In the midst of Lector Stefan’s exhilarated relief, Kreyssig clapped his hands together. While the first pair of Kaiserjaeger dragged the dead woman away, two more soldiers marched into the torture chamber. This time, there was no mistaking the identity of their captive.
‘Now you know what will happen,’ Kreyssig told Lector Stefan. ‘You know every stroke, every cut, every stripe that your daughter will suffer.’ He smiled coldly at the priest, seeing the abject defeat in his eyes. ‘I will give you a moment to ask yourself what you would do to spare her such a fate.
‘Then, I will tell you how you are going to serve your Emperor.’
Mordheim
Hexentag, 1113
The sound you hear is dripping blood. That thought brought a cruel twist to Baron Lothar von Diehl’s face.
This is the start of Hexentag.
The necromancer’s black cape billowed about his lanky body as he swept down the marble-floored aisle, his eyes darting from one wall to the other, assuring himself that the sacred icons flanking the hall had been properly defiled. Bound to a pillar, her body inverted so that the blood might flow more freely from her slashed throat, the last of the priestesses shuddered and died. Her once pristine robes were soaked crimson, the silver dove icon torn from her throat and in its stead the dead carcass of a carrion crow. Even in death, there was a look of shock in the woman’s expression. She shouldn’t have been surprised. In this age of plague and ruin, what place was more accustomed to death than the Temple of Shallya, the goddess of mercy and healing?
Lothar could feel those morbid energies, could almost taste them on the air. When he closed his eyes, he could see them as an after-image, a ghostly crackle that throbbed all around him. This was the power he sought, the power De Arcanis Kadon had promised him. The place, the hour and the sacrifice. All three had been brought together.
There was a dread potential within a defiled temple, an aethyric reverberation that turned a holy atmosphere back upon itself and could be exploited to magnify the powers of darkness. Lothar was disappointed that he’d never taken vows himself, for if the potential of a profaned temple was magnificent, it was nothing beside that of a heretical priest. Kadon had been a holy man, in his way, before he’d discovered the true path to power and domination. Before him, there had been Black Nagash, priest-king of Khemri until he created the forbidden art of necromancy.
Yes, it was a pity he’d never taken vows, but Lothar would overcome that impediment with determination and ruthlessness. Nothing would stand in his way, not convention, not tradition, not mercy. And not familial affections.
Stalking down the aisle, Lothar could feel the eyes of his men on him, fear in their gaze. Rogues and murderers, one and all, the scum of Mordheim recruited for him by Marko that he might seize the temple. These were the sort of villains who hadn’t balked at slitting the throats of old priestesses or clubbing the brains from helpless plague victims lying on the pews. Yet even these men were offended by the outrage their employer now intended.
Even Lothar had balked at first, shying away from the ritual he had uncovered. Some timid element within himself had cringed away from this crime. It had taken weeks to silence that last foolish vestige of morality. Morality was the refuge of cowards, something to excuse their weakness. A part of him had tried to cling to such idiocy to the very last, but his determination, his need to know had prevailed at last. He had progressed as far as he could with De Arcanis Kadon; now he must be far more daring if he would unlock the rest of its secrets.
The sacrifice was bound to the altar, tied hand and foot in hair cut from corpses, clothed only in a shroud stripped from a suicide’s grave. The alabaster statue of Shallya that stood behind the altar was draped in black, the head knocked from the stone shoulders to be replaced with a grinning skull. There was a symbol daubed upon the skull’s forehead, but it was a thing so terrible even Lothar couldn’t stare at it directly, only snatch the briefest of glimpses from the corner of his eye.
The killers were muttering nervously among themselves, shocked by what they had been told to do, frightened of what their master might do next. Standing at the foot of the altar, Marko alone understood the purpose behind it all. Perhaps that was why he looked even more anxious than the others.
Peasants! As though their thoughts and fears were of the slightest interest to a baron. Theirs were small minds and even smaller ambitions. To steal and drink and rut, perhaps at the very end try to make some atonement to the gods and redeem their pathetic souls. Such miserable desires placed them where they belonged — with the beasts!
Lothar would achieve far greater things. He had been born to a superior breed of man, endowed with a mentality that strove for something beyond crude urges and base lusts. Through his veins flowed the blood of thirty generations of von Diehls and the legacy of their great deeds. He had inherited the desire for knowledge, not as some abstract understanding or a means to some materialistic end, but as something precious in itself. If he could unlock the great secrets the gods had jealously kept from mankind, the nature of eternity, for example, then he would consider himself vindicated of all his failings. In that hour, he would be the greatest of the von Diehls.
Nothing would keep him from that achievement. Nothing.
The necromancer mounted the short flight of steps, holding a thin hand towards Marko as he passed the peasant. Marko hesitated for an instant, then with an uneasy expression, placed within Lothar’s grasp the ancient bronze knife. Clutching the arthame in his bony hands, the baron approached the altar.
The sacrifice looked up at him, eyes wide with desperate entreaty. Perhaps, once, Lothar would have been weak enough to submit to that appeal, to allow the petty affiliations of family to stay his hand. But that time was long gone. There was only one thing he wanted from his mother now. One swift strike sent the arthame plunging into her breast. Lothar could feel her agony flow up the dagger. Savagely, he twisted the blade. He was already a patricide, after all. Why should he hesitate now?
It was the work of a few minutes before Lothar rose from the gore-splattered altar and lifted his prize to the grinning skull. The empty sockets seemed to stare down into the shivering heart, watching as the last drops of blood oozed from its veins.
The necromancer could feel the power gathering about him. When he closed his eyes, his vision was ablaze with the glow of aethyric vibrations. His skin crackled as magic pulsed around his body. Lothar’s mind churned with weird images and phantom landscapes, ghostly voices hissed in his ears. It was an effort to subdue the force coursing through him, an effort only a spirit as focused and determined as his own could achieve.
When he closed his eyes, he could send his spirit hurtling down the long eternities, riding the deathly emanations through the ageless cycles of dissolution and decay. He could see the rise of kingdoms, the ebb and flow of empires. He saw the great necropolis of the desert, watched as megalithic pyramids rose from the sand of aeons, heard the intonations of priests more than half dead themselves as they made obeisance to the mummies of kings. He was there as the Black Pyramid reared up into the sky, a colossus spun from midnight and redolent with emanations of foulest sorcery and obscenity. He was witness to the Great Ritual, the apocalypse that heralded the eternal night and blotted out a mighty people in a single breath.