Authors: Phil Kelly
Sigmar's Blood (12 page)
Von Korden gave a shout of triumph. Mannfred’s agents had buried the stolen symbols deep, but not deep enough. His message had been intended for Karl Franz, in truth, but Sunscryer’s plan to convey it to the Colleges of Magic had borne fruit at the critical hour. Clearly, Balthasar Gelt, Supreme Patriarch and master of metalshifting, had heard of their plight and offered his own contribution just in time.
A roar of fierce elation was torn out of the surviving crusaders at the sight of their sacred symbols lifted high. All across the battlefield Mannfred’s incorporeal gheists were blasted into nothingness by the wave of raw faith that poured out across the field. Even the reliquary drew back into the storm clouds, its guardians crying out in unearthly pain.
A surge of vitality bloomed through the crusaders’ ranks at the sign of so much hope made manifest. Swords and axes were raised high once more, tired limbs were reinvigorated and battle-cries found new voice. United in rebellion against the pall of undeath that had threatened to bury them, the crusaders cut down the rotting host one after another until nothing was left but strewn chunks of meat and the stench of death.
Von Korden scanned the battlefield as the surviving crusaders gave thanks to their gods amidst the torn remains of their foes. Slowly his spirits sank, despair filling his heart once more. In the chaos, the vampire Mannfred had made his retreat. Worse yet, the war altar lay on its side, abandoned.
Volkmar was nowhere to be seen.
EPILOGUEAs the battle ground to a sudden halt outside Castle Sternieste, the light in the great open chamber atop its southern tower flickered fitfully. Inside, tree-trunk candles made from human fat spluttered and spat as if disgusted by the robed priest that had been flung into their midst.
A pair of bloodied vargheists paced hungrily around their prize, chattering to each other in their clicking tongue. Even in their dim animalistic minds, they had enough sense not to tread upon the gilded grooves that formed a rough outline of Sylvania upon the chamber’s floor.
As his dazed senses returned to him, Volkmar could feel magical power thrumming through the flagstones he was lying on. He raised his head and struggled blearily to focus. Blood pulsed out of the hole in his bald pate where one of the vargheists had bitten down hard. He dared not touch it, fearing he might feel something soft and spongy beneath his fingertips.
The walls around the priest were ranged with shackled figures, dazed by lack of blood or beaten to the point of unconsciousness. Amongst their number were a white-robed healer of Shallya, a bearded brute bearing the mark of Ulric upon his forehead, and a pallid devotee of Morr so badly whipped that he stood knock-kneed in sticky pools of his own blood. The Myrmidian Lupio Blaze was shackled opposite an elf maiden so regal that she was stunning even under a mask of blood and dust. A broken tiara hung from her tangled tresses, the symbol of the Phoenix Court emblazoned upon it. He recognised the symbol of the Everqueen next to it, something the elven envoys to Karl Franz’s court had always been proud to display.
Between each of the nine captives were lecterns wrought in the shape of daemons’ claws. Giant grimoires were bound in chains to several of the lecterns, their pages rustling as if by their own accord. At the heart of the chamber, the stolen Crown of Sorcery sat on a cushion of human skin, its priceless jewels winking in the candlelight. A flame of defiance burned in the Grand Theogonist. If he could only seize it and escape the chamber, maybe even return it to Altdorf, he could restore his reputation and start the crusade anew…
Volkmar’s aching mind struggled to make sense of his surroundings. Suspicions stalked him like thieves in an alley. To amass such an assemblage of dignitaries and artefacts from across the world was the work of months – years even. But to what purpose?
For a second, all the candles in the chamber guttered at once. A moment later, a tall armoured figure loomed over Volkmar. Swollen with arcane power and clad in bat-winged plate of purest black, the newcomer was a figure of ancient legend come to life. Mannfred von Carstein, Gravelord of Sylvania and scourge of the Sigmarite Cult, placed his metal boot on the Grand Theogonist’s back and pressed down hard.
‘Look at thee, wriggling on the ground,’ said Mannfred von Carstein, his voice cultured under its sneering tone. ‘The great Volkmar, high priest of the Heldenhammer. They say that the blood of Sigmar runs in thy veins, my friend. And perhaps they are right.’
Above Volkmar, the vampire count gestured to his vargheist minions. They fell upon the unconscious figures ranged around the wall of the chamber, ripping open their wrists with pointed teeth. Blood pattered onto the flagstones, pooling in the candlelight until it found its way into the gilded grooves that ran scant inches from each captive.
Volkmar cleared his mind of pain and thought only of the warrior god Sigmar, he who had banished the Great Necromancer when the Empire was young. The priest felt his bones knit and heal as a golden light flowed through him. He shucked his powerful shoulders, dislodging the armoured boot that held him prone.
Suddenly, an explosion of pain blossomed behind his eyes as the vampire count dug his claws into Volkmar’s gaping head wound and used the inside of his skull to pull him to his feet. A pallid, leering face swam in the Grand Theogonist’s blurring vision. Volkmar balled his fist and punched Mannfred hard in the mouth. He felt fangs break under his knuckles, even through the screaming black pain that was burning into his mind.
‘Now, now,’ said Mannfred, spitting a tooth onto the floor and smiling crimson in the candlelight. ‘It’s too late for such primitive nonsense, I’m afraid. Too late for you, and too late for the Empire.’
A fell wind raced through the arrow-slits of the chamber, snuffing out the candle flames. An instant later, the chamber became deathly cold, and a diffuse green light turned the blood that trickled around the flagstones jet black. Volkmar felt his tendons freeze and his mind grow numb. As the elements raged above, the night sky filling the chamber’s open roof was eclipsed by a howling tempest of ghosts that bore a cage of ironbone towards them. The vargheists raised their voices in supplication, howling in worshipful glee.
‘The blood of Sigmar,’ the von Carstein said, licking his fingers as Volkmar gazed up in horror. ‘The last ingredient I need to claim the realm that is rightfully mine.’
The vampire stalked around the stunned priest, talons flexing. ‘Great things can be accomplished with the life essence of true believers.’ A black and pointed tongue slithered along his lips, smearing traces of stolen blood. ‘Sylvania will soon become a realm where faith has no power, and your precious holy symbols are little more than trinkets. All because the blood of the faithful has been turned against them.’
At an unspoken signal from their master, the vargheists darted forwards and held Volkmar’s arms fast. With a single swipe of his claw, Mannfred slit open Volkmar’s wrist, and blood pulsed out.
Eyes glinting, the vampire squeezed the priest’s arm above the cut in his weapon arm, forcing the wound to open like a wet mouth. Ever more blood drizzled down the old priest’s hand, swiftly finding the grooves in the floor. It mingled with that of the holy men and women flowing around the chamber until the gold of the cartograph laid into the flagstones ran scarlet throughout.
Grinning vilely, Mannfred grabbed Volkmar by the neck and lifted him from his feet. He carried the struggling priest to the edge of the chamber without effort and slammed him bodily against one of the arches that formed the tower’s windows. In the far distance around the mountains that ringed the vale, the old man saw an unhealthy crimson light spread, its passage echoing the blood-filled borders cut into the flagstones below. Beneath the light were explosive eruptions of movement. A fortress wall of bone was bursting up from the ground wherever the crimson light touched the ground.
Volkmar burned with anger as Sylvania became completely drained of what little life was left to it. The old priest struggled for breath, a muffled roar of desperation and despair bursting unbidden from his lips. He pushed at the vampire with a surge of strength, channelling the raw power of his faith in Sigmar into one last great blast of defiance.
Nothing happened.
‘Too late,’ said Mannfred once more, his voice cold as death’s own claws as he slowly stalked closer. ‘No mortal can defy my will.’
The vampire count bared his fangs and lunged for Volkmar’s throat.
Phil Kelly
has been a devotee of myths, monsters and magic for three decades, the last of which has been spent working as a games developer in Games Workshop’s Design Studio. Over the years, Phil has made body parts as a sculptor, roamed the roofs of Nottingham as a free runner, played the stages of Glastonbury, dived shipwrecks in Thailand and discovered the time-saving joys of extreme ironing in his home county of Essex. Since meeting his wife at a Los Angeles beach party, Phil has begun to settle down a bit. He now leads a nice, normal life writing about fantastical armies, undead pirates and gribblies from outer space.
Wade – thanks for your help on this project. Powerful!
A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION
Published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK
Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.
Map by John Michelbach.
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