Hock was still gazing down at the black shape, feeling the enormity of his insignificance closing dead fingers around his pounding heart. His trembling hand began to rise from his belt, the cold length of his dagger pulling clear of its sheath. The general fought to drag air into his lungs, and tried to will the blood to speed through his veins as his heart grew ever more sluggish. He tried to close his eyes, tried to turn his face away from the thing that he knew to be Zahaak the Usurper: Zahaak, the Sword of Nagashizzar.
“Thorir!” the general shouted. “The cannon! Fire the cannon!” Hock managed to stab his hand over the wall, pointing a quivering finger at the shadowy spectre.
There was little cause to impress upon the dwarf artillerist the target that the general desired. None upon the walls of Dortrecht failed to feel the ancient malignity exuding from its presence. They knew that here was a thing that had been drawn into the cursed ranks of the undead by Nagash’s black touch. Its dark power was a thing that sickened the soul of those exposed to it, that sent frozen tendrils of terror writhing along the spine.
The dwarf roared at his veteran crew. The cannoneers pivoted their cumbersome weapon, training its wide-mouth upon the shadowy phantom. Thorir roared again, but the final notes of his command were obliterated in the louder roar of the weapon. Smoke and fire belched from the gilded mouth of the cannon, the pungent stink of blackpowder rolling across the walls.
The precision of the dwarf cannoneers was as exact as any piece of dwarf craftsmanship. The iron ball shot down from the walls, smashing straight through the ghastly shade that was Zahaak the Worm. Bone and armour, cloth and cloak, shattered beneath an impact that would have pulverised stone. The wight disintegrated, shards of its ruin spraying across the silent ranks of its army. A rousing cheer swept through the men on the walls, carrying down into the streets of Dortrecht and the soldiers standing guard on the one surviving bridge.
Hock dared to share the jubilation, smiling as he remembered the tales of horror and invulnerability that had surrounded the dread wight lord, but the smile died on his face, and the cheering faded into silence behind him. Upon the shore, where the cannon had struck Zahaak down, a billowing mass of shadow roiled and blazed. Hock’s heart went cold as he saw the phantom essence of the wight lord form black, wormy fingers. It slithered across the ground, pulling itself from the crater left by the cannonball. The splotch of shadow coiled around one of the bronze-armoured skeletons of the legion, wrapping around it until the undead warrior was completely consumed.
The chill of the grave touched every man as the profane power of blackest necromancy drew all warmth from the sky. The skeleton entombed within the shadow began to move. With every step, the shadow seemed to withdraw into it, the darkness seeping into its ancient bones. By the time it had taken its seventh step, the skeleton was no longer covered by the inky blackness, but it was no longer what it had been. A shudder of despair and terror rumbled through the souls of Dortrecht as they looked upon the malignity they had thought slain. The cannon ball had destroyed only the husk, only the shell that had contained Zahaak. Now the Dark Lord walked again, only the smoking crater beside it providing evidence that it had ever been struck down.
The wight lord turned its hooded skull up to the walls of the city, its merciless eyes boring into the souls of those who had inflicted such indignity upon it.
Other shapes were moving through the columns of the legion, like patches of grey mist that had somehow resisted the retreat of the fog shroud. Hock dimly perceived that the shapes were not moving through the ranks of the legion, but instead were rising from it, ghostly shadows that oozed into the air like pillars of smoke, dancing to a wraith-wind unfelt by mortal flesh. There was the suggestion of a human form about them, lean bodies that might have been called supple when warm flesh yet clung to their bones. Grey tatters of grave shroud swirled around them, whipping in the spectral wind like shreds of mainsail from the mast of a ghost ship. Black tendrils of hair billowed around naked, gleaming skulls, waving with a horrible vitality at once beckoning and grotesque.
The apparitions hurtled through the air like meteors, racing upwards from the silent, plodding ranks of the legion. Cold, wicked blades were visible, clutched in their fleshless hands, the naked steel the only thing of substance about their incorporeal beings. Archers sent arrows whistling through the semi-transparent shades, the missiles passing harmlessly through the ghastly spirits. The things paid no notice to the fruitless attacks, converging instead upon the walls, flying towards the one man alone among the city’s defenders who had drawn their attention.
Albrecht’s spell faltered as he felt the empty eyes of the spirits focusing upon him. The warlock’s arms fell to his sides, his voice dropping to a frightened croak. The spectral light bled away from him, leaving behind a pitiable, broken thing.
But the dead know not pity.
The fanged jaws of the banshees dropped open as they flew around the cowering warlock. From unseen realms of death and horror, the apparitions gave voice to a keening wail, a cry that none in the city could fail to hear. It reverberated through mind and soul, shattering men like a sledge against brick. In an instant, a hundred fell dead in their boots, a hundred more fleeing into shrieking madness to escape the shrieking torment of the banshees’ wail. These were the chafe, the residue thrust from the dark by the searing scream of the ghosts. Against he who was the target of their malevolence, the ghastly chorus worked still greater havoc.
“They have come to kill the prophet!” Albrecht shrieked, and all the agonies of hell were in his tones. The warlock’s hands tore at his raiment, and his teeth gnashed together, tearing his lip into a gnawed mass of pulp. “They have come to kill the prophet!” he screamed again, his voice cracking with the effort to carry his tones above the wailing chorus of the banshee.
Blood bubbled from the warlock’s ears, slopping down his neck and across his shoulders in a steady stream. “They have come to kill the prophet!” he screamed, and the stream became a torrent. The warlock’s shriek became a loathsome gurgle as his gnashing teeth sliced through his screaming tongue. The wail of the banshees howled around him unchallenged, rising to a crescendo. The blood running from Albrecht’s skull became a thin mush and he pitched to the stones of the parapet, his face crashing into the porridge of his own brain.
The shriek of the banshees twisted into a terrible, malicious laughter. The ghosts swirled above the walls, cackling above the heads of the archers before streaking back down, hurtling back into the ranks of the undead legion. Soon they had vanished once more into the decaying host, only the echoes of their scream lingering behind to haunt the hearts of those who had seen them.
General Hock only vaguely appreciated the destruction of Albrecht the Doomsayer. Eyes locked on the black shape of Zahaak the Usurper, he could feel his life being leeched from him. Drop by drop, or perhaps hour by hour, his vitality was being bled away by a terrible, malevolent will. He could feel his arm lifting the dagger up, bringing the stabbing blade towards his throat. He could feel his arm moving, but he could do nothing to stop it. He knew that, even when he felt the sharp point of the blade against his trembling flesh, he would not be able to stop it.
Suddenly, fresh air seemed to come roaring back into his lungs, blood surging once more through his veins. With a grunt of horror and disgust, Hock flung the dagger from him, letting it fall to the river below. He sagged against the battlements, trying to recover his shattered thoughts, trying to control the terror that set his heart pounding like a hammer against his ribs. His body, his soul, were his once more. It was an effort, an effort such as he doubted himself capable of, but slowly Hock looked down at the ruins again. The black shadow was not looking at him but was racing through the ranks of its legion, retreating back through the market district, speeding to the earthen ramparts where the undead had pitched their silent camp in morbid mockery of a living army.
Hock could spare no more thought on what strange urgency had caused Zahaak to spare
him. Though the wight lord was gone, its army remained. The legion was still on the move, marching silently, inexorably, across the bridges. On the Westgate Bridge, soldiers clashed with rotting horrors that had only weeks before been their countrymen, trying to kill with clean steel beings that were already dead and damned.
The men on the Westgate would need to fend for themselves. Hock watched the other spans, waiting tensely as the undead tromped across them. When the spans were all but lost beneath a press of bleached bone and mouldering skin, the general lifted his field baton, the gold-capped staff gleaming in the sunlight. He knew the gaudy talisman would be clearly seen by his officers along the walls, even if his voice did not carry to them.
One smooth motion brought the raised baton crashing down, as though smashing the skull of an invisible foe. Hock’s deep voice boomed across the walls.
“Loose!”
Hundreds of bows released arrows on the general’s command. Doused in pitch, the arrows were flaming brands as they hurtled at the bridges. Some fell short, some crashed into the massed ranks of the legion, but many more struck home, slamming into the charges prepared by the dwarfs. For long, tense seconds, the burning arrows continued to rain, their flames swiftly engulfing the oil-soaked barrels. Then the entire island was shaken as one after another, the charges exploded. Tons of stone were lifted into the air, crashing down into the market district, crushing dozens of skeletal warriors beneath them. Hundreds of skeletons and zombies were obliterated in the blasts, their shattered bits splashing along the river in a grisly rain.
A mighty cheer boomed across the walls as men watched the legion crumble. Archers began to fire into the ranks massed on the opposite shore, sending arrows stabbing into the dead husks of men. Hock had been careful to advise his marksmen to aim for the head of their foe, for only destruction of the skull seemed to disperse the hideous energies that gave these things their vitality. He was pleased to see that his order had been remembered as arrows shattered the heads of dozens of undead warriors.
Just as he was beginning to think there would be a chance, that perhaps they really could carry the day, the snap-crack of siege engines rose from the desolation of the market district. Hock saw large missiles come hurtling up at the old city, falling well past the walls. He was surprised by the comparative silence of their descent, the expected sound of collapsing brick and crumbling stone failing to reach him. A grim unease began to crawl along his spine as more and more of the quiet missiles were thrown at the city by the legion’s catapults. There had been something obscene about the speed with which the legion had conquered Neuwald, the way Zahaak had so easily defeated the town’s thick walls.
One of the strange missiles fell shorter than the others, landing just within the walls. Hock and his aides hurried along the battlements, intending to see what new horror the legion was inflicting upon Dortrecht. Soldiers gave way before them, nodding sketchy salutes to the general as he passed, all old resentments set aside for the time being. Soon, the buildings pressing upon the curtain wall gave way to a street, affording Hock a better look into the city beyond. He saw a knot of militiamen converging upon something in the distance. Closer, he could see the missile that had fallen short, dripping down from the iron cross-arm of a lamp-post like some gigantic bird’s nest.
It was no stone or boulder that had fallen, but rather a grisly net crafted from strips of bloodied cloth and other unmentionable materials. Something moved within the net with a fitful energy, and while Hock watched, he saw a rusty blade emerge and begin to saw away at the confining “ropes”. The net suddenly broke, spilling half a dozen bodies into the street. The things landed hard, but took little notice of their fall. Awkwardly, with jerky movements, the zombies lurched to their feet, fetching blades and cudgels from where they had been scattered by the fall. Lifeless eyes the colour of boiled eggs passed across General Hock and his gawping aides, and then focused on the angle of the wall beneath them. With the same slow, monotonous tread, the rotting zombies began to march down the length of the street, leaving behind those shattered by their violent descent.
“They’re heading for the gate!” one of Hock’s aides shouted. The adjutant raced along the battlements to warn the threatened portal. Hock spun around, feeling a sense of dread as he saw more of the missiles flying overhead. How many had landed? How many would they launch? If each missile carried half a dozen zombies, his soldiers would soon be scattered across the city mopping up small knots of the enemy. It was fortunate indeed that they had destroyed the other bridges and reduced the legion’s means of a more meaningful ingress to one.
The thought brought Hock’s eyes back to the opposite shore. Archers were still firing furiously at the legion, taking a slow but steady toll. However, the legion was no longer standing idly by while its ranks were whittled away. Column upon column of the skeletal warriors were marching into the river, not relenting even when the waters rose above their fleshless skulls and they vanished beneath the surface. Some of the river walkers were already emerging, climbing the foundations of the walls, lifting themselves onto the broken stumps of the bridges, pounding at the barred gates of the city.
There was no question of the undead forcing the gates. Their foothold upon the far shore was so tenuous that even the smallest battering ram could not be brought to bear. As Hock watched more of the ghastly nets go sailing over the walls, he knew that the undead outside had no intention of battering their way in. They were waiting, waiting to be let in by the steadily swelling ranks of zombies that each crack of the catapults sent flying past the city’s defences. If even one gate fell, Dortrecht would be quickly smothered by the tide of lifeless warriors that would come streaming in.
The general snapped hasty orders, sending adjutants to pull men away from the Westgate Bridge, to reinforce the garrisons at the other gates. He only hoped the redeployment would be quick enough. He hoped they still had the strength to buy Count Eberfeld more time.
The field camp of the legion was silent, lifeless as the forgotten tomb that had been Zahaak’s resting place for centuries. The wooden palisades and earthen ramparts were arrayed in precise, measured sections, relics of an age when war was a new art for man and approached as much as science as it was carnage.
At the centre of the camp, standing alone amid the cleared, barren ground, a great tent swayed slightly in the fitful breeze. It was of a style that had passed from the world when a deposed king had brought red vengeance upon his own people, when a broken man had accepted the unholy promise of a thing that had made itself a god.
The flayed skins of men stretched taut between poles of bone, held in place with ropes of sinew. The scalps of priests and virgins hung from the exposed tips of the poles, and the skulls of wizards grinned from the peaked crown of the tent. Ancient figures had been drawn in blood on the walls of tanned flesh, the primordial picture-scrawl of lost Khemri, cradle of sorcery and the black arts.
A shadow poured through the opening of the tent, seeping into the greater darkness beyond. Witchlights flared into putrescent life in obedience to an unspoken command, tiny wraiths swimming through the ether bound within the walls of skin. No furnishings stood exposed by the glowing spirits, only a short altar of black basalt and a statue of obsidian that stood behind it. A skeletal face leered or snarled from beneath the statue’s crown, its iron hand stretched in silent demand.
Zahaak’s ancient bones creaked into obeisance before the statue, the embers of the Usurper’s eyes fading into a pallid light. The wight stood once more, pulling back the heavy hood that cloaked its skull. Time had hardened its bones into a stone-like consistency, yet even so, the hieroglyphs scratched into its forehead wept beads of crimson. Few mortal scholars would know the meaning of that script, fewer still would not be driven mad by such knowledge. It was the brand of obscenity, of the ultimate abomination. That which was the truth behind the great darkness that Zahaak had named master long ago.
The bleeding hieroglyphs continued to drip from its skull
as the wight moved across the small confines of the tent. The armoured hand of Zahaak removed a sackcloth bag from a bone box. The fanged skull grinned down at the sack as something within it stirred into querulous, frightened life. For a moment, some little fragment, some echo of a man dead two thousand years, tried to make itself felt. The moment passed, more quickly than ever before. Each time, the echo grew less, consumed a little more by the great darkness waiting to devour it.
Let it end, the echo had whispered. But immortality had no end. Zahaak would see to that. The wight dragged the little pink, wailing thing from the bag. Pitiless fires stared down at it from the barren sockets of its skull. The wight could feel the creature’s terrorised heart throbbing, pounding like a tiny drum.
There was danger. The wight had sensed it. The danger was somehow connected with the witch, the meddler it had destroyed and her paltry god. Now, somehow, someway, her essence had brushed against the weapon that had brought destruction to Zahaak long ago. The wight did not understand, nor did it question. If the weapon had been found, then it must be lost again.
Zahaak turned its skull away from the wailing, struggling thing it held. The Usurper looked again at the grasping, demanding claw of the statue. Again, the tiny pounding heart drew its attention back to the little life in its hands.
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