Sigmar's Blood (10 page)

Yet it had all been for nothing. Mannfred was gone.

THE STERNIESTE ROAD

South of the Vale of Darkness, 2522

The Sigmarite crusade staggered along the peaty road that led to Castle Sternieste, its limps, groans, and a general blood-splattered appearance giving it an uncomfortable resemblance to the undead army it had narrowly overcome at Swartzhafen. The war altar rolled along at its head, Volkmar standing braced against the lectern as he murmured the words of one of the carriage’s holy tomes. A few yards in front of him was von Korden, hunched almost double as he tracked a set of distinct hoofprints pressed at great intervals into the earth. Mannfred had headed east at great speed, though none of them knew quite why.

Arch Lector Kaslain was in the midst of the throng, spurring the men on with fiery imprecations and speeches to the glory of Sigmar. Volkmar had meant to attend to morale himself, but at the moment he just didn’t have the fire to be convincing. He had busied himself with cleansing the altar of the vampire’s touch instead. It was likely futile, said a despairing voice in Volkmar’s soul. Exhausted and with many of their number badly wounded, they likely marched to their deaths. The men knew it, and in his heart, so did he.

Yet there was no choice.

‘Your honour? A word?’ came a deep but respectful voice from below.

Volkmar looked down to see Eben Swaft, the duellist leader of the Talabheimer swordsmen he had fought beside in the north, walking alongside the war altar with sword drawn.

‘Swaft, well met,’ said Volkmar. ‘One moment.’

The Grand Theogonist made the sign of the hammer over the
Tome Unberogen
on his lectern, concluding the reconsecration ritual before making his way down the carriage and dropping down next to Swaft on the road. His knees spiked with pain, but he tucked it away with the rest of his burdens at the back of his mind.

‘We can’t keep on at this pace, your honour, if at all. We’ve got limbs falling off back there.’

‘I realise that, Eben,’ sighed Volkmar. ‘We can’t rest, though. Not when we are so close. One well-placed cannonball and this will all be over.’

‘With respect, your honour, the bastard could be miles away by now,’ said Swaft, fingering the tip of his blade. ‘Our men are dying. We need to stop.’

‘Kaslain has it in hand,’ said Volkmar crossly, screwing shut his eyes to shut out the pleas coming from the rear of the column.

‘Aye, the arch lector’s worked miracles back there, true enough. Temporary ones, though. We need sleep. More than that, we need hope.’

‘No sleep. We press on.’

A moment’s silence passed between the two men before Swaft spoke again.

‘You and the witch hunter ain’t so different after all, are you, your honour?’

Volkmar spun round in the mud, eyes aflame. His fists were raised in front of his heaving chest and his chin jutted out under his quivering moustache, giving him a distinct resemblance to a dockyard prizefighter from the Time of the Three Emperors.

‘That’s more like it, old man,’ said Swaft with a nasty grin, sheathing his blade and rolling up his sleeves.

‘You will address me with the proper respect,’ snorted Volkmar, ‘or I shall teach you some, here and now.’

‘Fine, then,’ replied Swaft. ‘I can punch some fire back into you if that’s the way it has to be.’

A cry of surprise and joy came from the rear of the procession, startling Volkmar and Swaft into a stalemate. Their altercation forgotten, they both rushed to the rear of the war altar, scanning the road behind. Over the crest of the hill a pair of banners fluttered in the wan light, proud and clean against the sky. One of them bore the red cruciform of the Reiksguard, the other royal colours of Karl Franz’s court.

Volkmar watched in stunned silence as two brigades of Altdorf’s finest cavalry crested the hill. All around him, the crusaders broke formation and rushed to new vantage points, filled with new energy at the prospect of good news. The wounded and their minders stayed behind, taking advantage of the interruption to tend dressings and re-bind broken bones.

First to ride up to the crusade were eight of the Reiksguard, Karl Franz’s personal elite. Their red-feathered crests bobbed bright above burnished silver plate that had been engraved with scenes of the Emperor’s greatest triumphs. From the vanguard of the crusade, Lupio Blaze called out in greeting, his lance raised high. At the head of the Reiksguard, Hans Zintler took off his helmet and saluted a response, his men raising their own lances in parade ground unison.

The only regiment that could claim equal status with the Reiksguard was the Royal Altdorf Gryphites, and they were not far behind. Three muscular veterans resplendent in shining steel tilted their cavalry halberds in salute to Volkmar as they approached. They were mounted on demigryphs, towering Drakwald monsters that were half eagle, half lion. They too were armoured, their powerful wingless haunches and barrel chests protected by finest Altdorf steel. One of the demigryphs barked a few bursts of aggressive avian noise before lowering its vicious beak and plucking at a roadside corpse.

‘Lord Volkmar!’ said Hans Zintler as the Reiksguard approached. ‘Karl Franz sends his best wishes, and eight of his finest swords. Also Richter Weissmund, no less,’ fiddling with his moustache as he nodded at his opposite number in the Gryphites.

Weissmund thrust the butt of his cavalry halberd into the mud and made the sign of Sigmar, bowing his head.

‘Grand Theogonist.’

‘Captain Weissmund. You and your noble beasts are a sight for sore eyes.’ said Volkmar.

‘That’s no way to talk about the Gryphites, sir,’ said Zintler, a wry gleam in his eye.

‘We lost nine good men to the Drakwald tribes in the last week, Zintler,’ said Captain Weissmund, grimly. ‘You would do well not to joke of men that act as beasts.’

Zintler inclined his head in half-hearted apology.

‘We answered your summons, your honour,’ Weissmund continued. ‘Where is the enemy?’

‘My summons?’ said Volkmar.

‘The message from the brass sentinels, your holiness,’ replied Zintler. ‘The Emperor got a message several days back, sent from Konigstein Watch. Well, we’re the reinforcements you asked for, sir. We damn near killed our horses getting here, but there’s fight in them yet.’

Weissmund gave a derisory snort. His demigryph started at the noise, a growl in its feathered throat as it looked around for something inhuman to kill.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Zintler, but I’ll be honest – I’m thrilled to see you here. My thanks to Karl Franz,’ said Volkmar. ‘You two realise who we’re hunting?’

‘Aye,’ said Weissmund, gruffly. ‘The von Carstein. So what are we waiting for?’

‘Hold on a moment, captain, if you please,’ said Zintler. ‘Your holiness, may I present to you the Sunmaker.’

The leading Reiksguard opened their ranks with dressage precision to reveal the last two riders amongst their number. Each of their warhorses was yoked to a contraption of tubular rockets and ironwork structures built on top of a wheeled artillery carriage that faced backwards down the road. Its Talabheimer crew stepped off their perches on the carriage and saluted smartly.

‘A Helstorm rocket battery, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Volkmar. ‘Unreliable.’

‘Not this one, Grand Theogonist,’ said the largest of the crewmen, smugly patting the top of his machine. ‘This here’s the last work of Jurgen Bugelstrauss. The Sunmaker’s not just any Helstorm, your lordship. She’ll see you right.’

‘Fine, good,’ said Volkmar. ‘Any help is welcome. But we’re wasting time.’ He looked down the road to the vanguard, raising his hammer. ‘Von Korden!’ he bellowed.

‘What?’ said von Korden, stepping out from behind a twisted oak less than ten yards away.

‘Ah, there you are. A message from Konigstein Watch, eh? Good work. I’ll excommunicate you for going against my orders when we get back. Get a marching order together fast so we can make the most of our new arrivals. And sound the hunt.’

STERNIESTE

The Vale of Darkness, 2522

Mannfred von Carstein sped along the dirt road on the back of his deathless steed. Dark clouds grumbled above, but no living thing would make a sound. Even chirruping grave beetles fell silent at his approach.

As he cantered the last furlong towards Castle Sternieste, the vampire count bared his fangs in a lipless snarl. Closer to Vargravia than Swartzhafen by far, the castle was a welcome sight. He could feel the reliquary growing closer, and he had plenty of time to marshal his forces before the Child of the Heldenhammer and his fools came knocking. That they would come was beyond a doubt. This phase of the Great Work was almost complete.

Since his cousin Nyklaus von Carstein had met his end in the seas of the Galleon’s Graveyard, the shadowy energies drained by his cursed maelstrom had whipped loose across the world. Nyklaus, or Count Noctilus as the traitorous fool had liked to call himself, was never deserving of such power. Since his final demise Mannfred’s mastery of the aethyric winds had become more powerful than ever. Simply by clutching a family heirloom once treasured by his sea-loving kinsman, the count could transform himself and his steed into beings no more substantial than darkness itself.

Yet for Mannfred to leave no sign of his passage would defeat the purpose of his flight. Instead he’d pounded every ounce of his stallion’s weight into the road that led east to Castle Sternieste, leaving hoofprints that even a blind man could track.

The rolling hillocks that typified the Sternieste countryside punctuated the road in greater and greater number. Each one was a cairn from a bygone age. Mannfred could feel the dull but powerful throb of the dark magic that flowed like a stream into each mound. The lintels above each shadowed doorway had been gouged so badly the original runes were illegible, and the tomb doors lay cracked and mossy on the ground. His Strigany agents had done their work well.

Arms crossed over his ridged breastplate, Mannfred steered his steed through the hillocks with flickers of thought. Slowly, deliberately, it brought him to the burial grounds of the Reavers.

The soaring walls of Castle Sternieste loomed only a stone’s throw away. The crumbling citadel was impressive, almost as magnificent a sight as Fort Oberstyre. Though its lightning-blasted towers reached high, the ancient castle had no natural defences like the fortress in the west of Sylvania; no high plateau or deep moat to protect it. No, mused the count, tapping a long fingernail on the armoured collar of his steed. Sternieste’s defences were anything but natural.

Mannfred dismounted next to the largest of the cairns, his cruel features set in concentration as he set his glimmering blade on the wilting grass. When he spoke, the syllables crawled out of his mouth as if he were spitting out insects.

‘Nacafareh, Aschigar, vos maloth Nagashizzar…’

Red eyes glinting, the vampire raised his blade upward, one hand on either end, raising it parallel to the ground until he held it high. His chant was repeated three times, growing to a crescendo that echoed from the walls of the castle.

A few seconds later muffled, grinding sounds emanated from the tombs around him, the chink of metal cutting over the noise of shuffling bone and the rustle of ancient syllables.

One by one the skeletal, heavily armoured forms of the Sternsmen jerked themselves from their rest and stood up straight. Mildewed sockets gaped and scaled armour glinted, flashes of mouldering bone catching rare glimmers of light as Morrslieb peered down approvingly. Half a dozen warriors stood there, then a dozen, then two dozen, then more. Each faced towards Mannfred with its jaws open as if in silent joy.

The largest of the ancient warriors had come from the largest cairn, as was ever the way with the pre-Sigmarite tribes. It wore a high crown of bronze and a tattered cloak of holed green leather that fluttered and snapped in a breeze no mortal man could feel.

A rustling voice rattled in the von Carstein’s head as the ancient king turned its empty eyes towards him.

What is thy command, o lord?

‘Tarry a little longer, King Verek,’ said the von Carstein, ‘until the living ones approach. Then cut, and stab, and kill.’

For Sternieste, it shall be done.

The skeletal monarch brought its blade up in jerky salute. Mannfred shook the voice out of his head, breaking his mental bond to the ancient warrior with a snap of thought.

‘For Nagash, in fact,’ he muttered to the staring wights that stretched into the darkness, ‘and, more importantly, for me.’

Von Korden scanned the horizon as Volkmar’s crusade heaved the war altar up over the cusp of Licheburg Hill. The Reiksguard and Altdorf Gryphites formed an honour guard on either side – welcome reinforcements at a vital hour. In the distance, Castle Sternieste loomed on the other side of the valley. Its triple towers stuck up like a taloned hand ready to pluck Mannslieb from the dusky night, leaving only its sickly twin to haunt the skies.

Searching the countryside for movement, von Korden silenced the soldiers muttering around him with a sharp word and listened hard for the moans of the waking dead. He thought he saw a flash of light in the hills, but it was gone before he could place it. Only the chink of metal sounded in the distance, impossible to trace with the thin mist distorting the sounds in the valley.

A raindrop plipped onto the brim of von Korden’s hat, then another. The witch hunter grimaced. He thought he could see heavy clouds mustering on the horizon, though the darkness made it hard to tell. There was so little light left.

There it was again.

Something was illuminating the thin mist in the valley below, pulsing like a mischievous will-o’-the-wisp. On, off. On-off-on.

Like a signal.

Von Korden grinned wolfishly. This time, the smile reached his eyes.

The crusaders gathered at the base of the cairn-dotted hill, Castle Sternieste a black and forbidding presence up ahead. They could hear the chattering of travellers in the mist ahead, and the jangle of tack. Whatever form these newcomers took, they were alive. No undead creature made that much racket.

‘Volkmar!’ hissed von Korden, gesturing for the old man to join him on the top of a large and empty cairn. The Grand Theogonist puffed out his cheeks and strode up the hillock, his sacred warhammer held loosely at his side.

Lurching towards them through the misting rain was a flickering machine that very much resembled the Altdorf Luminark, though its lens cannon was longer and more elaborate. It was quite a splendid sight, rivalling the war altar itself in grandeur. Von Korden remembered the first time he saw one being unveiled. Balthasar Gelt had had some choice words to say about the things, at the time. It seemed to the witch hunter that a light-engine would be next to useless in the near-permanent darkness of Sylvania, but the arrival of a battle wizard was not to be turned away, and the Luminark’s heavy carriage could ride down a corpse or three if it came to it.

‘Ho there!’ called out the robed and leathery wizard standing up on the contraption’s lens deck. Ranged on the road below him were small knots of dangerous-looking men holding everything from farm implements to crossbows. Amongst them were primitive banners made from tavern signs nailed to timber posts, one bearing the sign of a stylised goat, another a pair of crossed keys, and yet another one a wagon and horses.

‘Ho there, friends!’ cried the old man.

‘A good day for us, it would seem,’ muttered Volkmar, turning to von Korden with eyebrows raised. ‘The Templehof collegiate. No doubt their presence is the result of that message of yours.’

‘Possibly,’ said the witch hunter, his expression inscrutable.

‘Alberich?’ hooted the elderly mage. ‘Alberich von Korden? Is that your hat I see gracing that hillock, you horrible old bloodhound?’

Von Korden could just make out two robed apprentices shrinking in embarrassment on the driving plate below. Their master carried on oblivious.

‘We’re hunting the claw, Alberich! The claw of you-know-who! Mannfred had it hidden in Vargravia!’

‘Keep it down, Sunscryer, you’ll wake the dead,’ said von Korden, scowling.

Behind Volkmar, the crusade was buzzing with rumours and questions. Von Korden listened to the hope build in the tones of the crusade’s voices as news of yet more reinforcements spread. He nodded softly despite himself. They might have a chance yet.

At the base of the hillock, the trio of robed wizards dismounted and made their way up towards the Grand Theogonist. A mob of heavily-muscled men came at their back, many of whom von Korden recognised. Militia gathered from villages all over the vale, by the look of it. As the newcomers approached, Volkmar stepped up to von Korden and put his hands on his shoulders, meeting the witch hunter’s gaze levelly.

‘Forget the excommunication, von Korden,’ he said under his breath. ‘If this lot make the difference and we take down Mannfred, I’ll beatify you instead.’

The crusaders fanned out across the barrows and cairns of Sternieste, its cavalry wing held back in reserve. Volkmar felt determination flare inside him as he watched the riders peel off from the vantage point of his pulpit. Three of the Empire’s finest knightly orders at his command, as well as two artillery pieces and a trio of wizards backed up by a core of veteran infantry. Thank Sigmar for human solidarity. With the horsemen, the Light Order and the Stirland militia factored in, the crusade numbered almost a hundred good and faithful men. Plus von Korden, Volkmar added to himself.

The rain that pattered out of the charcoal grey skies was clearly the prelude to something far more severe. The horizon was clustered with menacing black clouds, hanging low in the darkness. Green light flickered in their depths, and every few seconds a threatening rumble rolled across the downs.

Less than a hundred yards away from the crusade movement could be seen in the shadow of the great castle, an indistinct mass of bodies shifting in and out of pitch darkness. Bait, no doubt, thought Volkmar. Well, with a reserve as powerful as his, he intended to plunge right in after it. No better way to get Mannfred to show his hand, and in the process leave himself open to the cavalry reserve’s killing strike.

Something dark and huge emerged from the shadow of the castle walls. An armoured rider, his barded skeleton of a steed pawing the mossy ground. When the figure passed into a wan pool of light shed from Morrslieb above, the rider stopped his steed and smiled, rain pattering from his hairless, ridged pate. At this distance, its mouthful of bloodied teeth was a red slash in a white mask.

It was unquestionably Mannfred von Carstein.

‘Unberogen!’ bellowed Volkmar, sounding the Horn of Sigismund and whipping his altar’s warhorses forward. ‘Sigmar Unberogen!’

The war cry was echoed by the faithful throng that surged forward across the hilly field. The Tattersouls shrieked and clawed themselves in eagerness to die as the Talabheimer state troops marched forward, faces set in grim masks. Out on the left flank the Luminark clanked onto a low hillock, where its view of the battlefield had been judged optimal by the Light wizards chanting in unison upon its frame.

The clouds overhead rumbled deep, and the Hammer of Witches added its voice to the thunder as rain poured down. Its cannonball shot into the darkness, slamming into the base of the castle and sending a shower of masonry cascading into the milling figures below.

A mass of lurching corpses was lumbering downhill towards the state troops, mouths spilling maggots and twisted fingers clawing the air. To their right, rain-slicked skeletons stop-started their way across the field in sloppy synchronisation.

In the centre of the undead battle line, Mannfred drew something in the air with a long fingernail as a female gheist floated down from the towers above to join him. The vampire pointed at the Tattersouls, mouthing something evil. In the shadow of the war altar’s balustrade, the zealots aged decades in the space of seconds. Some of them cried out weakly as they shrivelled, turned grey, and fell away like ash in the rain.

‘Sigmar protects!’ bellowed Volkmar, slamming his warhammer’s head against the metallic frame of the pulpit. The rain turned golden around the Tattersouls for a second, and the curse was lifted, though many survivors were already bent double under the sudden weight of years.

The undead battle line was less than fifty feet away now. The moans of the undead that stalked through the dissipating mist could be heard even above the thunder. Now was the time, thought Volkmar. They could wait no longer.

Volkmar sounded the Horn of Sigismund once more. Behind him, a brace of rockets huffed into the air, fuses crackling. With a tremendous triple bang the artillery volley detonated high above the battlefield, the burning light of its explosions strobing against the slick black brickwork of Castle Sternieste. Their illumination remained as bright as the first detonation as the phosphoric rockets drifted downwards on wide canopies of silk. The luminescence was so bright that it lit the battlefield as clear as a summer day.

‘Sigmar!’ shouted Volkmar, cracking the war altar’s reins as hard as he could and sending the carriage surging forward. Answering his war cry, the entire line of crusaders charged headlong into the wall of undeath coming towards them. The war altar crashed bodily through a mass of skeletal swordsmen, crushing half a dozen to splinters in a second. Volkmar lashed out at skulls and bony wrists below him as the unliving warriors jabbed upward at him ineffectually. To his left the Tattersouls flung themselves into the fray, shattering yet more skeletons with their swinging flails. With the battlefield bright and the fires of righteous ire in their veins, the Sigmarites were cutting down corpses with every strike.