromancer’s tone was incredulous. “Just forget everything that has happened and let bygones be bygones? Is that what you are offer
ing?”
“Yes,” hissed Sibbechai, a dry sound that seemed to wrack its lean frame. The necromancer smiled and stepped away. The vampire did not speak, but at once leapt forward, scrabbling into its coffin like a rat racing back into its hole. Carandini stepped away from the casket, smiling at the undead monster’s refuge.
“That sounds agreeable,” the necromancer laughed, though he knew the vampire could not truly hear him. He patted the bottle of sacred water secreted within his robes. He was almost sorry that he wouldn’t get a chance to use it now, but the possibility that the vampire was telling the truth was a bit too important to indulge his petty ambitions for revenge. Das Buch die Unholden was a prize that would more than compensate him for his near death beneath the fangs of Sibbechai’s wolves.
Still, there were a few experiments that Carandini knew of that required the fangs and claws of a vampire to perform. The necromancer had been looking forward to attempting a few of them.
Of course, there was no reason he could not return to them after Sibbechai led him to the book. One could never quite tell what a new day would bring.
Carandini walked from the barrow, out into the cold morning air, an evil dream shining behind his eyes.
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