Warhammer Anthology 07

by Way of the Dead

  ‘I dislike this place,’ said Belmonde as they entered the cold shadow of the keep’s walls. ‘We should not be here.’

  Luc said nothing, urging his mount further up the path. The walls soared nearly sixty feet above him, the stonework blackened by fire and the rubble infill spilling from holes blasted long ago by Empire cannon. A shiver passed through Luc as he entered Blood Keep and though he told himself it was the cold, he only half believed it.

  They found themselves within a wide, granite-flagged courtyard, drifts of snow piled high against the walls. Wind whistled through the stables and lean-to’s around the walls, a ghostly lament to the warriors who had once occupied this place. The main keep of the fortress squatted against the sheer rock face of the mountains, its main gateway also splintered and broken. Blackened loopholes in the wall gaped like empty eye sockets and Luc could not help but feel he was being watched.

  He gently patted his horse’s flanks. The beast was exhausted and frightened. Something about this place had the beast’s hackles raised and looking round he saw that the other horses were similarly wary. His brothers moved to stand alongside him.

  Luc turned to Fontaine and smiled in triumph. ‘Blood Keep,’ he said.

  ‘What now?’ asked Belmonde, staring at the inner keep.

  ‘We find the vampires,’ answered Luc, untying his shield from his war-horse. ‘Come on.’

  His brothers shared an uneasy glance and also took up their shields, following Luc as he walked his horse towards the inner keep. Fontaine looked into the sky as Belmonde tied the horses to a broken timber spar. He couldn’t see the sun and wondered how long it would be until nightfall.

  The three brothers stood together at the gate and drew their swords.

  ‘Come, brothers,’ smiled Luc. ‘The vampires await.’

  THE DARKNESS WITHIN was absolute, as though light itself were afraid to venture too deeply. Two skeletons lay inside the gateway, slumped against the wall and still clutching rusted spears. Luc crouched before the nearest cadaver, tearing two lengths of cloth from its tattered tunic. He snapped the shaft of the dead sentinel’s spear and wrapped the cloth around one end, passing the other half and some of the cloth to Belmonde. Fontaine dug out a tinderbox and lit the dry fabric, the light from the torches illuminating the passage with a flickering glow.

  Luc set off without a backward glance, advancing down the wide corridor with his torch held before him. Murder holes pierced the ceiling and arrow loops punctuated the walls. Luc could imagine the horrific casualties the Empire knights must have suffered attacking down this hallway. The passage ended at a sharp right turn, ascending a spiral staircase into the cobwebbed darkness. Luc swapped the sword into his left hand, knowing that the turn of the stairs would prevent him from using the sword effectively in his right. He slid along the outer wall of the stairs, his weapon extended before him, having learned to use either hand with the same deadly skill.

  The knights emerged into an echoing cloister, the air musty with the stench of decay. Hundreds of skeletons littered the floor, clustered around an oaken double door, their armour rusted through and bones filmed with the dust of centuries.

  ‘Do you know where you are going?’ whispered Fontaine nervously.

  ‘Of course,’ hissed Luc. ‘To find the vampire’s lair.’

  ‘Then should we not be looking for a way down rather than up?’ said Belmonde. ‘I was led to believe that vampires would make their lairs within underground crypts and sepulchres.’

  Luc shook his head. ‘The main hall will be where we shall find these vampires. I am sure of it.’

  His brothers looked unconvinced, but Luc pressed on before they had time to contradict him, stepping carefully over the skeletal warriors towards the door at the end of the cloister. The door was splintered at its centre and he pushed it open, beckoning his brothers to follow as he slipped through into the main hall.

  Golden sunlight filtered in through high windows, partially blocked with rotted velvet drapes, revealing a long banqueting hall with a gigantic wooden table running its length. Shields and suits of blood-red armour lined the walls, below crossed lances, unlit torches and faded tapestries.

  Belmonde and Luc passed down one side of the table, Fontaine the other, lighting the torches set in the sconces as they went. Their armoured boots echoed loudly in the deserted hall.

  ‘The table is set for drinking,’ said Belmonde, nodding towards empty goblets placed before every seat.

  ‘But not eating,’ pointed out Fontaine. ‘Where are the plates?’

  ‘The vampire does not take sustenance as we do, brother,’ answered Luc.

  Fontaine grimaced and advanced towards the massive fireplace, bending his head towards the grate. He turned back to Luc and said, ‘This smells of woodsmoke, a fire has been lit here recently. And look, there is fresh-cut wood here. Why would the undead require heat?’

  Luc joined his brother at the fireplace. He shrugged. ‘I do not know, Fontaine. Perhaps other travellers have passed this way recently.’

  ‘And stopped for the night in Blood Keep?’ blurted Belmonde. ‘They must have been desperate.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Luc, watching as the thin strips of light filtering into the hall from behind the velvet drapes slowly crept across the floor as the sun descended behind the peaks. Fontaine caught Luc’s gaze and also noticed the dimming light.

  ‘Luc!’ he exclaimed, ‘the light is going! It must be later than we thought. We must leave this place!’

  ‘It may already be too late for that,’ answered Luc, hearing the rustle of dry bones from the cloister they had passed through and noticing armoured figures cloaked in shadow on the balconies above them.

  ‘Lady protect us!’ prayed Fontaine as the oaken door burst open and the previously lifeless skeletons marched relentlessly into the banqueting hall, spears and swords raised before them.

  ‘For the Lady!’ screamed Belmonde, launching himself forward, his sword smashing the first skeleton to fragments. Dust billowed around the skeletons as they attacked. Flesh and blood fought dry, withered bone, the air filling with the crack of ancient skulls and ribs. Luc hacked a skeleton apart at the waist and smashed his shield into another. Fontaine kicked the legs out from under his assailant, breaking its skull open with his boot heel. Belmonde’s sword rose and fell, the blade as much a bludgeon as a cutting weapon. The skeletal warriors were no match for the knights, but no matter how many the brothers killed, there were more to take their place.

  Slowly but surely they were forced back towards the fireplace, the shadowed figures above them silently watching the battle. Fontaine screamed in pain as a spear point stabbed into his unprotected shoulder, where the armoured plate had been torn away by the wolves. The thrust pitched him off balance and he fell to his knees. A sword smashed into his temple, tearing the helmet from his head. His vision blurred as blood streamed down his face.

  ‘Fontaine!’ shouted Belmonde as his brother struggled to rise.

  Bony fingers grasped at Fontaine’s wrists, the press of numbers preventing him from rising. He roared as the skeletons held him down, struggling to free his sword arm and kicking out desperately. He had a fleeting, horrified glimpse of a wide spear-point plunging towards him before it was rammed deep into his belly below his breastplate. It tore upwards into his heart and lungs, bursting from his back in a flood of gore. His screams trailed into a bloody gurgling as an axe split his head apart.

  Belmonde hacked his brother’s killer down, screaming a denial. Luc was at his side, sweeping aside the undead with brutal sword blows, but it was far too late for Fontaine Massone. Backs to the wall, Luc and Belmonde kept the skeletons at bay with desperate skill, tapping reserves of courage neither knew they possessed.

  As he destroyed another skeleton, Luc felt his fury building. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end! He spared a glance up at the dark balconies and the warriors watching the furious battle.

  ‘Cowards!’ he yelled as he smash
ed his dented shield into the grinning face of another opponent. ‘Where is your honour? I am Luc Massone and I slew one of your kind! I demand you come down and face me!’

  Almost as soon as he had spoken, the skeleton horde ceased their attack and took a single backward step. The hall was silent, the sudden absence of noise more unnerving than the clash of arms. Belmonde rushed to Fontaine’s side, cradling his dead brother’s head in his arms. Tears streaked clear trails in the dust coating his face.

  ‘Oh my brother, what have we done?’ he wept.

  ‘Belmonde!’ hissed Luc. ‘Stand beside me. Now!’

  His brother ignored him until Luc grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Belmonde’s face was twisted in grief, his sword held limply at his side. Luc smiled weakly at him. ‘Fear not, brother. This will all be over soon.’

  He looked towards the balconies, watching as the armoured figures slipped out of sight. The metallic rasp of armour sounded as the watchers descended to the banqueting hall, emerging from concealed alcoves either side of the fireplace.

  Three powerful warriors, clad in suits of exquisitely fashioned crimson armour stood wordlessly before the two brothers. The Blood Dragons wore no helmets, their pale, aquiline faces regarding the exhausted knights before them with expressions of faint amusement. Each carried a black bladed sword, its surface seeming to shimmer with an oily iridescence.

  The knight on the left tilted his head to one side and raised his sword.

  ‘You say you have killed a Blood Dragon?’ said the vampire. ‘You will forgive my scepticism, I hope?’

  Like a striking snake, his sword lashed out at Luc’s neck. Luc had been ready and swiftly parried, his riposte slashing towards the vampire’s groin. The Blood Dragon barely had time to react, his sword flashing down to block the blow. Fast as quicksilver, Luc altered the direction of his cut and hacked off the vampire’s head in a single, powerful sweep. The Blood Dragon toppled backwards, his body ashes before the armour hit the stone floor.

  Luc pulled his sword back to the guard position.

  ‘Anyone else?’ he asked.

  The dark haired vampire with deep violet eyes who faced Luc glanced at the empty suit of armour beside him and said, ‘You are fast and skilful for a mortal. There are few alive who could have even scratched Grigorij, let alone slain him.’

  Luc nodded. ‘My skill with a blade is great.’

  The vampire smiled. ‘Where is your humility, knight? You are arrogant.’

  ‘It is not arrogance if it is the truth,’ pointed out Luc.

  The Blood Dragon laughed. ‘Here, in this place, you are a child amongst your betters. I could kill you in a heartbeat. You cannot hope to vanquish me. Surely you must know that?’

  ‘I know that,’ nodded Luc.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ asked the vampire. ‘You have not come to slay me?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Luc as Belmonde stared at his brother in horrified fascination.

  ‘Then why?’

  Luc altered his grip on his sword and shouted, ‘Because I have come to join your order!’

  His blade slashed and blood geysered as Luc Massone spun round and beheaded his brother. Belmonde’s corpse swayed for a brief moment, then slowly crumpled to the floor, slumped across Fontaine’s lifeless body.

  Luc faced the Blood Dragon and planted the sword, point first, on the stone hearth, his face alight as he met the vampire’s stare.

  ‘The blood of innocents is on my hands and I am a warrior beyond compare. Where in the mortal world can I find my equal?’ hissed Luc. ‘I bring you this offering of my own flesh and blood as proof of my desire. I am one of you and I demand you grant me the boon of immortality!’

  Hot excitement pounded through his veins. Luc’s skin flushed red, his scar a livid white line across his face. It was done. He had reached the point where all mortal laws ceased to bind him. He would become one of the ever-living, destined never to die, destined only to become the greatest warrior of the age!

  The Blood Dragon watched the blood pump from Belmonde’s neck and raised his eyebrows in puzzlement.

  ‘Demand…’ he said as though he had never heard the word.

  ‘Aye,’ snarled Luc. ‘It is my right. I deserve this.’

  The vampire knight grinned, exposing razor sharp fangs.

  ‘Very well, you shall have what you deserve,’ he promised.

  THE VILLAGE OF Gugarde echoed to screams of pain and fear. Dark horses with red eyes carrying crimson armoured knights stalked the streets. No one had really believed the three knights boasts of defeating the vampires of Blood Keep when they had passed through the village some six months ago, but perhaps there had been tiny embers of hope stirred in a few hearts. That hope was now ashes on the wind as black armoured skeletons dragged the screaming inhabitants from their beds to the slaughter.

  The knights laughed as peasants ineffectually waved bundles of daemonroot before them. A venerable human with a rusty sword had been the only one prepared to fight, but there had been no honour in slaying one so old. The vampires would feed, but would not lower themselves to trade blows with those who were not worthy of their blades.

  Undead warriors in rusted armour stood motionless as their masters began feeding on the villagers, zombies picking themselves up from the mud as the vampires raised the newly dead to swell their ranks. Bats flapped noisily overhead as snarling wolves padded soundlessly through the village, seeking out those who had chosen to hide from the vampires. There would be no escaping the killing.

  In the walled cemetery at the village’s edge, stooped creatures hugged the shadows, scrabbling at the wet ground. Pale, blotched skin hung loosely from their emaciated frames as they dug the dead from the ground. Perhaps a dozen of the vile ghouls pawed furiously at the earth, the hunger for cold, dead flesh driving their efforts. At last the group dragged out a simple casket, the largest of the fiends wrenching the coffin lid off and howling in triumph. Clawed hands reached within, desperate for the taste of human meat, but the largest creature snarled and the rest pulled back hissing.

  It reached inside the coffin, tearing out the dead heart and ripping great chunks of rotten meat from the bones of the corpse. It scuttled to the cemetery walls to devour its horrific meal, unnatural hunger in its eyes.

  The moon emerged from behind a cloud and the degenerate beast blinked in its unforgiving glare, noticing a small shrine lying on its side where the Blood Dragon’s charge had knocked it. It stared at the shrine as a faint memory stirred, as though the sight should be familiar to it. But the memory was gone and the beast shook its head, biting deeply into the cold heart it carried and scratching idly at the long, white scar that ran from its right temple to its chin.

  THE ROAD TO DAMNATION

  by Brian Craig

  LUIS QUINTAL WATCHED admiringly as Memet Ashraf turned in the saddle and drew back his bowstring. The Arabian took aim as carefully as he could, given that his horse was at full gallop. As soon as he released the arrow the bowman turned to regain full control of his mount. It was left to Quintal to note that the arrowhead flew straight into the breast of an exceptionally ugly orc mounted on a giant boar.

  ‘One more down!’ the Estalian cried, exultantly. Then he raised a fist into the air, and said: ‘They’ve finally had enough! They’ve given up!’

  The remaining orcs were bringing their boars to a halt, and their goblin companions encouraged their wolves to do likewise.

  The two human riders reined in without delay, knowing that they had to preserve the strength of their animals. Their horses gladly slowed to a canter, and then to a walk.

  ‘They haven’t given up,’ Ashraf growled. ‘Orcs never give up. They’re playing a game. It’s a wise move - no pig, however monstrous, could outrun a horse over a short distance, but even a running man can out-stay one if he’s prepared to keep going day and night. If they don’t lose our trail they’ll catch up eventually - the orcs might be too stupid to work it out, but their g
oblin friends will put them right.’

  The ill-assorted band that had been chasing the two companions since dawn was by no means large: numbering no more than eight orcs - two of which had been killed or disabled by Ashraf’s arrows - and half a dozen goblins. But Quintal knew that he and the Arabian would soon be overwhelmed if they had to fight at close quarters. A long career as a pirate had given Ashraf a useful education in many kinds of fighting, and Quintal was unmatchable with a sabre, at least by any greenskin. However, the two men could not defend themselves against twelve mounted enemies save by a very careful war of attrition.

  ‘Surely we’re not worth that much effort?’ Quintal asked, dubiously. ‘If we were worth robbing we’d hardly be deep in the Badlands following rumours of treasure.’

  ‘That’s the kind of calculation a man would make,’ Ashraf told him, ‘but orcs think differently. Even if I hadn’t shot two, they’d still come after us. It’s not the means to an end for them: the murder of a human is an end in itself, an accomplishment worth every effort.’

  Quintal shook his head. He found it difficult to credit such an absurdity. ‘It’s not as if we are trespassing in their territory,’ he said, ‘This desert is incapable of supporting any kind of life. No orc tribe would bring its herds through here.’

  ‘That’s not a concept that all men would understand,’ Ashraf observed. ‘Estalians think in term of territorial rights, but in Araby we have more than our fair share of useless land and we are born to a life of piracy. We’re not nomads because we seek grazing for our herds; we’re predators, who must live off the herds of others. These orcs don’t care that this useless land is shunned by the majority of their kind - they’re outcasts, forced into the margins of their own society. Whatever purpose they had before they stumbled across our trail is forgotten. Now they have but one: to hunt us down. Their goblin hangers-on might give up if the task becomes too challenging, because their wolves will find it very difficult to hunt in these parts. But remember orcs and their boars can go without food, water and rest for far longer than humans and horses.’