Lord of Undeath

by C. L. Werner

  The vampire’s eyes were open, gleaming like embers from within his ghoulish visage. A vicious smile drew pale lips away from long fangs. Around Mannfred’s body, several glassy rocks rested on the silk lining, small chips cut from the same stones resting on the pedestals. Fingers of necrotic energy extruded themselves from the rocks to vanish into the Mortarch’s body.

  Just as it had sent the emanations from the larger stones retreating back into the glassy rock, so did Huld’s celestial beacon drive the ribbons of spectral force back into the stones surrounding the vampire. The reaction was immediate. Mannfred’s smouldering eyes blazed with a fearful intensity and the coffin around him exploded into a hail of wooden splinters. The slivers flew at the Stormcasts with murderous ferocity, uncannily darting at the gaps in their armour. Makvar felt one tear into his face, missing his eye by a hairsbreadth. The other Anvils were similarly afflicted by the coffin’s explosion. Huld was thrown back, smashing against the roof of the tomb. The rays of his beacon were diverted, no longer fixed upon the dais.

  ‘So the storm-men have hunted me to my lair?’ Mannfred rose from the debris of his coffin, his body alight with necromantic power. The vampire glowered at the reeling Stormcasts. ‘You will rue the misfortune that brought you to this impasse. But you will not regret for long.’ Stretching forth his hand, the Mortarch expended the merest portion of the fell magic that saturated him.

  All across the tomb, things long dead answered the command of Mannfred. From the bases of the inhuman idols that lined the tomb, hulking monsters emerged, smashing their way out from hidden vaults. Crafted from both stone and bone, the monsters lurched towards the Stormcasts with immense khopesh swords. Secret graves beneath the floor disgorged malodorous skeletons, their armour clinging to them in strips of blackened decay. The awakened wights stole towards the intruders in a march of menacing silence. On the ceiling, the desiccated bats shrieked into hideous life. They flew after Huld, pursuing the Knight-Azyros through the tomb, preventing him from focusing the purging rays of his beacon. Out from the walls themselves a cloud of screaming apparitions manifested. The bodiless spirits surged around Vogun, striving to drown out the glow of his own warding lantern, heedless that they were being vaporised by his light.

  Makvar knew it would do no good to tell Mannfred that the Anvils had violated his sanctum not as foes but as friends. Feeling cornered and pursued, the vampire wouldn’t listen. Not while there was any fight left in him.

  The Lord-Celestant blinked away the blood dripping into his eye and brought his blade scything through the leg of the hawk-headed monster stalking towards him. Electricity crackled about his sword as he hewed through the obscene amalgam of bone and stone. Makvar swung again, tearing through the creature’s neck and sending its skull spinning into the darkness. Stubborn vitality lingered in the beast and it struck at him with one of its stony hands. Makvar fended off the stricken creature’s attack with a parry that hewed fingers from its fist. Unbalanced, the monster crashed to the floor, yet even then, its tenacious urge to kill caused it to crawl towards him.

  All across the tomb, the other Stormcasts found themselves similarly beset by undead that simply refused to be destroyed. Disembodied arms clung to ebon armour, raking at the sigmarite plates as they tried to reach the warrior within. Huge bats fell in smouldering cascades as Huld’s beacon savaged their unnatural flesh, searing away their leathery wings, but the crippled beasts struggled to return to the attack by trying to drag their mangled bodies up the walls. Vogun stood in a pool of steaming ectoplasm, the residue of the waves of spirits vanquished by his warding lantern, and still more of the spectres came flying at him. Brannok stood atop the butchered debris of a dog-headed giant, driving his sword again and again into the brute in an effort to end its ability to fight.

  The source of the fearsome persistence of the undead lay within the being who had conjured them from the shadows. Mannfred von Carstein exerted his infernal magic, evoking a grisly entity from the ghastly energies that saturated his sanctum. Billowing shadows spilled from the black stones that surrounded the vampire’s sepulchre, converging in a mass of darkness. From the darkness a monstrous creature prostrated itself before the Mortarch. It was a beast with obsidian claws, a bat-like head and long, blade-tipped tail. Like the dread abyssals that served Neferata and Arkhan, the morbid energies of enslaved spirits coursed through the monster’s skeletal body, though those bound into Mannfred’s steed burned with a hellish crimson light and worked their fleshless jaws in silent screams of endless agony.

  Mannfred wrapped his arm about the stony neck of his steed and swung himself up onto the creature’s back. Ashigaroth, Gorger of the Meek, reared back as its master mounted it, huge claws pawing at the air. Ghostly wisps flew about the abyssal, swiftly growing from simple glowing orbs into shrieking phantoms that shot out across the sanctum to set upon the Stormcasts. The vampire howled in fury when he saw the first of the ghosts steam away as they were caught in the rays of Vogun’s warding lantern. Vindictively, he exerted his powers, summoning more of the spirits from the very walls, driving them to overwhelm the Anvils and suffocate them in a veritable fog of death.

  Leaping over the dismembered bulk of his stony attacker, Makvar rushed towards Ashigaroth. As he ran, the Lord-Celestant spun the weighted length of his warcloak, hurling a shower of crackling sigmarite hammers at the abyssal steed and the Mortarch riding it. The electrical assault sizzled against the shield of protective magic Mannfred had woven around himself, but he had had no time to similarly protect Ashigaroth. The monster shrieked in distress as chips of obsidian flew from its grisly frame and crimson spectres were extinguished by the flying hammers. For an instant, Mannfred’s attention was diverted from the Anvils as he quieted his mount.

  Makvar lunged towards the Mortarch as he tried to recover. His runeblade crackled with violence as he brought it sweeping up at the vampire. The sword glanced from Mannfred’s enchanted plate, an icy shiver flowing through the sigmarite tang as the armour’s foul energies pulsed into Makvar’s arm. The Stormcast fought the sensation and thrust his weapon at his foe’s breast. This time, the blow was fended off not by the ensorcelled armour that guarded the Mortarch but by the murderous length of the vampire’s own sword, the cursed blade Gheistvor.

  ‘You dare to touch me, storm-spawn!’ Mannfred snarled. Ashigaroth spun about, striking out with a claw that flung Makvar away from its master, throwing the Lord-Celestant back as though he were a child. Gnashing his fangs, von Carstein charged his steed at his reeling foe. Narrowly, Makvar brought his runeblade up in time to catch the downward sweep of Gheistvor. The impact of the thwarted strike knocked him to his knees.

  Makvar could hear some of the other Anvils cry out in alarm, redoubling their efforts to fight through Mannfred’s spectral host to relieve their beleaguered leader. The vampire reacted to their alarm by conjuring still more spirits from the walls, then returned his attention to the Lord-Celestant. The Mortarch glared down at him, his face twisting into an expression of feral exuberance. The vampire took great delight in butchering the helpless.

  ‘Tell Sigmar to send better hunters if he would contest my power,’ Mannfred jeered as he slammed his foot into Makvar’s chest, spilling the Lord-Celestant onto the floor. Like a huge wolf, Ashigaroth pounced towards the Stormcast, eager to feed upon helpless prey. Makvar rolled aside, the claws of Ashigaroth raking sparks from the ground as they scraped across the tiles. Before Mannfred or his steed could react, Makvar rolled back, catching Ashigaroth’s claw a resounding blow with his runeblade. Lightning crackled through the undead beast, causing it to jounce back in a fit of agitation. The vampire’s body likewise crackled with searing energy, his magic armour unable to fend off the reverberations flowing into him from his mount.

  With a howl of outrage, Mannfred jumped from Ashigaroth’s back and fell upon Makvar. The vampire’s boot smashed down upon the knight’s arm, pinning it and the runeblade it held against
the floor. His other foot came kicking into the Stormcast’s face with such force that a mortal man’s neck would have snapped like a twig. As it was, the mask of Makvar’s helm was dented by the impact, breaking teeth as it was driven back into his jaw.

  Before Mannfred could attack again, the brilliance of Huld’s beacon shone down upon him. The vampire flinched as the purifying light struck him, but it wasn’t the light that hurt him. Glaring down at Makvar, his face became livid with rage as he realised what had happened. Just as the Mortarch had laid a trap that would exploit the qualities of his enemies, so Makvar had baited his own pride and arrogance. In provoking Mannfred’s ire, he had distracted him from the larger fight raging around them. The enhanced ferocity and stamina he had been directing into his undead minions had relaxed, allowing the other Stormcasts respite from the vampire’s spirit hosts.

  Vengefully, Mannfred stretched forth his hand. Makvar could feel the necromantic power leaching into him, slithering under his armour to sap the life from him. If the vampire was to know defeat, then he would at least claim Makvar before he fell.

  Before darkness could close around Makvar, a searing voice hissed through the tomb. ‘The man is mine.’

  The pressure upon Makvar’s arm vanished as Mannfred was thrown back, cast aside by some unseen force. The draining magic that had plagued the Lord-Celestant’s veins dissipated, exorcised from him with such abruptness that the rush of his restored vitality was like fire raging within his flesh. The sounds of battle within the tomb fell silent.

  It wasn’t hate but fear that now gripped Mannfred’s features when Makvar looked at the vampire. He didn’t need to guess why. He could feel the awesome presence that descended into the sanctum, the orchestrator of the words that had brought him reprieve from a sorcerous death.

  Aglow with a power that made even Mannfred’s exalted strength pathetic in comparison, Nagash walked towards his errant Mortarch.

  The Great Necromancer could feel the terror that pounded inside Mannfred’s chest. The Mortarch of Night had gambled much on his excursion into the Realm of Beasts. He had thought he could free himself of his master, thought he could rebuild his power somewhere beyond Nagash’s reach. Forced back into the Realm of Death, he had thought himself safe within Nachtsreik, thought he could restore his powers by steeping himself in the energies of his sanctum.

  Now, Mannfred was learning the foolishness of such thoughts. Humility wasn’t something with which the Mortarch was familiar. Every so often, it became necessary to remind him that there were powers mightier than himself. Powers before which he must make obeisance.

  At a gesture from his skeletal claw, Nagash dispelled the withering enchantment with which Mannfred beset Makvar. A glance was enough to break the arcane bonds that animated the vampire’s guardians, causing them to collapse in heaps of bleached bone. A gesture sent Ashigaroth back into the shadows, banishing the dread abyssal’s corporeal manifestation. The Mortarch of Night was among the most powerful adepts to practise the profane art of necromancy to have ever existed, but Nagash was the father of that foul strain of magic, and there many were secrets about the art known only to himself.

  It was amusing to see Mannfred retreat from his intended victim. He cringed away like some frightened animal, falling back towards the raised dais where his sepulchre had stood. The display of fright wasn’t entirely genuine, but seldom was anything the Mortarch did. He retreated because he thought to draw upon the power with which he had saturated himself, to harness it for one final effort of defiance.

  Nagash allowed Mannfred to pull back, letting him reach the very cusp of his objective. Then an unspoken command gripped the vampire, freezing him in place as though he had been caught in a basilisk’s stare. At the last, he betrayed himself, darting a quick, longing look at the pedestals and the glassy black stones resting upon them. He even tried to cry out to them with his sorcery and draw their energy to him. It needed only the slightest exertion of his own will for Nagash to crush Mannfred’s last flicker of rebellion.

  ‘On your knees before your master, little one,’ Nagash hissed at the Mortarch. A wave of his fleshless hand had Mannfred bowing before him, as abased and servile as any serf. Only the Lord of Death could sense the resentment buried deep within him, locked away in the blackest reaches of the vampire’s essence.

  The Great Necromancer turned towards Makvar, waiting while the Stormcasts’ commander picked himself off the floor. The other Anvils were drawing close to their leader, closing ranks around him in a remarkable display of fidelity and courage. They were battered and bloodied from their contest with Mannfred, but none had fallen in the fighting.

  ‘You must make allowances for my vassal,’ Nagash said. ‘It is not long ago that he came slinking back to his old haunts to lock himself away in this sanctum. Rousing him so abruptly from his repose has brought out the worst of him. He is somewhat of a kindred spirit to the vermin that besiege his castle, and like any cornered rat, it is in his lair that his bite is at its worst.’

  ‘These warriors are kindred to those who strove for my life in the Realm of Beasts,’ Mannfred warned his master. ‘The Hallowed Knights thwarted my ambition to build a refuge for you…’

  Nagash glared down at the vampire. ‘The Realm of Death is mine,’ he hissed. ‘No power will take from me what is mine.’ He pointed a talon at the black stones. ‘You thought you could steal from me, but all you have done is because I have allowed it.’ Sweeping out from the darkness, the morghast archai answered the Great Necromancer’s command. The winged skeletons descended upon the pedestals and the wreckage of Mannfred’s sepulchre, poised about the glassy stones. ‘If there are yet any wards guarding what is mine, you had best dismiss them,’ he warned the Mortarch.

  ‘I was keeping them safe for you, Master,’ Mannfred claimed as he dispelled the magic protecting the pedestals. ‘It would have been calamitous if the enemy seized them.’

  Makvar rose to Mannfred’s bait, suspicion in his tone as he addressed Nagash. ‘What are these stones? They seem similar to the Obelisk of Black and the relics from Mephitt.’

  Holding forth one of his bony talons, Nagash called one of the smaller stones to him, the object rising from the debris of Mannfred’s coffin to fly into his outstretched hand. As it came into contact with him, he could feel the spectral energies coursing through his malignant spirit. ‘They are vessels,’ he told the Stormcasts, ‘prisms through which the power of necromancy can be magnified. With these, I can raise the legions Sigmar will need for his war.’

  A look of shock gripped Mannfred’s face. ‘You have joined forces with Sigmar? Have you forgotten the God-King’s treachery so soon? Do you not understand it was his knights who fought against me!’

  Nagash silenced the Mortarch with a wave of his hand. ‘We share a common foe and a common purpose. Chaos must be vanquished. It must be expunged from all the Mortal Realms. Archaon will be made to account for his manifold atrocities. The gate of Gothizzar will be cleansed of its defilers. This is my command.’ He turned back towards Makvar. ‘There is your answer, Lord-Celestant. The Realm of Death will fight beside the Realm Celestial once more.’

  Veiled in the sorcery of Molchinte, Lascilion watched from the darkness of the crypt, his pulse racing as he beheld once again the sinister beauty of the vampire queen. The frustration of his defeat in Nulahmia was smothered beneath the fiery ardour that blazed within him. She would be his.

  ‘There are others in the chamber below,’ Molchinte told the three champions who shared her arcane protection. ‘Bide your time. Wait for them to return. Don’t underestimate them.’

  Lascilion kept his eyes on Neferata, watching her as she conferred with the vampire knights who attended her. Their crimson armour made a stark contrast to the black plate worn by the lightning-men. Three of the celestial warriors patrolled the crypt, striding across the debris of destroyed skeletons, bows clenched in their fists. The warlo
rd knew from past experience how formidable these lightning-men were. None of them had the look of command about them, however, so he judged that the leaders must be in the vault below.

  The Lord of Slaanesh plucked the enticing scent of Neferata’s sadistic soul from the air, savouring it like a delicacy. The intoxicating sensation flowed through him, striking into the deepest recesses of his being. Nowhere had he ever found a spirit as cruel and inventive as his own. Never would he find such a spirit again. The vampire queen would open a new world of wonder for him, allowing him to revisit old delights and old outrages anew, to rekindle his jaded passions by dint of simply being there to share in them.

  Patience! Lascilion had denied himself far too long. He recognised that Molchinte wanted the leaders of the lightning-men to offer themselves before springing their ambush. It was sound strategy, to have all of one’s enemies in a single place. But he also knew the vagaries of battle. She was concerned with eliminating the leaders. His ambition was to capture Neferata. He had a good chance to achieve his purpose right now. That opportunity might not be there when the rest of the lightning-men came back.

  Lascilion forced himself to draw his gaze away from Neferata long enough to look at his companions. Alghor and Orbleth were both watching the sentries, Molchinte was focussed on the steps leading below. None of them were paying any attention to him.