Moroi turned on the heckler. “A killer,” he said coldly. “I make no claims to its origins.”
“Don’t lie to us, witch hunter!” someone else called, disgustedly. “We aren’t children!”
With so few immortal dead still plaguing the living it had been a long time since Moroi had gathered a vampire hunt. He was ashamed to admit that he had missed the thrill. The hunt itself was a familiar thing, but the old passions that accompanied it were addictive. He had forgotten just how much so. Moroi waited out the shouts. “The creature has a lair beneath the Alt Stadt, though I believe the Strigany are protecting it.”
“Then we make them surrender the beast!”
“And if they don’t?” Moroi asked, barely above a whisper. He didn’t need to shout. His words carried to every man and woman in the crowd. “What are we prepared to do?”
“Burn them!”
“Kill them all!”
Moroi shook his head. “No, for then you would become worse than the beast. It kills to live whereas you would be killing out of retribution.”
“Smoke it out!”
“Make them surrender the beast!”
“Are you prepared to die?” Moroi asked. That silenced them. He looked at them, studying the rows of faces, the hunger in them and the potential for hurt. The difference between the savage and the civilised was whisper thin. It sickened him, and yet he needed them fired up, righteous and angry. Anything else and they would die before nightfall.
A low susurrus of fear whispered through them.
“Good,” Moroi said. “You should be frightened. This is no game. There is no guarantee that the man beside you will be there tomorrow. You might be faced with a friend, tainted by the beast, forced to ram a stake through his heart and cut his head from his shoulders. Will you be capable of doing that? He won’t be your friend anymore. Your friend will be long gone, but the beast will wear his skin. It is unnerving, but the daemons ever were creatures for turning our worst fears in upon us, were they not?”
Feet shuffled uncomfortably. The witch hunter knew he was losing them. They didn’t want to hear about mortality. They wanted rousing words to fire their blood along with promises of glory and a great story to tell around the fire in the taproom, of the day they hunted and slew a vampire in their home town. He could not give that to them. He couldn’t feed them full of lies and send them unprepared into a fight that could well spell their deaths. He wanted them to know that it wasn’t glamorous. He wanted them to know that heroes died as easily as villains outside of the storybooks.
“So if you can live with the truth, that should we fail, your friend could rise again as your mortal enemy, corrupted in death, then stand with me. We hunt the beast at its strongest, at night. Why? For fear that if we don’t more good people will die. I cannot have another woman like Kathe stain my conscience, because now, by acting, by standing up, I could stop it. So I will hunt the beast at night. I will bring it down when it is at its strongest. I will, because in this I am the hammer of Sigmar made flesh. If I walk alone, so be it. If you stand at my side, do so knowing the truth: the beast is lethal, a killer. What we are about to do out of need, it does because of its nature. Ten of us alone might not be sufficient to restrain the beast. It is strong, and it is cunning. It is old—who knows how old—for it has outlived others of its kind, those that fell with the von Carstein hordes. It is a survivor, and that makes it all the more dangerous. But we must try, or else tomorrow it could be your wife, your daughter that we are burying beneath your rose garden. Or worse, you might wake in the morning to a loving kiss mere moments before the beast that was your lover tears your throat out with her teeth. Is that a kiss you would have?”
He stepped down from the crate.
There were no cheers. His words had subdued them, and had thinned their number by half, as those not prepared to die had moved away unnoticed. This did not surprise him. Few would willingly risk death, but it was those few who remained, resolute.
He stepped aside, nodding to Vamburg. This was where his companion excelled, whipping up the crowd with rousing words after he had delivered his dire warnings.
Arminus Vamburg stepped up onto the crate and raised his arms for silence. The gesture was redundant. No one was talking. We know little of the beast itself save that it is wounded. We know nothing of its origins or bloodline. This means we know nothing of its strengths. What we do know is that the creature walks as a man though it is capable of shifting form. Last night we witnessed its metamorphosis into a dire wolf Moroi nodded.
“It is, without doubt, deadly in both forms. But we are not helpless. Moroi has a gift, a boon from Sigmar himself. Such evil as this is repugnant to his blood. His body rebels at the presence of the abomination. What this means is that he can sense its approach. It cannot sense his. This is our advantage.
“We can lay a trap for the beast. It can be caged. It can be wounded, but most importantly it can be killed. It is not immortal. Anything that died once can die twice. It has had practice,” he said wryly. “Last night Moroi put a crossbow bolt in the fiend’s hide, but that does not mean it will be weakened. They have remarkable regenerative qualities. For all we know it could be healed already.
“When you encounter the beast, do not look it in the eye; it has the power to turn your mind against you, leaving you powerless to resist. Do not for a minute doubt me. I have seen grown men overpowered, turned into thralls to these fiends. No man deserves that fate.
“There are several ways it can die. Mark these well. If you get close enough, a stake of wood through the heart, or decapitating the beast will end its life. Dismemberment will slow if not outright kill the vampire. Fire will shield you. A vampire, even the strongest of its kind, fears the destructive power of flame.” Vamburg lapsed into silence. He had warned them, there was nothing else he could do.
He stepped down from the crate and stood beside Moroi. Together, they marched through the dark streets in search of the Strigany caravan, fifty men of Nuln following in their wake, torches blazing, makeshift weapons burnished in their light.
They walked silently, determined.
The beast sheltered by the Strigany would die.
THE BLACK SHIP
III
Landfall
The black ship made landfall deep in the blighted heart of Sylvania, resting finally in the shadow of the Vampire Count’s castle: Drakenhof.
The taint of its past was almost tangible.
Mannfred stood on the deck and breathed deeply of it, savouring the not so sweet air of home.
Home. It was an alien concept but, of all the places in the world, the old castle was as much a part of who he was and his heritage as anywhere else in the world. To look at it, the fortress was like some huge leering gargoyle perched high on the mountaintop. Black specks swarmed around the highest tower, circling ceaselessly. Vlad’s precious birds: the same birds that had helped drive Konrad insane. From here the windows in the towers and turrets were blind and the rooftops indistinguishable from level to level, all save one: the Raven Tower, by far the highest point of Drakenhof. Clouds thickened overhead, obscuring the waxing moon. Mannfred watched awhile as the shapes lost definition, coalescing into one giant shadow daemon. It was a fitting image.
There were, he saw, after a moment, lamps burning in some of the castle’s higher windows. No doubt his servants were making ready for his return. A black brougham coach waited by the jetty, the von Carstein family crest emblazoned on its door. Four horses, splendid beasts, coal black, steam curling from their nostrils, drew the coach. The coachman sat unmoving, cloak drawn up over his head so that his face was lost completely in black shadow. The man was utterly still.
“Denn die todten reiten schnell,” the steerman beside him said, and it was obviously the truth: the dead did travel fast.
Mannfred waited as the crew lowered the boarding ramps, heaving the huge baseboards into place. They settled with a resounding thunk. Black birds circled overhead, cawing an
d crowing as four pale-skinned and slack-faced sailors unloaded his coffin. They carried it between them, loading it onto the brougham. More listless sailors dragged the prisoners down the gangplank. Their chains rattled as they shuffled forwards. Mannfred pointed at one of the men, curling his finger in summons. Two sailors pulled him out of the line and dragged him over to the vampire. The man’s hair was a mess of grease and knots, his beard grown through in patches, but his eyes retained the vitality Mannfred liked so much. The man was still very much alive. He looked up at the Vampire Count, opening his mouth to beg. Mannfred silenced him with a back handed slap that snapped his neck back, broken.
“Very good.”
The sailors held the man, his head lolling uselessly on his neck, while Mannfred slipped the small black iron razor-cuff over his right thumb. He drew the blade across the man’s throat, opening the jugular in a bubble of arterial blood, but with the heart stilled there was no spray. He drank until sated, and then disposed of the corpse over the side.
The dead man floated.
Mannfred watched as the first raven settled on the corpse. A second and third joined it.
In the shade beyond the brougham coach he saw the hulking forms of three dire wolves—his welcoming party from the castle, no doubt. He had expected more, as was fitting for a lord’s return.
He was in no hurry to go down to join them.
It was enough that he was coming home.
Gathering the oilskin-wrapped bundle, Mannfred disembarked. At the bottom of the gangplank he turned to the captain. “My thanks,” Mannfred said. “Your ship and crew are returned to you, as promised.”
The old sailor didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. Mannfred had cut his tongue out six days into their journey together.
Mannfred strode over to the coach. The driver dismounted, coming around to open the door. He held a storm lantern in his hand.
Mannfred reached inside and laid the bundle on the red leather banquette. He turned, sensing the approach of the wolves. All three lay supine at his feet. He smiled at their subservience and gestured curtly for them to rise. They bowed their heads to him, noses pressed into the dirt, and turned, loping away. A moment later the night filled with the mournful sound of a wolf howling at the moon.
The last of the black ship’s crewmen moved quickly up the gangplank. In a matter of moments the deck became a swarm of movement. One man spider-climbed the rigging as another hoisted the main brace while two more tied off guide ropes. The captain stood at the wheel. Mannfred fancied he could see the hate burning in the man’s eyes.
Mannfred held out his hand for the lantern, but instead of taking it he allowed it to fall to the floor, glass shattering, flames rising as the air rushed in to feed them.
He lowered his hand into the heart of the fire, and uttered four short words never intended for human tongues.
The flames appeared to meld with his skin, not burning him, but somehow becoming a part of him. He held his hand before his face, marvelling at the chaotic dance of the fire. A fire sprite arced from his fingertips, crackling through the air until it touched the black cloth of the main sail, burning it. Around Mannfred the air reeked of ozone. Around the sailors on the black ship the air stank of charcoal and burning cloth as first the main sail and then the mast ignited.
Cries went up.
The crewmen ran for pails of water to douse the blaze. Mannfred placed his hands together, allowing the flame from one to consume the other. The fire grew in intensity and purpose. Scarcely audible, he repeated the incantation with a vehemence that was staggering. As the last word tripped off his tongue he drew his hands apart, creating twin balls of flame. Both quickly gathered size and substance until he cast them off, two great balls of fire hurled at the belly of the black ship. The air snapped and cackled around his head as the flames streaked like a twin-tailed comet across the night sky.
They hit the barque in a deafening roar. The beams and decking of the black ship buckled, timber splintered away from the seams, and the very belly of the barque collapsed beneath the explosive force of the detonation. Flames engulfed the ship.
The heat from the conflagration was awesome.
A sailor fell from the rigging, dead before he hit the deck. Another threw himself into the Reik, falling ablaze. His arms windmilled frantically. His screams didn’t stop as he hit the water. The captain clasped the wheel, unmoving even as the flames crawled up his legs. He was the one person who couldn’t scream.
The lantern burned itself out, but the ship burned on.
Satisfied there would be no survivors, Mannfred turned his back on the burning ship and climbed into the brougham. He rapped on the ceiling and the carriage lurched forwards.
The black coach’s departure for Drakenhof was heralded by the shrieks and caws of carrion crows.
Finally he was going home to claim what was rightfully his by birthright, by strength, by cunning and by grand design: his inheritance, his dominion.
Mannfred interlaced his fingers behind his head, and leaned back. He listened to the birds. They were calling his name. Over and over: Mannfred is coming! Mannfred is coming!
His choice of messenger amused him. The ravens were thought by the superstitious to be psychopomps, conductors of souls into Morr’s Underworld—birds of ill omen, most certainly. It entertained him to imagine the birds being responsible for guiding him home, warning the living of his return and summoning the dead to fight by his side.
Mannfred reached down for the rag-wrapped bundle on the seat beside him. He felt its pulse through the oilskin as he laid his hand flat on it. The sheer power of the binding coursed the length of his arm as his fingertips felt out the embossed mark on its skin. The thing possessed a repulsive life of its own. He smiled coldly. He knew the origins of the mark without needing to see it. It was the sigil of the greatest of the liche lords—Nagash.
He closed his eyes, enjoying the gentle soothing motion of the coach on the road. The coach rolled on into the night, through the valleys of shadow and despair.
Shadows coiled around the brougham’s wheels, reaching out to snare the coach, but the wheels rolled on and the shadows blew away to nothing.
Mannfred dreamed of the dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
Black Isabella
Drakenhof, The Dark Heart of the Kingdom of the Dead
The brougham coach slowed to a standstill.
The castle was a dark god on the horizon, a sanctuary for mourning souls. Its broken battlements showed a jagged line against the backdrop of the night sky. Mannfred stared. There was a forest where once there had been an empty plain, though there were no ordinary trees in this forest. Mannfred opened the door and climbed out of the coach. He walked slowly towards the first of the “trees”. It was a man, or had been. Most of its flesh had been picked clean by Vlad’s ravens. The corpse had been impaled on a huge stake, driven up from below and long enough to pierce the dead man’s jaw, pinning him upright in death like some macabre scarecrow. It was a forest of the impaled. The bone trees were planted thickly, no more than six feet between them. There must have been five hundred, more.
The ravens settled on the yellowed skulls, picking away at worms of flesh they had yet to strip.
Mannfred walked through the bone forest. His fingers trailed across the corpses, brushing up against the dead. There were women and children amongst them. Death was indiscriminate. That, and the lights burning in the castle windows, angered the vampire. He hadn’t sanctioned the slaughter of his cattle.
He took the skull of one of the impaled in his hands, leaning forwards to press his forehead against it. He closed his eyes and began to whisper, breathing the words of invocation, pressing the bones harder until they buckled and snapped, demanding the spirit of the dead man return to face him, to explain. The vanquished had no wish to return. The spirit resisted his summons, fighting, but Mannfred was strong, stronger than the dead. He tore down the veil between the two realms, drawing the man back until his lifefor
ce was trapped once more within his bones. His screams as the pain returned were terrible to behold. Mannfred refused to release him despite his pleading.
“Speak to me,” Mannfred commanded.
The skull shivered in his hands, the jaw working, grinding on the gristle where the flesh and muscle had been rendered down to fat. No sounds emerged.
“I said speak!”
Black Isabella, the dead sighed: a name, an explanation.
“More. What happened here? You will not know rest and there will be no surcease, until you explain.”
A woman… they call her Nadasdy… she is mistress of the castle. She bathes in the blood of the young… she feeds… we came against her… we few… from the city below… we came at night, fools that we were… when her kind is strongest… we came with torches and pitchforks to fight a daemon… we failed… this is our punishment… our reward… I know no rest. I hurt!
“She did this to you? A woman? There are hundreds of you.”
It was… slaughter… she fed on us… drank our blood… I… I… watched my son… die… watched them drive the stake into him… Was forced to hear his screams because he would not die… I tore my own ears off… in desperation…but still I heard him… His screams… Hers was the last name on his lips…Nadasdy… not his mother’s name… not his god’s… the bitch who took… his life.
Mannfred released his hold on the bones, in turn relinquishing his grip on the man’s spirit. The dead man’s jaw hung slackly, the wooden spike the only thing preventing it from coming away from the rest of the skull. The spirit was gone, fled back to the comfort of death.
Nadasdy; he did not know the name, but that meant nothing. It could easily be a bastard child of Konrad, a get left to rule the roost when her sire was slain. He was not his companion’s keeper. He did not know every wench he had suckled on in his madness. It mattered little. This Black Isabella would learn what it meant to cross him.
[Von Carstein 03] - Retribution Page 8
