by C. L. Werner
Makvar retaliated with another slash, this time raking the runeblade down the monster’s back. Again, there was the sizzle of steaming blood as the horror’s corrupt metabolism reacted to the purifying surge of electricity. The spawn started to round on him once more, then was struck in the leg by a blinding flare of arcane energy. He could see the head of Nagash’s staff ablaze with spectral light as the Lord of Death directed his malefic power into the monster. The beast’s leg expanded like a swelling bladder and then burst apart. Wailing in rage, the thing crumpled in a puddle of its own gore as the limb dissolved under its own weight.
The Stormcast moved in to finish the beast, yet he had underestimated its ferocious vitality. The horror reared up, supporting itself on one arm and its remaining leg. The other arm came slamming down, hurling the Lord-Celestant back as its claws scraped down his black armour, leaving deep gashes in the sigmarite plate. Makvar was tossed through the air and slammed down on his back. He felt the already weakened floor crack under his impact, heard stony fragments go clattering away into the darkness below.
As he started to rise, Makvar was struck by the charging spawn, smashed back against the floor. He felt something break inside him, a flare of pain tear through his body. Keeping hold of his runeblade, he managed to slide its edge across the mutated paw that pressed down upon him. The corrupt flesh steamed as lightning coursed through it. The Chaos spawn growled and grunted, but refused to relent. The pressure mounted. Makvar could taste his own blood in his mouth and his vision began to dim.
Before the pressure against his body could crush him utterly, the blood beast recoiled, screaming in agony. Black, nebulous strands of shadow were streaming into the thing’s body. It took Makvar a moment to realise that they were spirits – some of the trapped ghosts that infested Nachtsreik had been directed against the spawn. The monster stumbled back, unbalanced, and slammed down upon the floor. Cracks spread from its collapse. The fissure widened as the spawn writhed in torment. Its obscene flesh was expanding now, bubbling and undulating with grisly animation. Whatever the spirit hosts were doing to the brute, it was too much for its body to withstand. With a last howl of agony, the beast’s body ruptured, splashing the crypt with the spectral blood that so engorged it. The ruined scraps of mangled meat and bone crashed down against the floor, fracturing the weakened stone. A jagged hole opened beneath it and the spawn’s carcass plunged into the depths.
Makvar propped himself on one elbow as the orchestrator of the spell that had vanquished the abomination approached him. Mannfred gave the injured Stormcast an appraising look, then a smile that was reptilian in its coldness curled across the vampire’s face. Silently, he drew Gheistvor and crept towards the Lord-Celestant.
Fingers of pain still crackled through Neferata’s brain as she recovered from the sorcerous attack. If not for the intervention of Nagash, it was possible she would have been overwhelmed. She had invested too much of her powers in assaulting the Chaos warlord who had brought destruction upon her city. In her fury, she had allowed herself to lose focus, behaving like some newly turned thrall drunk on her own transcendence of mortality. That recklessness had left her hideously exposed, a weakness the invaders had been swift to exploit.
Neferata could see Huld and one of the other Stormcasts fighting a black-armoured Chaos champion. Across the crypt, Makvar and Mannfred struggled against the bloated Chaos spawn. Further still, Nagash pitted his powers against a barbaric sorceress, likely the same foe who had come so close to overwhelming the vampire queen. Nearer at hand, Brannok matched blades with a revolting warrior of Nurgle. She could see the swarm of hideous worms that spilled from the wounds the knight inflicted on his foe, a slithering horde that crawled away towards…
The worms were converging upon Lord-Castellant Vogun. He was kneeling beside a fallen Stormcast, using the light of his warding lantern to fend off the arcane infection that ravaged the knight’s body. Directing the light upon his comrade, he struggled to protect the Liberator not only from the disease within but the worms without, for the slithering tide was crawling all over Vogun. Though the things recoiled from the direct path of the celestial light, they seemed perversely drawn to it as well. The healer’s armour was slick with the wet, slimy parasites. Smoke rose from the sigmarite plate as the foul acids exuded by the vermin gradually ate away at his armour.
There was no question that Vogun was aware of his peril. Lying on the floor beside him was the corroded body of Torn. The ever-loyal gryph-hound had tried to protect his master, but without the protection of sigmarite armour, he had been overwhelmed by the slithering horde. Steam continued to rise from the animal’s pitiable remains.
Weakened as she was, Neferata seized the opportunity she saw. Vogun’s actions displayed for her in no uncertain terms the degree to which the storm-knights valued their comrades – and how favourably they would regard one who hurried to their aid. Mustering her concentration, she drew upon her magic, pointing the Staff of Pain towards Vogun and sending a wave of withering force into the parasitic worms.
It took all of Neferata’s focus to set the spell against only the worms and not the Stormcast they engulfed. Hence, she failed to note the return of an old threat until he was nearly upon her. The Chaos warlord with the plumed helm had recovered enough to make another assault against her. With both swords drawn, it seemed he had abandoned his notion of capturing her and had determined to destroy her instead.
Before the barbarian could reach her, he was intercepted by Lord Harkdron. Neferata’s lover, wounded by the warlord’s blade, dived at his enemy in a feral leap. Ferocity, however, wasn’t enough. The Slaaneshi warlord spun around, slashing Harkdron with the longer of his swords. The vampire’s armour shredded like paper beneath the keen edge and the force of the blow knocked him back among the caskets. The barbarian sneered, lips curling away from feline fangs, and turned back towards the Mortarch of Blood.
Worms continued to shrivel under the force of Neferata’s incantation. A few moments more and Vogun would be free from the parasites. Those few heartbeats would leave her exposed to the Slaaneshi warlord’s blades. Reluctantly, she realised she would have to sacrifice her ambition – and with it the Lord-Castellant. Agitated by her magic, the infuriated worms would burn their way through his weakened armour in seconds.
The dilemma was resolved for Neferata when Brannok interposed himself between the vampire queen and her foe. Hurling the severed head of the Nurglesque champion at the warlord, the Knight-Heraldor glowered at the barbarian. ‘She is under my protection,’ he declared. The leonine face dropped into a scowl of frustration, and with a roar, he lunged at Brannok.
Stormcast and Slaaneshi traded blows. Brannok’s sigmarite blade resisted the razored edge of the warlord’s long sword while his agility thwarted efforts to drive the shorter knife into his gut. A return sweep of the Anvil’s weapon cropped the plume from the warlord’s helm, leaving its wreckage to flop against the cheek-plate. The warlord snarled in wrath, his jaws distending, revealing a long forked tongue. From this organ, a viscous slime spattered across Brannok’s mask, boiling against the metal and momentarily blinding him.
Even as the warlord moved to capitalise upon the debilitation of his foe, Neferata turned towards him. Vogun was no longer threatened by the worms. Now she could direct her full attention against the fiend who had destroyed Nulahmia. A bolt of dark magic raced into his left arm, ripping through the limb in a gory discharge. Strips of armour and the deadly knife clattered away from the smoking arm.
The warlord staggered back. His gaze shifted between Neferata and Brannok, the Slaaneshi’s mind turning over the odds arrayed against him. He sketched a mocking salute with his remaining sword, then turned about and threw himself into the pit that had swallowed the blood beast’s carcass. Brannok rushed after him, but was too late to stop the warlord from leaping into the darkness.
A compulsion seized Neferata, diverting her attention away from
the pit and to the scene unfolding on the other side of it. Makvar lay sprawled on the ground with Mannfred above him. The vampire was ready to bring Gheistvor slashing down into the Lord-Celestant. Refusing to allow her schemes to be ruined, Neferata unleashed a blast of spectral force at the Mortarch of Night. The ghostly vibration was just enough to turn aside the descending blow. Instead of striking Makvar’s head, Gheistvor simply sheared through the top of his metal halo.
The respite gave Makvar the chance to retaliate. His boot kicked out, slamming into Mannfred’s knee and knocking him down. Even as the Mortarch rose to make a second attack, he found a new foe leaping towards him. Hurtling across the pit was Brannok, the shout of ‘Traitor!’ thundering from behind his mask.
Mannfred decided not to risk himself against both Brannok and the rallying Makvar. Turning, the vampire rushed at the wall behind him. Some hidden catch responded to his retreat, opening a concealed panel and revealing a hidden passage. With Brannok close behind him, the Mortarch plunged into the secret corridor. A great block of stone came slamming down from the crumbling ceiling, sending a dolorous boom rolling through the crypt and burying the doorway beneath a mess of rubble.
‘After them,’ Makvar called, trying to drive his battered body towards the mound of debris. Vogun left the recovering Liberator in order to rush to his commander’s side. Huld and the other Liberator, having finally overcome their opponent, started towards the buried door.
It was the voice of Nagash that held them back. ‘They are beyond your reach,’ he declared. ‘Even should you clear away the wreckage, Nachtsreik is such a labyrinth of dungeons and tombs that it would take you years to explore them fully. And that is if Mannfred remains in the Realm of Death. The Cromlech of Avar-Sul is not so far removed from this place. It is certain the Mortarch has some way of reaching the realmgate from here.’
‘We cannot abandon Brannok,’ Makvar protested as Vogun shone his warding lantern on him. The Lord-Celestant’s wounds, lacking the sorcerous corruption that afflicted the Liberator, responded quickly to the celestial light.
‘Lord Nagash is right,’ Huld said, turning away from the rubble. ‘It would take too long to dig our way through.’ He looked up as the castle shook once more, streams of dust rattling from the roof. ‘That is if this place holds together that long.’
‘Brannok will either achieve his purpose,’ Vogun told Makvar, ‘or he will fall and his spirit will return into Sigmar’s keeping.’
Nagash raised a fleshless talon and pointed at the quaking ceiling overhead. ‘There are more pressing concerns for us now. These assassins have led Thagmok’s army here. They have penetrated the defences Mannfred crafted for this place. Soon they will be upon us.’ The Great Necromancer raised the Mortis Blade. ‘Unless we go forth to meet them. If nothing more, we can cut the head off the serpent. The Bloodking has vexed my domain far too long already.’
Neferata could sense Makvar’s hesitation. It wasn’t fear of the Bloodking’s forces that made him reluctant to quit the crypt, but concern for his comrade. However, he was strategist enough to appreciate the uselessness of mounting a search while the enemy stormed the castle. ‘What is your plan?’ he asked Nagash.
The Lord of Death looked down at Makvar. ‘We strike at the heart of the enemy. Kill the Bloodking, and his army will loose its cohesion.’ He gestured at the pit created by the blood beast. ‘As you’ve seen, those who follow Khorne don’t react well to confusion. I will muster the spirits bound within Nachtsreik and set them against the foe. Even now, my morghasts are collecting the black stones from Mannfred’s sanctum. With those to help channel my power, I will unleash a spectral flood to terrorise our enemy and grant us the opportunity to strike.’
Neferata felt more than a tinge of suspicion as Nagash turned towards her and told her to lead the Stormcasts through the vaults and to the walls of the castle. With the eerie shifting and restructuring of Nachtsreik stifled by the Bloodking’s assault, the path before them would be straightforward enough. The Great Necromancer would linger behind for a while to perform the ritual that would summon the spirit hosts.
As she watched Nagash descend back down into Mannfred’s sanctum, Neferata wondered if he was spending all their lives simply to give himself the chance to escape. Grimly she realised that even if such were the case, she could do nothing to disobey her master.
‘Can Nagash do what he claims?’ Huld asked her when the Great Necromancer had withdrawn.
‘There are no limits to his power,’ Neferata said, keeping her reservations to herself. She turned and glowered at the hole down which the Slaaneshi warlord had plunged. Hate blazing in her eyes, she raised the Staff of Pain and exerted her power in a spell that infused new animation into the shattered skeletons littering the crypt. The restored undead lurched to their feet and shambled silently towards the hole. One by one, without protest or hesitation, the skeletons stepped across the precipice and fell down into the darkness.
‘Just in case that scum is still alive after he hits the bottom,’ Neferata told the Stormcasts. She glanced at Makvar, impressed at the speed with which he had recovered. ‘If you are fit enough, Lord-Celestant, I will lead you from this place.’
Walking to where the carcass of Torn lay, Vogun looked back and shook his head. ‘Are you certain you can find the way?’
Neferata laughed, brushing her hand across the wall. ‘Nachtsreik no longer bleeds,’ she said. ‘What blood is being spilled is outside where the Bloodbound and the skaven squabble over which of them will conquer the castle. If there is one thing upon which you may be confident, Lord-Castellant, it is that a vampire can always follow the scent of blood.’
Nagash descended into Mannfred’s tomb. Here was one place that the Mortarch of Night had guarded with such spells and wards that even the onset of the Bloodking failed to disrupt the eerie atmosphere. Of course, von Carstein was always at his most clever when devising some safeguard to ensure his own survival. It was likely the sanctum had been created not simply to protect against Chaos and the Stormcasts alone, but to protect him from the wrath of Nagash as well. The vampire was always making that mistake, overestimating his abilities.
The morghast archai formed a circle around the pedestals. At a signal from Nagash, they brought the black stones together, releasing a surge of arcane energy. The Great Necromancer let the magic flow into him, replenishing such power as he had expended in the battle and on the journey to Nachtsreik. It wasn’t much, but the Lord of Death was always wary of even the slightest weakness.
Some of the power ebbing from the stones he channelled into a telepathic sending, linking his mind to that of Arkhan. The instructions Nagash passed to his acolyte were simple enough. The Mortarch of Sacrament already knew what to do – all he waited for was the command to proceed. Now that it had been given, he would carry out his orders.
As his body seethed with dark magics, Nagash started to exert his dominion over the spirits Mannfred had bound into the walls of his refuge. In extending his awareness outward through the halls of Nachtsreik, he detected the fading essence of Lord Harkdron. The Great Necromancer lingered over the vanquished vampire’s mind.
Such a festering mire of hatred, jealousy, adoration and dependency! Neferata had done a masterful job of enslaving Harkdron, binding him to her will with such skill that the vampire wouldn’t break free of her even if given the chance. Of course, such devotion brought with it a possessiveness that would brook no competition. Foremost in Harkdron’s thoughts was the bitter fear that the Stormcasts intended to usurp his position, particularly Makvar and Brannok. Harkdron had even worked against his mistress in his efforts to sow discord between her and the Anvils.
Nagash decided he could use the hate he sensed in Harkdron. Expending a fragment of his energies, he sent a surge of necromantic power pulsing through the vampire. Into the reviving vampire’s mind, he placed an awareness of Brannok’s presence in the bleak halls of
Nachtsreik and an eldritch intuition that would lead the vengeful Harkdron straight to his prey.
When he sensed Harkdron hurrying away from the crypt to find Brannok, Nagash shifted his focus back to rousing the bound spirits. It wasn’t that he had any real doubt how a confrontation between the Knight-Heraldor and the Mortarch of Night would end, but with Harkdron taking a hand, he would make certain events proceeded as he intended them.
Chapter Fifteen
Lord-Celestant Makvar’s heart turned cold as he gazed out across the great cavern in which Mannfred had raised the fortress of Nachtsreik. From the vantage of the curtain wall, he looked out across a veritable sea of foes, a host so vast that even with the fearsome might of Nagash on their side he didn’t see any hope of victory here.
The chittering swarms of skaven that had laid siege to the fortress were thick about the walls, the rancid stink of their mangy fur and diseased flesh engulfing the castle. Clad in robes of dirty green, squeaking putrid chants and sounding rusted gongs, the congregations of plague monks worked themselves into rabid bursts of ferocity. Swinging blazing censers that seeped diseased smoke, the ratmen rushed across the cavern, hurling themselves upon the enemies that had come to contest their claim upon Nachtsreik.
The trespassers matched the skaven in both numbers and ferocity. A vast crimson horde of barbarians, howling with murderous cries, slaughtered its way across the cavern. Makvar wasn’t surprised Neferata had been able to follow the scent of blood through the castle vaults, for the Chaos army was dripping in gore. Not a weapon or piece of armour had failed to be anointed with symbols of blood, or marked with the skull-rune of Khorne.
