Warhammer Red Thirst

by Warhammer

  "Yes," she said at his involuntary start of recognition, "that one."

  "The vampire in the songs of Brave Oswald?"

  She nodded in irritated confirmation.

  "You killed Drachenfels."

  "No. I was there, though. Unconscious. I missed the big battle."

  Vukotich couldn't understand. Being this near to the unhallowed creature appalled him, made him want to puke his guts, but he was as curious as he was disgusted.

  "But what are you doing..."

  "As a whore? It's nothing. I've been a pit fighter in my time, and you wouldn't want to give that as your profession to a census taker. I've swept stables. And I've been a slave... in Araby and the Dark Lands. That's one thing about living forever. You get to try everything."

  Vukotich found it difficult to reconcile this bedraggled, street-fighting little girl with the glamorous immortal in the songs.

  She seemed distracted, annoyed about something. She could stand him trying to chop off her hand, but she didn't like being forced to tell him who she was. She wasn't what he expected of the undead. Those he had met before had been foul-smelling monstrosities of Chaos, vermin to be captured, staked, beheaded and forgotten. He mustn't let this one's almost human appearance fool him. Appealing or not, this was a woman-shaped piece of filth. In this world, there were natural things and there were monsters. Genevieve was a monster.

  Biting down on the words, he asked, "but... well, you must be a heroine of the Empire?"

  She spat in the stream. Her phlegm was threaded with blood.

  "Yes, but sometimes heroines are embarassing, you know. Especially if they live forever and drink blood. I got fed up with being surrounded by politely terrified officials who thought I was going to go for their throats at any moment."

  "And Prince Oswald?"

  "He's not like the songs, either. No one ever is. I met Magnus the Pious once, and he tried to put his hand up my dress."

  She was distracted, thinking of her Prince. He supposed the man must have used her and bested her. She was fetching, but she was a dead thing, an instrument of Evil. Vukotich had killed several of her like in his campaigns.

  But she could have her uses. Vampires, as he had seen, were unnaturally strong. With a crafty grin, he held up his manacled hand.

  "Did you think I hadn't thought of that?" she said. "I tried back in the wagon. Look."

  She held up her left hand. The fingertips were burned.

  There was something mixed with the iron of his shackles. "Silver," she said. "Not enough to weaken the links, but enough to be uncomfortable for me."

  "So," he sneered, "your powers haven't done us any good at all really."

  Her eyes fired again. "Not much, they haven't. How do you suppose your other manacle, the all-iron one, got broken?"

  She made a fist, and Vukotich imagined the iron cracking in her grip.

  They still had shackles around their right feet, dangling the chains that had been threaded to the bar in the wagon. Fortunately, one silver cuff had been enough expense for the Guardians of Morality. She prised her own anklet apart and dropped it in the stream.

  "I should just let you drag that thing, shouldn't I?"

  Vukotich didn't ask for help. With a gesture of exasperation, Genevieve bent over and freed him. The crack of breaking metal was as loud as a pistol shot.

  By now, the hammering inside Vukotich's chest had died down.

  "Can you go on? I can carry you if you can't, although, as I'm sure you'll understand, I'd rather not... "

  "I can walk," he told her, his cheeks reddening. She pulled him upright. By the sun overhead, he judged it to be nearly noontime, and he was getting hungry. And thirsty.

  With a chill, he wondered if Genevieve were feeling the same.

  Although direct sunlight didn't affect her as it would one of the Truly Dead, Genevieve felt a growing lassitude. It was a clear autumn afternoon and unclouded sunlight filtered down through the tall, straight trees, and fell heavily upon her. Her eyes were watering, and she wished she had the smoked glasses she usually wore by day. They were left with the rest of her things in the East Wall. Her exertions had tired her, and she could no longer outstrip Vukotich with ease. The mercenary was tiring too, and they had continually to lean on each other for support. Their chain was a nuisance.

  Vukotich was an intolerant man, and instinctively disliked vampirekind. That was not uncommon. Master Wulfric, who was only too pleased to make use of her to further the ends of the Empire, was much the same: have her risk her life for the Greater Glory of Ulric, but don't invite her to sit at your table, don't let her go to a coffee house with your son, don't encourage her to worship at your Temple. She'd had over six hundred years of wandering from place to place, leaving stake-waving, garlic-smeared, silver-scythed would-be monster killers behind her. Almost all of them were dead now, left behind by the years. But she took scant comfort from that.

  The trees were thinning, and afternoon turned to evening. She could feel her senses sharpening, and now she was propping up Vukotich, pulling him onwards, her full strength returning. And with the strength came the red thirst. Her teeth hurt as they shifted in her jaw, and her mouth filled with blood-threaded saliva. Soon, she must feed. She heard Vukotich's strong heartbeat, and felt the steady, even circulation of his blood. His distaste for the act might add some spice to it... But she wasn't desperate enough yet to bleed an unwilling partner.

  For a few miles, the woods had been different. There were treestumps bearing the marks of axe and saw, well-trampled pathways, old bones, and discarded food wrappings. Above the trees, the smoke of several chimneys combined into a spectral twister which dispelled into the sky.

  "There's a village up ahead," she said.

  They stopped, and tried to do something about their chain. Vukotich was wearing a long-sleeved leather jerkin and was able to wrap most of the chain around his forearm then pull the sleeve down over it. They had to hold hands like young lovers, their fingers entwined.

  "Now, this is going to be uncomfortable," she said, "but if I put my arm around your waist, under your jerkin, and you twist your arm backwards..."

  Vukotich winced. Genevieve wondered if he wasn't hurt inside from the fall or the fight.

  "There."

  Together, they strolled towards the village, not exactly convincing as a woodsman and his girlfriend out for an evening in the forest, but not exactly obvious as runaway convicts either.

  It was a small settlement, a few peasant dwellings clustered around a hillock, upon which stood a nobleman's hunting lodge. There were fires in a few of the houses, but the lodge was dark. It must be between seasons.

  Genevieve guessed they might be in luck. Where there were huntsmen, there would have to be a good ostler's and a good smithy.

  It was full night now, and her blood was racing. But she would have to restrain herself. They couldn't deal with a blacksmith at night. They would have to sound out the villagers first, win the smith over by stealth, and make sure that they weren't in a nest of Glinka's moralists.

  "Let's find a woodshed," Vukotich said. "Maybe there'll be tools."

  Genevieve hadn't thought of that. Vukotich could probably swing a hammer as well as any smith.

  She felt a chill. She was alerted to some danger. She put her forefinger over Vukotich's mouth.

  There were people coming out of the woods. Genevieve heard armour creaking. Armed men.

  They saw lanterns approach, and heard people talking. The Acolytes must be searching the area.

  But surely they weren't important enough to warrant this much time and these many men?

  The lanterns came out of the woods, and a small group of men-at-arms emerged, trudging into the village. They were being directed by a sergeant on horseback. He bore a familiar crest on his helmet, that of the Blasko family, and his breastplate was decorated with the mailed fist symbol of Zhufbar. Genevieve had seen soldiers dressed like this in the city. They were with the Lord Marshal's eli
te personal guard.

  Escaped felons or not, Wladislaw Blasko was unlikely to be concerned about a couple of offenders against public morals.

  The soldiers were conducting a house-to-house search. Doors were pulled open, and the peasants quietly stood aside to let the men look around. Blasko's guards were efficient and polite. They were careful not to break anything. They didn't seem to be searching for anyone or anything in particular. From the way the soldiers and the villagers acted, she guessed that this was a familiar procedure. The sergeant even took the time to sweet-talk a middle-aged woman who brought him a goblet of wine.

  The wine was a good omen. None of Claes Glinka's foul coffee for these men. The Crusade had not taken hold here.

  Genevieve pulled Vukotich into an alley between buildings, not too quietly. She felt his body tense, and knew he was expecting a fight.

  "Relax," she told him. "They're not here for us."

  But they had been noticed.

  "Who's over there?" shouted the sergeant. A soldier fast-walked across the roadway to investigate, his lantern jogging.

  Genevieve put her free hand up to Vukotich's face and kissed him. He squirmed, and tried to protest, but then realized what she was trying to do. He went limp in her embrace, not resisting, not reciprocating.

  Tasting him, she felt the need for blood.

  The lantern was shone at them, and they looked, blinking, at the soldier.

  The man-at-arms laughed, and turned away. "It's all right, sir," he shouted. "Courting couple."

  "Lucky devils," said the sergeant. "Leave them alone. We've plenty more forest to sweep."

  The lantern was taken away. Vukotich went tense again, and Genevieve put her hand on his chest, restraining him. She felt his heart beating fast, and realized her nails were growing longer, turning to claws.

  She regained control, and her fingerknives dwindled.

  Vukotich was bleeding slightly, from the mouth. She had cut him when they kissed. A shudder of pleasure ran through her as she rolled the traces of his blood around her mouth. She swallowed, and felt warm.

  The mercenary wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at her in disgust.

  Soon, she must feed. It was more than a physical need. It was a spiritual desire. The red thirst wasn't much like the simple need men and women felt for water. It had more in common with the acute craving of the far-gone weirdroot addict, or the lusts of the libertine.

  The soldiers had gone now.

  "We must find somewhere for the night," he said.

  She was irritated, but saw the sense. She was off her best in the day, but could still keep moving. He needed to sleep. They would have to proceed to his advantage for the moment.

  "The lodge. No one's using it."

  Slowly, their bodies pressed together, they made their way up to the hunting lodge. It wasn't especially large or luxurious, but it was better than a floor of pine needles, a roof of sky and a quilt of leaves.

  They didn't even need to break in. There was an unfastened window at the rear. Inside, the lodge was one large room, carpeted with furs, with a sleeping gallery running around the ceiling. Hunting trophies hung on the walls.

  Vukotich found a bottle of wine and unstoppered it, drinking deep. He offered it to her, but she declined.

  With some awkwardness, they climbed the ladder to the gallery, and found a corner where, under some furs, Vukotich could sleep. He finished the bottle, and passed out.

  Genevieve sat, her arm outstretched as Vukotich curled into a protective position, and let the night go to waste.

  Vukotich dreamed of the Battle at the Top of the World. He had had these nightmares since childhood, and the Strega of his village tried many times to read in them intimations of his future. In these dreams, his body was unfamiliarly heavy and hurt, not with the wounds of combat but with the weight of years. On a vast plain, where his breath turned to ice in the air, he found himself amid a conflict in which all the races of the Known World fought apparently at random. Hideously altered creatures clashed in purposeless jousts, many shades of blood darkening the ground. They were all knee-deep in the bones of the fallen. In the darkness, Vukotich fought...

  Then, he was awake. The vampire was close, her hand over his mouth. Annoyed, he made fists. Did she think he was a child who cried out in the night?

  There was light in the lodge, and he could hear voices.

  Genevieve's face loomed over his. With her eyes, she directed his attention.

  There were people in the lodge, standing around a blazing fire.

  "He will be here soon?" asked a tall, completely bald man in ceremonial armour edged with purple silks and wolfs fur.

  A robed and hooded figure nodded.

  The bald man paced impatiently, a goblet clutched in his hand. From his bearing, Vukotich could tell that this was a man unused to being kept waiting, a man of power. Vukotich was sure he had seen the man before, perhaps at the opening ceremony of the Festival of Ulric, along with all the other generals and barons and imperial heroes.

  Genevieve mouthed a name, and Vukotich caught it. Blasko.

  Vukotich looked again. Yes, it was Wladislaw Blasko, the Lord Marshal of the fortress city. Also, the man who had allowed Claes Glinka's crusade to take hold, who had let Zhufbar's famously riotous wine palaces be turned into glum coffee houses with religious tracts on every table and cold ashes in the hearths.

  Blasko drained his goblet at a gulp, and held it out for an attendant to refill. The glowing purple liquid certainly wasn't Glinka's Lustrian coffee.

  As Blasko paced, the robed figure stood as still as a devotional statue. He wore the hood of a Moral Crusader, but there was something strange, almost inhuman, about his bearing. Although his head was bowed, he stood a full hand's breadth taller than the Lord Marshal, and his elbows seemed to bend the wrong way. Vukotich guessed that whoever was underneath the hood had a touch of the warpstone.

  Morality and mutation. These were strange partners, Vukotich understood now why there had been soldiers in the village. The Lord Marshal was the commander of Zhufbar, and Zhufbar was a key link in the chain of fortresses that stretched from Karak-Ungor in the icy north down the Worlds' Edge mountains to Karak-Azgal in the volcano-blighted south. These were the only line of defence against the Dark Lands, where the goblin hordes still ruled, where daemons raged, where schemes were laid against humanity. Such an important man does not go anywhere without making sure no assassins lie in wait. If they survived this escapade, Vukotich would suggest that Blasko engage some new elite guards. His current crop had been easily fooled. Were he and the vampire bitch out to win favour with the Proscribed Cults, they could easily kill the Lord Marshal from their hiding place, and maybe an Empire would totter a little.

  A group of newcomers arrived, bringing with them a chill blast of night air, and a few traces of mist. Blasko was pleased that his wait was over.

  "Hah," he said, "good! Comrade, some wine?"

  The chief of the newcomers, robed like the tall figure, shook his head. Blasko had his own goblet refilled again.

  The two robed men exchanged bows and gestures, communicating in ways Vukotich did not understand.

  The newcomer, whose black robes were edged with discreet scarlet, broke off his silent conversation, and turned to Blasko.

  "I am Yefimovich," he said, pulling off his hood.

  Blasko spluttered his drink, and stepped back. Vukotich felt a rush of terror, as Yefimovich's inner fires spread red light up into the gallery.

  He was like a living statue of transparent glass, perfect in every detail, filled with fire. Eyes like black marble peered out of his infernal face, and he smiled.

  His robes fell away from his blazing hands, and he clapped Blasko on the shoulder. Vukotich expected the Lord Marshal to burst into flames, but although he flinched he was unharmed. With fascination, he gingerly laid his hand over Yefimovich's, and suffered no hurt.

  "Our dark masters demand strange sacrifices, Wladisla
w," the fiery man said.

  Yefimovich spoke Old Worlder with a Kislevite rasp.

  "Will I...?"

  Blasko was unable to finish his question.

  "Undoubtedly," Yefimovich replied. "Something will be required of you. You must learn to leave your preconceptions about physical form behind. This might seem quite a startling condition, but it is surprisingly pleasant. With the changes of the warpstone come certain improvements. With strange sacrifices come strange rewards. It is different for each soul, Wladislaw. Who knows what is locked within your heart?"

  Blasko turned away. His goblet was empty again.

  Yefimovich's still-masked lieutenant walked across the room, swaying slightly. Underneath his robes, his limbs moved the wrong way. He must have more elbows and knees than was natural. Vukotich was thankful that this horror was decorously covered.

  Always, the marks of Chaos had filled him with a fear that made him detest himself. He had killed many of these warp-spawn, but he could never kill his dreams. The Battle at the Top of the World still waited for him each night.

  "Things are well, I trust?" Yefimovich asked.

  Blasko didn't look at the fiery man, but he replied. "Yes. I have made the arrangements for the closing ceremony of the festival."

  "Glinka will speak?"

  "He will preach. On the shores of the Blackwater, there will be a gathering of all the representatives. Glinka will call for the Emperor to embrace his Moral Crusade..."

  Yefimovich laughed, nastily. "Then he will die?"

  "Yes. The man you sent me will carry out the assassination. Glinka's wizard advisers are interested only in orthodox magic. The Celestial has methods unfamiliar to them."

  "Excellent, excellent. You are well placed to succeed to the position of power within the Crusade?"

  Blasko gulped more wine. "Of course, of course. My trusted aides already outnumber Glinka's people on the inner councils of the Temple of Purity. I shall be appointed in his stead."

  Yefimovich's face flared into a grin. "And as the power of the Crusade grows, so shall the influence of our Invisible Empire. There is an amusing irony, don't you think, in our taking advantage of a campaign against sin?"