by C. L. Werner
A great shout rose from Mandred’s army. He could feel the ground shudder under his feet as thousands of soldiers followed their commander up onto the broken sea of stone. They knew the enemy was waiting for them, that theirs was to be the most dangerous and vital role in the battle, yet they marched boldly into the battle knowing that their leader, the valiant Graf Mandred, marched with them. Mandred asked none of them to brave danger that he shunned for himself, demanded no risk greater than his own.
Behind them, the soldiers left the archers and cavalry, the artillery and the whole of their camp. They had their own part to play in the battle, but first the infantry must spring the skaven trap.
Mandred would see that trap turned in upon itself, that it might catch the hunters instead of the prey.
Either way, the Howling Hills would soon become the greatest graveyard in the Old World. For man or ratkin was the matter that remained in question. And upon the answer rested the fate of the whole Empire.
Sylvania, 1123
From the shadows of the forest, eyes burning with hate studied the silent battlements of Vanhaldenschlosse. The fortress was as still as the tomb. For a year there had been no sign of life within its grim halls, yet such was the terrifying aura that clung to the name of the place that even the boldest grave-robber had shunned it like the plague. Even in death, the power of Vanhal held Sylvania in a grip of fear.
A withered hand clenched into a bony fist. All the world believed Vanhal dead, slain at the Battle of Fellwald by the skaven. Only one soul in all creation knew better, knew the venomous intellect that even now reposed upon his skeletal chair replenishing his arcane power.
Vanhal was so confident in that power, so arrogant in his mastery of the black arts that he had become dismissive of any rival. So far above any other sorcerer or warlock was he that he allowed himself to forget that these too were wielders of magical power. In orchestrating the humiliating destruction of his apprentice, he had ignored the fact that Lothar von Diehl was a necromancer in his own right.
It had taken every reserve of magic he could call upon to stave off death when the fangs of Nekrot ripped into his flesh, but Lothar had survived. He had dragged himself from the field of battle, hidden himself in a place so benighted and forsaken that even the skaven couldn’t find him. There, over the long months, he had nursed the embers of life clinging to his ravaged body into a blazing furnace of hate.
The filthy peasant had left him for dead. Now Frederick van Hal would rue that mistake. He would discover in his last moments that whatever power he could command, Lothar von Diehl was still better than him. Nobility would always be superior to base-born scum.
Lothar pictured his hated mentor ensconced upon a throne of skulls. In his memory, he retraced the corridors, re-walked the stairs that climbed to Vanhal’s sanctum. Every step, every turn, was etched indelibly upon his memory.
The necromancer raised his withered claw, making sorcerous passes he had studied in the profane pages of De Arcanis Kadon. The tome had brought him to Vanhal, elevated him from a mere dabbler in the occult to a true practitioner of the black arts. Vanhal had expanded his own power with the eldritch knowledge of Kadon, had profited greatly by the forbidden secrets. Now that profit was at an end. Now Vanhal would become a victim of the very spells he had plundered from the shadows of Mourkain.
The grisly thing standing beside Lothar shuddered into a semblance of life as the necromancer’s magic saturated its decayed flesh and corrupt bones. The Voivode of Sylvania, the merciless Count Malbork von Drak. Lothar had found the nobleman’s corpse lodged under the roots of an old oak tree. Some vindictive foe had torn open the tyrant’s chest and removed his black heart.
It was inconsequential. Malbork’s body didn’t need a heart to respond to his commands. Malbork’s spirit didn’t need a heart to whisper its secrets in the necromancer’s ear. Through the reanimated husk of the voivode, Lothar had acquired what he needed: the weapon that would spell Vanhal’s doom.
Lothar pointed to the massive lead casket resting on the ground beside him. As a living man, it had been necessary for Lothar to remove the sacred chains and holy seals with which the Verenan priesthood had protected the casket. That was as far as he would go, however. What was within the box was reputed to be so deadly that the slightest brush against it was to invite death. No, it was not for the necromancer to tempt fate. That was the duty of his undead slave.
Dutifully, as when claiming the casket from the vaults beneath Castle Drakenhof, the zombified carcass of Malbork von Drak bent down and fumbled at the catches. It took the creature some time, but at last its rotting fingers threw back the slide. A mephitic vapour vented into the air as the lid was thrown back. Inside, wrapped round with the mouldering shreds of a holy tapestry, was a wicked blade of blackened metal, not iron or steel, but some infernal ore that exuded a foul atmosphere of malice.
Even before he’d acquired De Arcanis Kadon, Lothar had known of this sword. His grandfather had tried to bribe a lay priest at the temple to steal it, but the thief was discovered by the inquisitors before he could make good his crime. According to his grandfather’s notes, the sword was enchanted, endowed with the most murderous magic ever conceived by man. So steeped in death was this sword that it would drain the life from the very hand that wielded it.
This was the magic he would pit against Vanhal. Lothar knew all the secrets of the fortress, all the traps that lay in wait for the unwary. It would be almost as easy as murdering his father in the family castle.
A snap of his bony fingers sent Lothar’s slave shambling off, the black blade clenched in its decayed fist. Malbork staggered at first, but Lothar infused him with greater energy, conjuring the very same incantation Vanhal had termed his ‘Danse Macabre’. With firmer step, guided by the terrible resolve of its master, the zombie marched into the haunted halls of Vanhaldenschlosse.
The dark fog of dream and nightmare bound itself about the essence of Vanhal. Each pulsation of aethyric power brought with it new images of might and horror. He could see great vistas of desert oblivion, awesome obelisks and titanic temples lying shattered and forlorn in the drifting sand. The phantoms of a thousand yesterdays distilled into a single moment of terror, the gestalt scream of a murdered world its echoes rippling across all the tomorrows that might ever be.
Amid the panoply of death there was the silence and serenity of the eternal. Pain, suffering, the slow decay of toil, the cruel deceit of hope, the malign mockery of achievement, the ceaseless pursuit of wealth – these were abolished, exterminated to plague man no more. Nothing was left but the peace of oblivion.
Vanhal winced as shadows drifted through his soul. He felt the presence of others, others beyond that black fire which blazed within the core of his being. They were faint, fleeting shapes, faces almost half-forgotten: a man, a woman and a child. They beckoned to him with desperate severity, crying out to him. They did not beg for themselves. They begged for the man who had been Frederick van Hal.
Agony erupted through Vanhal’s wizened body. He could feel the poisoned blade being thrust through the back of his throne, breaking his spine as it gouged its way sideways to skewer his heart and crack his ribs. When he opened his eyes, he could see the black tip of the blade protruding from his chest, his blood steaming upon its corrosive edge.
He knew that blade. Something inside him knew the searing pain, recalled it with cold and merciless memory. There was a cruel, terrifying irony that this blade should have endured from the age of antiquity, survived to again play such a part. Even the magic of a god was unequal to the loathsome magics that had been infused into the assassin’s sword. It was the very finger of Death itself.
Vanhal could hear the spectres in his mind crying out to him, striving so hard to bear his spirit away with them. Ghostly tears fell from the woman’s eyes. Almost he could put a name to her. Anya? Alyssa? She had been important to him. Once.
&nbs
p; Invoking the last of his sorcery, the necromancer forced his cold flesh to move, to turn his head and face his killer. The assassin already lay upon the floor, the husk that had been Malbork von Drak was rapidly decaying into a pool of corruption. Vanhal could sense the ribbons of magic yet clinging to the corroding zombie, a familiar pattern that lent fresh vigour to his fading spirit. The flame of vengeance banished the beckoning wraiths, leaving only a fearsome determination. Across the evaporating ribbons of energy, Vanhal projected his hatred, following the trail of the conjured back to the conjurer, back to where his erstwhile apprentice Lothar was exulting in his murderous accomplishment, the triumph of his undead assassin over his terrifying mentor.
Lothar’s jubilation collapsed as Vanhal’s hatred made itself felt. The voice of the master necromancer whispered in the mind of the apprentice. ‘When you die,’ it said, ‘your flesh belongs to me.’
Vanhal’s hate dissipated, leaving Lothar curled up upon the barren earth, shuddering and weeping in the grip of his horror. The apprentice knew he had succeeded, knew he had destroyed his master’s body and sent his spirit into the darkness of the beyond.
But how long would the hate of Vanhal remain in the void? That was the question that would haunt Lothar the rest of his days.
How ever many the ghost of Vanhal saw fit to allow him.
Chapter XXI
Hochland, 1124
Great Warlord Vrrmik chittered in delight when he saw Man-dread’s troops begin climbing up onto the broken slopes of the Howling Hills. The fool-meat had divided his forces, leaving many of his soldiers on the plain below. He could see the long line of archers, the little blocks of horsemen, the squads of dwarfs scurrying about the encampment assembling their catapults, as though they might lay siege to the hills above them! The boulder-strewn river of stone would make a mockery of their pathetic efforts. What did it matter if they added a few more rocks to the natural rubble, if they crushed a few dozen hapless ratmen here and there? For that matter, how well would Man-dread’s archers fare trying to pick off skaven in those brief intervals when there was neither crevice nor boulder to conceal them? Their only real chance would be to loose their arrows when the skaven rushed Man-dread’s infantry, and Vrrmik knew from past experience how squeamish the man-things were about shooting into their own forces. Better for the fool-meat to have armed the bowmen with knives and brought them along as a meat-shield to act as a buffer between Vrrmik’s clanrats and his more valuable fighters.
Vrrmik’s tail lashed in anger as he considered the cavalry below, waiting behind the line of archers in squadrons of lancers and knights. The arrogance of such deployment infuriated him. Man-dread was so confident of routing the skaven that the cretin actually held his horses in reserve, hoping to use them to run down the ratmen when they broke and tried to flee! The pomposity! Vrrmik would butcher his way through Man-dread’s infantry and then unleash his entire horde upon the dispirited knights when they turned to flee. Their steeds would make excellent eating after weeks of roots, tree bark and tunnel pork.
First would come the destruction of Man-dread. Vrrmik snarled at the chieftains around him, sending the vermin scurrying off to rally their clanrats. The great warlord had been very careful about calculating how many warriors to unleash against Man-dread’s troops. Too few and the humans would simply march right over them. Too many and the humans might be overwhelmed. There had to be just the right amount of skaven in the first assault to hold the humans and weaken them. When it was time for the kill, when Vrrmik was certain Man-dread had been weakened enough, it would be himself and Clan Mors that would strike the final blow.
‘Puskab,’ Vrrmik snarled, glaring at the decayed plague priest as the noxious creature scuttled into view. ‘Bring-fetch your monks. They will take the position of honour when I lead the final attack.’ Puskab looked less than enthusiastic about using his remaining followers as the vanguard of Vrrmik’s attack, but a display of the warmonger’s fangs improved his attitude drastically. Bobbing his horned head, the plaguelord scampered off to carry out his orders.
Vrrmik laughed as he watched the plague priest slither back into the ravine and bully his way through the massed ranks of armoured stormvermin. Puskab was a useful idiot for the moment, but once this battle was finished Vrrmik would need to reassess the Poxmaster’s usefulness. With the Black Plague beyond the ability of Clan Pestilens to contain or control, Vrrmik was reconsidering the advisability of associating with them. The grey seers and their leader Seerlord Queekual were enjoying a resurgence of influence and popularity in plague-ridden Skavenblight. Offering them the pelt of the Poxmaster would go far in winning their friendship.
The great warlord turned his baleful gaze back to the slope and the pathetic human force climbing up to confront his mighty horde. First things first; he would scratch these fleas out of his fur and then worry about the Pestilens-tick.
As the first swarms of clanrats rose up from the rocks and charged into Man-dread’s ranks, the delicious smell of blood and slaughter struck Vrrmik’s nose. It mattered little that much of the blood carried the tang of ratkin, the odour was intoxicating just the same. It excited his metabolism, made his mouth salivate with the hunger for battle. He knew the same sensations would be pulsing through the bodies of his stormvermin, goading them into a fury that would be sated only with the flesh of fallen foes in their bellies and the taste of man-thing blood on their fangs. That there were so few of the humans would goad his warriors to fight all the harder for there wouldn’t be enough manflesh to go around.
Fool-meat Man-dread, who dared to think he could match wits with Mighty Vrrmik! The great warlord was almost ashamed that the battle was so one-sided.
Not that he would have had it any other way.
The glowing head of Ghal Maraz came smashing down into the armoured head of a skaven war-chief, shattering both the steel helm the beast wore and the skull beneath. The creature crumpled into a gory heap at Mandred’s feet, its rancid blood spilling across his boots. The graf stepped over its twitching carcass and brought his warhammer swinging around into the chest of the sword-rat lunging forwards to exploit the gap left by its slaughtered leader. The creature uttered a terrified squeak and was flung back into the swarming ranks of its verminous kin.
Another skaven dove in from the side, flecks of foam dripping from its fangs as it tried to spit Mandred on the end of its spear. The attack ended in an agonised squeal and a welter of black blood as the cleaving edge of Legbiter came slashing down, ripping the ratkin from shoulder to collar. Arch-Lector Hartwich wiped the skaven gore from his face and smiled at Mandred.
‘Don’t you trust Sigmar to look after his Wolf?’ Mandred laughed at the priest.
Hartwich raked Legbiter’s edge across the face of another charging skaven, sending the ratman stumbling back and pawing at the ruin where its eyes had been. ‘Just putting the sword you loaned me to good effect,’ he said.
‘A runefang’s place is in battle,’ Mandred returned, smashing the legs out from under an armoured ratman. ‘And I have my hands full with the gift you bestowed on me,’ he added, bringing Ghal Maraz hurtling down to crush the head of the wounded ratman.
‘Save your praise for Lord Sigmar,’ Hartwich advised. ‘I am but his instrument.’ The priest’s words ended in a grunt as one of the ratmen hurled the thrashing body of its wounded kin and brought its blade slashing down into his shoulder. The mail beneath his priestly vestment thwarted the biting edge, but the impact left him staggered. Before the skaven could capitalise on its foe’s impairment, it was itself spitted by a spearman, one of the peasant troops who had flocked to Mandred’s banner. The creature collapsed to the ground, trying to push its entrails back into its belly. A second thrust from another spearman transfixed its throat and ended its loathsome struggles.
All around him, Mandred bore witness to the veracity of his words to his men. Noble, priest or peasant, they fought together, comr
ades-in-arms, each soldier watching out for his fellow. The ratkin had no such camaraderie. They attacked alone, they died alone and their wounded were trampled beneath the paws of their own kind. They were unleashed against the humans in bestial packs and like beasts they fought. It was the coordination, the mutual support of the humans that repulsed them time and again, forcing them back, breaking each successive wave.
There must come a tipping point, however. No matter how coordinated his troops, Mandred knew there would come a moment when the superior numbers of the skaven would overwhelm his men. For each ratkin they killed, six more seemed to come scurrying out from the rocks. The skaven reserves seemed limitless, while each casualty the monsters inflicted represented an irreplaceable loss. For the nonce, the formation was holding, the outer ring of shields and swords protecting an inner core of spears. Like a steel turtle, the armoured shell was protecting the soft body within, allowing the formation to creep slowly up the jagged slope. Once that shell was punctured, Mandred knew the cohesion of his command would be finished.
Desperately Mandred wanted to look back down to the plain below, wanted to see if the other half of his plan was being put into action. General von Boeckenfoerde knew his orders, knew he couldn’t act too soon or it would all be for nothing. Mandred’s infantry had to climb far enough into the Howling Hills to break through when the tide turned. He had to be near enough to exploit the confusion when it came, to charge straight up into the mouth of the trap. They had to assault that high point where the ratkin banners had flown, the peak where Hulda assured him that the scent of Vrrmik was at its strongest. If the great warlord escaped, there could be no victory here, all they could win was a reprieve.
Jubilant cheers sounded from the men at the centre of the formation. It was the first indication to Mandred that von Boeckenfoerde had ordered the attack. As he pulped the body of a skaven warrior, the graf could see a ball of fire hurtling overhead to his left. The mass of vermin assaulting the formation blocked his view of the missile as it came crashing down among the rocks, but the cacophony of squeaks and squeals told him of its impact and the impact of dozens like it all across the stone river.
