He had thought it a symptom of his fever — this unreal, unholy delirium that made shadows of the living. He had believed the entrancing light flowing through those shadows a perverse dream, a foul imagining brought on by his injuries and his sickness. Now he knew it was not. He could see the blood burning within Miranda’s body. See it flowing beneath her shadowy form. He could feel the warmth of it reaching out to his chilled flesh, smell its aroma caressing his face. His mouth writhed with anticipation, filling with the phantom taste of salty crimson wine rushing down his parched throat.
Gregor ripped his hand from Miranda’s caress, sitting bolt upright in his bed. She reached out toward him, but Gregor recoiled as if from a viper, raising his hands to ward her off.
“Gregor!” the young woman cried again. Emotion clawed at his heart, his face twisting with an agony he had never believed possible. Again Miranda reached for him, forcing Gregor to slip from the bed onto the floor. Miranda hesitated, waiting as her beloved nobleman raised himself. But as he did so he stepped away from the bed, towards the stone wall behind him.
“Stay back, Miranda!” Gregor snarled, summoning up every last ounce of authority. His words arrested her as she made to rise from the bed. “For Sigmar’s sake, stay away!” he added in a piteous tone. The sound stabbed into the young woman, her face contorting in anguish.
“Why Gregor? What is it? What is wrong?” She began to rise once more. Gregor waved her back with a violent gesture.
“Please!” he cried. “I don’t want to hurt you!” As Miranda took one single step toward him, a worried smile formed on her face. Gregor retreated before her approach.
“But you… you would not injure me!” she insisted. “What is this nonsense that you speak?”
“The vampire, Miranda, the vampire!” Gregor wailed. His back was to the wall now, he could retreat no further. “It touched me! Its poison is within me!” Miranda froze, her face growing pale as the horror of Gregor’s words bore down upon her.
“No,” she dismissed his hysteria. “That isn’t true. You’ve just been sick. Unwell. The burden of your father’s death…”
Gregor buried his face in his hands, his body shuddering as deep sobs wracked his form. “It is true, Miranda. Hideously, loathsomely true. I am poisoned, corrupted. There is no future for us…”
He looked up at her, watching as the tears rolled down her shadowy face. “I release you, my sweet. Find a good man. Make a life for yourself. I can give you nothing now.” Gregor turned away, unable to gaze upon her any longer, unable to bear the unspeakable hunger growing within him. “Only death.” With one fluid motion, Gregor leaped forward, crashing through the glass window, falling into the black of night.
Miranda screamed, racing to the shattered glass and twisted iron fittings. She stared out into the darkness, looking for any sign of Gregor’s body. She steeled herself to find it crushed at the base of the keep’s wall. But nothing met her gaze, only a few shards of glass twinkling in the moonlight as the clouds briefly released Mannslieb from their grasp.
Miranda withdrew back into the room, weeping, her mind struggling to accept what she had seen and heard. She was startled when Lady Ilsa Klausner appeared, taking her into a motherly embrace.
“He’s gone,” was all Miranda could manage to say.
“I know,” Lady Ilsa tried to console her. “I know. My son died three days ago.”
Withered flesh stretched into a grotesque leer, a look of feral, inhuman triumph. Crimson eyes narrowed with satisfaction, the flaming orbs burning a little brighter from the pits of the vampire’s face. It had taken many days, far longer than it expected, but at last its call had been answered. The taint it had placed in young Gregor Klausner’s blood had at last begun to consume him. The strength and defiance of the boy’s spirit had surprised the necrarch, for a time it had even worried that Gregor might be able to resist its power, to overcome its venom and sink into a mortal, permanent death.
But the ancient will of Sibbechai had been greater, more than sufficient to devour the man’s soul. It was good that there had been such strength within the last of the Klausners. Sibbechai had need of such strength. By the use of its arcane arts, the vampire would add it to its own reserves of power. It was akin to those practices of mortal wizards, who studied light magic and employed small retinues of acolytes to aid them in focusing and empowering their spells. It was so foolish to think that dark magic might not profit by similar means. Of course, there was some danger. The necrarch was not certain of control over its newly created spawn. If Gregor Klausner had not become its slave, then he would certainly try to avenge himself on the vampire. And the magical link between them would work both ways — Sibbecahi would always be able to sense its new progeny, but perhaps Gregor would be able to follow that same bond back to his unclean father of darkness.
The necrarch lifted a shrivelled hand, its black, necrotic flesh clinging to the bones like wet parchment. It pushed upon the heavy wooden lid of its casket, forcing the panel to the floor with a resounding crash. Sibbechai exerted a small measure of power, causing its body to pivot upwards as though fixed on unseen hinges. It was a vain employment of the vampire’s black arts, but Sibbechai knew such displays would keep its unwanted ally nervous and uneasy. It did not want the miserable mortal wizard to enjoy a moment’s peace while he stood in the presence of one who was a master of the necromantic arts, centuries before the wizard was even a gleam in his father’s eye.
Sibbechai’s skeletal face considered the dank shadows of its new lair which was a small barrow mound just beyond the district of Klausberg. The vampire’s unnatural vision pierced the darkness, exposing every crack in the walls, every pebble lying upon the floor. The figure of a man stood revealed, standing between the vampire and the barrow’s opening. Thin and scraggly, his slight figure huddled within the fur-trimmed mass of a heavy cassock, ratty black hair falling about his pale, leprous face. Scrawny hands scratched at the sleeves of his necromancer’s robe, and Sibbechai smiled again at the mortal’s unease, exposing its chisellike fangs. The necromancer took a step back, one spidery hand slipping within the sleeve of his grey robe. Then the wizard seemed to collect himself, glaring angrily at the vampire.
“The maggot crawls from its hole, does it?” Carandini’s spiteful voice lashed at the vampire. “I grow weary of waiting, leech. Three days and three nights I have stood here while you rested within your coffin. I will wait no longer!” The necromancer’s hand emerged from within his robes, a small, silver twin-tailed comet icon dangling from the slender chain twined about his fingers. Sibbechai recoiled from the holy symbol, but its mocking smile did not wither. It had seen the fear within the mortal’s eyes, however bold his words. The necromancer was fearful that he had made a mistake. Fearful that he had allowed the vampire too much time.
“Put that obscenity away” Sibbechai’s hissed. “As you grow weary of waiting, I grow weary of your childish theatrics.” The vampire turned its head, watching as Carandini returned the tiny icon to a pocket within his robes. Sibbechai responded by stepping down from its coffin, its tattered black robe hanging shroud-like about its spindly frame.
“Your waiting is at an end, necromancer,” Sibbechai pronounced. “I am recovered from my ordeal, ready to resume the quest we share.” The vampire studied Carandini’s pale features. No, the necromancer could not conceal his doubt and fear. But killing him now might not be so easy, a frightened wizard was still a wizard, after all, and even a frightened man may speak a Word of Power. Besides, the recovery of the grimoire had already taken several unexpected turns. The mortal might possibly come in useful, if fate held any more in store. For the time being, it was better to let Carandini live and believe their tenuous alliance still held.
“Where has the book been taken?” Carandini asked. Sibbechai had bargained with the necromancer for its life with the abhorrent Das Buch die Unholden. Claiming that it knew where the book had been hidden by the late Wilhelm Klausner, it swore an oath that eve
n the vampire feared to break. Now the necromancer was anxious to have his side of the bargain fulfilled.
“Klausner sent the book to Wurtbad,” Sibbechai said. “For some reason, he had decided it was no longer safe in Klausberg.” The vampire displayed its lethal fangs, reminding Carandini what the reason for Klausner’s desperate action had been.
“Where in Wurtbad?” the necromancer demanded. Sibbechai shook its head, lifting a claw-like finger.
“You are far too eager,” the necrarch said. “Was it not you who extolled the virtues of patience?” There was venom in the vampire’s voice as it remembered the taunting words spoken by Carandini as he kept the vampire from its coffin, as dawn began to break. “You will discover where in the city when I feel the time is right.”
Carandini’s glare was murderous. He could barely restrain his anger at the undead sorcerer. “How then shall we proceed?” he said at last.
“We shall journey together to Wurtbad, you and I,” Sibbechai hissed. “It will take two days to reach the city and I shall rest more easily with so devoted a comrade to watch over me during the hours of day. After all, if any harm came to me, you would never know where the grimoire is located. I should think that a poor mortal, whose years are so dreadfully few, would take great pains to avoid losing his chance at eternal life.
“For now, however, you shall need to find us transport to the city. Something big enough for my—” the vampire gestured with its claw towards the heavy wooden casket, “—baggage. And you might bring me back something to fortify myself with. The younger the better. Young blood is so much more sustaining.”
Carandini gave the vampire a last sour glance, then crept back into the gloom. Sibbechai watched the necromancer depart. It would be able to trust the man, for now at least. He would be useful in getting to Wurtbad — Sibbechai had not spoken falsely when it praised the boon of a guardian to watch over it while it slept. It had spoken rather less truthfully about the need to feed. The necrarchs were not slaves to their thirst in the way that other breeds of vampire were. They learned, over time, to subdue and deny their hunger. The oldest of the breed rarely fed at all. But let the necromancer believe Sibbechai to be a slave to its thirst. Carandini might hope to exploit that as a weakness, and when he did, the necromancer would be unpleasantly surprised.
For, in the end, only one of them would possess the dark secrets of Das Buch die Unholden. Sibbechai had no doubt which of them it would be.
The heavy oak door slowly creaked inward as a slender shape crossed the threshold. The shadow paused, ears straining at the darkness for any sign her stealthy approach had been betrayed by the door’s rusty hinges. The only sound that answered was a deep rumble of snoring from the large bed that dominated the tiny chamber. The woman’s expression transformed from nervous caution to savage, bestial hate. She waited, savouring the moment, letting her eyes become accustomed to the gloom that surrounded her.
The small rooms above the Hound and Hare were owned by the bloated parasite that ran the tavern itself. He rented them by the hour to his patrons, the wealthy merchants and ancient aristocrats who composed Wurtbad’s elite, offering them privacy for their night games. Of course, later he would expect a tithe from whichever whore had plied her trade in one of the squalid little rooms, an iron cudgel ensuring his demands were always met promptly and in the correct amount.
Carefully, the woman began to cross the small room. She had removed her boots, so that her footsteps might not betray her, ignoring the wooden splinters that the floor stabbed into her naked feet. Beside the anguish that wrenched at her heart, the slivers of wood were nothing. She glided toward the bed, like some night hag conjured from a fable, glaring at the two figures sprawled among the fur blankets. The woman only gave a scant glance to the lithe shape lying on the left side of the bed — the strumpet who had replaced her seemed of little consequence. Her interest was focused upon the bed’s other occupant. The man who had betrayed her.
Manfred Gelt was a wealthy river trader, one of the richest in Wurtbad. It was a boast she had heard oft spoken, but Manfred had the money to back his claim, throwing it away in buckets during his visits. The best wines, the finest minstrels, the richest meals. Even the squalid little rooms above the Hound and Hare, rented not for a few hours but for an entire evening. Manfred was a man who did not like to be rushed in his pleasures.
He had spoken such pretty words to her, such enticing words. Manfred visited her exclusively for three months, promising to one day raise her from the squalor, to make an honest and respectable woman of her. He bought her gifts, putting some substance to his fine words. The woman had heard such fantastic stories before, from every drunken sailor and melancholy soldier she had entertained through the years. But Manfred’s stories were different, for he had made her believe. For the first time in her short, hopeless life, she had dared to hope for better things.
The woman glared hatefully at the familiar face snoring upon the pillow, his fat little hands clutched against his breast. She should have known better. Manfred’s ardour had started to cool, until at last his roving eye found a prettier face. Yes, she should have known it would end in such a manner, but the woman could not help but feel betrayed.
She leaned down over the bed, a stray beam of moonlight shining through the shuttered window revealing her pale arm and the foul, black boils that defaced it. The woman bent her head towards his slumbering face, lips parting into a hateful sneer. Slowly, she edged closer until her lips were crushed against those of the man she had so stupidly allowed herself to love. As she withdrew, the slumbering merchant sputtered, the pattern of his snoring interrupted. The woman froze for an instant, wondering if he would awaken, then her eyes narrowed, deciding she did not care. What could he do to her now? She was already dead.
Spitefully, the woman spat into the merchant’s open mouth, willing the contagion that pulsed through her body to enter her betrayer. Manfred stirred but did not awaken. With a last hateful look at him, Vira Staubkammer slipped back into the shadows. The sound of a creaking door broke through the silent darkness once more. Then the only sounds in the small room were the rumbling snores of the river merchant.
* * * * *
“Your evening was productive, excellency?” the liveried servant enquired, his arm extended to receive his master’s cloak. The first rays of dawn shone down upon the streets of Wurtbad, as the sounds of the city began to stir.
“Most productive,” his corpulent master replied, his meaty jowls lifting into a lewd grin. “Positively decadent, one might say.” He stalked past his servant, striding into the massive hall. His imperious gaze swept across the tiled floors, the marble columns and the panelled walls, secure in his knowledge that he was master of all he surveyed. “I should have been born an Arabyan sheik, Fritz, then I should not be bothered with appearances.”
“Of course, my lord,” Fritz replied, hurrying after his master. A pair of soldiers dressed in uniforms of green and white flanked the two men, following them into the enormous hall. Fritz’s master noted their approach, dismissing the two warriors with a wave of his fleshy hand.
“So tiresome, these swordsmen,” he proclaimed.
“They are only obeying their orders, my lord,” Fritz responded. “After all, it is their sworn duty to protect your person and keep you from harm.”
“Perhaps,” sighed his master. “But they are so terribly common. I should replace them with something much more daring. Some ogres from the Middle Mountains, perhaps, or a company of Sartosan pirates!” The obese figure’s laughter faded into a dry, wracking cough. Fritz hurried forward, but his master shook his concerned servant away.
“You should be more cautious,” Fritz said, his voice heavy with worry. The brothels were a breeding ground for all manner of diseases. Every time his master went abroad he courted sickness.
“It is only a trifle, Fritz,” the fat man declared. “A chill, nothing more.”
So saying, Baron Friedo von Gotz, cousin to the E
lector Count Graf Alberich Haupt-Anderssen of Stirland, governor of the city of Wurtbad and all its provinces, ascended the marble stairs, withdrawing to his chambers for a few hours of rest before the tedium of his office beset him for another day. As he departed, Fritz could hear the baron’s boots echoing upon the tile floor, the steps occasionally punctuated by the sound of coughing.
CHAPTER TWO
Cathayan silks clothed the enormous bed, its frame carved from pale Estalian wood. Its engraved surfaces depicted mermen and other fabulous beasts of the sea cavorting in a most unsettling pattern of intertwined tentacles and finned tails. Velvet drapes hung from the canopy of the bed, pulled back and bound to the pillar-like bedposts by silken cords. Sprawled amid the opulence was a gigantic mound of humanity. Silk sheets concealed his nudity, his sausage-like fingers depleting a platter of soft-skinned grapes with the rapacity of a Norse berserker in a convent. But even as he indulged his hunger, the eyes that stared from his bloated face were apprehensive, drifting helplessly across the visages of the men who surrounded him.
“Well?” Baron Friedo von Gotz demanded at last, his voice quivering in anticipation of an answer. The trio of physicians glanced toward each of their confederates, praying that one of the others would take the initiative. The aged individual hovering on the left of the bed, as feebly thin as the baron was indulgent, was the first to blink, clearing his throat with a nervous croak.
“Well,” Doktor Kleist began, seeming to parrot the baron’s uncomfortable tone. “After a careful examination, we must accept that… That they are certainly boils, your excellency.” Kleist’s hands spread outwards in a gesture of helplessness. Baron von Gotz growled and sputtered.
“Of course, there are many things that could mean, my lord,” the physician to the baron’s right hastily squeaked, trying to forestall the nobleman’s distemper. He was a bloated creature himself, as though in emulation of his aristocratic master. His girth strained at the velveteen waistcoat that encompassed his frame. Doktor Gehring felt the baron’s hopeful gaze sweep back upon him. “I should like to lance the pustules again and inspect the humor that is exuded by the wound.” The baron nearly choked on the fistful of grapes he was cramming into his face.
[Mathias Thulmann 02] - Witch Finder Page 3
