‘On your feet, tick-licker!’ Skrittar snarled, kicking Vrask until he obeyed. ‘You are right, I can use you to show Manglrr where his faith should rest.’ The seerlord sucked at his fangs as he glanced back at the graveyard. Disgracing Clan Pestilens was all nice and wonderful, but that still left the problem of what to do about the stink-things.
A hideous thought occurred to Skrittar. Ignoring the whining Vrask, he raised his snout and sniffed again at the air. Yes, there was something wrong about that decayed smell, that tang of dark magic he could detect running beneath the stink of skaven fear musk. It was the smell from the fields, and it was a smell he didn’t like. It was a smell that made him think of abhorrent moments from countless generations past, when the Under-Empire made war against the Curse-thing of Cripple Peak.
Just the idea of that horrifying place made Skrittar’s glands clench. For generations entire clans had perished trying to seize the warpstone mines under Cripple Peak, vying for control with a terrifying mage-thing and the dead-things at its command. The tale of that conflict had passed into legend, a parable to warn future litters.
The foes they fought now, these decaying thieves who stole his warpstone, they were like the dead-things of Cripple Peak! They were the undead, creatures immune to the plagues of Pestilens because they weren’t really alive. Unleash a thousand poxes, and the monsters would keep coming.
As he considered the problem, Skrittar gnashed his fangs. There was a solution, of course, but it would mean letting other paws into the food stash. He didn’t like to invite further complications into what had already become an overly complicated scheme, but there was no getting away from the fact that if he didn’t then he’d never gather the warpstone before the entire Under-Empire was aware of it.
Clan Fester was afraid to fight the undead. Clan Pestilens was unable to fight them. But there was one clan who had built their very identity around their legacy as killers of the dead. They were the last clan to leave Cripple Peak, the survivors of the long war against the Accursed One.
Yes, Skrittar decided, it was time to form an alliance with Warlord Nekrot and the grave-rats of Clan Mordkin.
Chapter XIII
Sylvania
Nachgeheim, 1113
They sat within a hall of black stone, the walls climbing higher around them as the indefatigable undead pursued their ceaseless labours. With each layer of stone, Vanhal could feel the energies of the site swelling, magnified, like the current of some invisible river being funnelled into a smaller channel. Idly, he wondered if this place had known such power in the distant age of Kadon, when primitive tribes had congregated here to commune with the spectres of their tribal totems. Were his efforts increasing the energy or simply restoring them to levels they had once enjoyed?
It was a debate for philosophers. The answer to such a question could only be inconsequential to Vanhal’s pursuits. What mattered to him wasn’t the power this site had once possessed, it was the power with which it might again be endowed. Power to remake the world, to strip away all the misery and confusion and bestow true peace upon all mankind.
Vanhal glanced over at his companion, the noble von Diehl. The baron was busily studying the plans for the construction, blueprints drawn by a phantom hand during the seance the two necromancers had conducted under the dark of the moon. From Lothar’s changing expression, the wonder in his eyes, it was apparent that the intricacies of those designs were not lost upon him. This building would be unlike any other, engineered not as a home or fortress, tomb or temple. It would be devoted to an arcane purpose, its every stone set in such a way as to evoke an aethyric resonance and bolster the magical harmonies.
The seance chamber had been one of the first rooms Vanhal’s legion completed, built with seventeen angles to do homage to the gods of Nehekhara, twelve doors to allow passage of netherworld winds, and a single great mirror of obsidian to form a permanent window into that netherworld. Sixteen circles were etched into the floor, each ring demarked by a series of intertwining glyphs, runes, sigils and pictograms — all invocations or proscriptions towards unseen forces. Each ring was broken by a narrow door, a gap that would be sealed with lines of saltpetre and myrrh when powers were to be evoked. The least entities would require only the small, inner circles to be sealed. The outer rings, pressing almost to the walls of the chamber, would guard the conjurer against even the mightiest of principalities.
The spirit Vanhal had evoked last night had required the sealing of six of the circles. From the dust of ages, the necromancer had summoned the shade of Hotepk, grand priest and chief architect to Settra the Imperishable, mighty pharaoh of lost Khemri. When he had first manifested, the ancient spectre had affected the appearance of a lion-headed godling, hurling curses and threats down on the heads of the mortals who had dared intrude upon his slumber. Lothar had been cowed by the ghost’s malignity and might, but Vanhal was unmoved. Using formulae he had deciphered from De Arcanis Kadon, invoking names unspoken for two thousand years, he subjugated the apparition, binding it to his will. The lion-headed godling dissipated, leaving behind it a glowering, dusky man in the robes and kirtle of ages past. After another threat, drawing on the fearsome rage of Usekhp, the Dreaming God, the ghost acquiesced into grudging servility and drew up the plans for Vanhal’s tower.
Hotepk’s brilliance in life hadn’t been diminished in death. Under the command of Vanhal, the spirit designed a structure that would at once increase, focus and contain the powerful aethyric energies coursing through the site. This place would become a magical fulcrum like no other, surpassing even the dread potentialities of the Black Pyramid and Castle Drachenfels.
As he studied the designs, Lothar von Diehl was awakening to that scale of power. ‘This upper gallery,’ he exclaimed in an awed gasp. ‘It is like a permanent manifestation of Zahak’s Ritual of Sendings! And this… This concentric ring of cells aligned to a central arcade overlooking the core of the tower. With the proper specimens restrained in those niches you would be able to create a soul cage of unprecedented scope. The blackest daemon would be a plaything inside such a trap!’
Vanhal simply nodded and turned his gaze to the zombies shambling about the scaffolding, levering the heavy blocks of stone into place. ‘Pride is a wasteful thing,’ he said, his voice a cold whisper. ‘The braggart is the lowest form of erudite. For those who truly understand, there is no need to boast. Accomplishment is the end in itself.’
Lothar stared at the former priest, an expression of incredulity on his thin face. He ran a hand through his decaying scalp, a clump of greying hair coming away with his fingers. ‘Humility is the refuge of those without courage,’ he protested. ‘I have moved among the nobility, I have watched those who command and those who obey. It has taught me one thing: the only thing that matters in this world is power. Raw, merciless power. The ambition to acquire it. The ruthlessness to use it.’ He slapped his hand against the blueprints. ‘This is power such as the world has never seen. Vanhaldenschlosse will become the throne of the Empire, all men will bow down before the threat of this place!’
The baron’s words faded in a pained choke. Clutching at his throat, he dropped to the floor, gasping for breath as spectral fingers tightened around his neck. Vanhal stared at his apprentice, observing his struggles with cold indifference. ‘Already I can make any man I wish bow down before me. What does such a thing accomplish? It feeds the ego, dulls the mind with delusion and attachment. Fear and hate… love and loyalty, what are these things measured against the long march of history?’ He paused, studying the changing shades of Lothar’s face, watching the pleading hands groping towards him. ‘Your mind is deluded. You still think of this power as something to exploit and use, to conquer others and dominate them. Such blindness,’ he said, shaking his head. With a flick of his hand, he dispelled the ghostly coils about his apprentice’s neck. The constriction removed, Lothar collapsed to the floor, sucking great breaths into his starved lungs.