‘So it can speak, then,’ said Olf, his bushy white eyebrows raised as he turned back to stare at the horizon.
The bone prison clattered on, rattling along the scree-strewn path. The resurrected knights lashed to its multiple yokes moaned and clanked in their battered plate as they dragged onwards through the sharp stones of the Sylvanian road.
On the horizon to the east, Mordecaul noticed Templehof Crag silhouetted against the unhealthy light of Morrslieb. High above the tainted moon was its wholesome twin, Mannslieb, nothing more than a diffuse smudge in the gloomy skies. In the last few weeks the moon’s lantern glow had been all but eradicated by the shroud of night that had so thoroughly claimed Sylvania. For one schooled in omens, it was a very bad sign.
‘So we are heading north, then, if that’s Templehof,’ said Olf. ‘Pay up.’
Sindt snapped the brittle bone splinter that he was using to probe the lock of his manacles and spat an obscenity in frustration. Elspeth tutted and made the sign of Shallya as Sindt kicked over two of the disembodied heads that he and Olf were using as improvised currency in their morbid gambling games.
Olf tapped the symbol of Ulric that scarred his forehead and grinned, exposing wide brown teeth. ‘A wolfer’s nose is never wrong.’
‘Yeah, great,’ said Sindt. ‘So we’re headed for Hunger Wood. I’m thrilled for us all.’
‘Hunger Wood?’ asked Mordecaul, sitting bolt upright. He drew in breath through clenched teeth as the weals on his back opened again. ‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Aye, that I am,’ said Olf. ‘Sure as winter’s bite.’
‘That means ghouls,’ growled the nature-priest on the bars above, baring his uneven yellow teeth.
‘Yep,’ said Sindt, his tone flat.
‘It’s worse than just ghouls,’ said Mordecaul.
‘Something worse than being eaten alive, eh?’ said Sindt, rubbing his chin. ‘Hmm. Olf, looks like we have a new game. I’ll start. How about being ground into sausage and served at a Bretonnian banquet?’
The tall noblewoman, shackled to the ceiling of the prison, shot the trickster-priest such a look that the smug smile melted from his face.
‘You don’t get it!’ spat Mordecaul. Something in his tone captured the attention of everyone in the prison, save the elf maiden, whose tapered eyes remained closed.
‘Go on, boy,’ said Olf. ‘What’s got a death-priest so spooked?’
‘Hunger Wood,’ replied Mordecaul sullenly. ‘It… changes people.’
‘No, that’s not it,’ said Sindt slyly. ‘He’s covering something up. Something to do with our young friend’s history, or his order, I’ll wager. Am I right?’
Mordecaul said nothing.
‘Come on, lad,’ said Olf. ‘The more we know, the more we cooperate, the better chance we have of getting through this alive. What we’re heading towards, is it a specific place? Or perhaps something of value?’
‘We’re all dead in a day or two anyway,’ said Sindt. ‘So you may as well tell us.’
The young priest gave a long sigh, looking up at a rare glimpse of sky.
‘It’s a site,’ he said. ‘The site of a ruined tower, to be exact. A place where my order has hidden something away from the von Carsteins.’
‘So why only go there now?’ asked Olf. ‘What’s taken the vampire this long to claim it?’
‘A ritual, of a sort. My order can hide the departed from those who would raise the dead, right? Everyone knows you keep a couple of pennies aside for Morr.’
‘Yes,’ said Elspeth, making the sign of Shallya. ‘When there’s nothing more to be done, consecrate them unto the god of the afterlife. That way they cannot rise again.’
‘Yes. Well, we hide other things too, sometimes.’
‘Go on,’ whispered Sindt.
Mordecaul looked nervously past the prison’s yoke to the armoured vampire up ahead, but their captor was still muttering to himself, his attention focused on the road ahead.
‘In Hunger Wood,’ whispered the young priest, ‘there’s a site where Ghalacryst, an old member of our order, was said to have made a pact with Morr. A pact to keep something he discovered secret, something ancient and evil.’
‘Like the thing inside that horrible flying carriage up there?’ asked Olf.
‘Sort of,’ said Mordecaul. ‘A grimoire he found in the bowels of Mordheim.’
‘Mort-heim!’ said the nature-priest, his growl like that of a cornered fox. ‘It is cursed.’ Sindt shot a look up at him, making a slashing gesture across his neck before motioning for Mordecaul to continue.
‘Well, this tome he found,’ continued Mordecaul, ‘he knew it was of great value to the agents of undeath that were hunting the ruins. They didn’t care for money, nor for wyrdstone. Just for the grimoire. So Ghalacryst hid it away from the sight of the living and the dead alike, deep in Hunger Wood. He’s still there now, guarding his find, or so they high priests say.’
‘Seven hells, boy,’ said Olf. ‘Enough mystery. What does the vampire want with this thing? And why wait ’til now to retrieve it?’
‘Well, we know that our gods aren’t… I mean our devotions aren’t being rewarded. None of us wants to admit it, but there it is. Look at us. An acolyte of Ranald, shackled to his own bad luck. A priest of Morr, trapped amongst the undead. A priest of Taal, caught like an animal behind bars. A Shallyan, unable to heal the wounded. Do I need to spell it out for you?’
‘Er… Maybe a little bit,’ said Olf.
‘The powers of the faithful have no meaning in Sylvania, not any more!’ hissed Mordecaul, his manacles clinking as he threw his hands up in frustration. ‘Not since the ritual in Sternieste. That means that the spell of seclusion worked by Ghalacryst isn’t working!’
‘And that our host has hence learned of this priceless… grimoire,’ said Elspeth carefully.
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s where we’re going now,’ said Olf. ‘To pick it up.’
‘Yes!’
‘And if he’s listening to us now,’ said Sindt, ‘and didn’t know about your order’s dirty little secret before, you’ve pretty much just told him all about it.’
The tall Bretonnian woman gave a short trill of laughter, a note of desperate madness in the dark.
A sudden cry came from the south, so pure and high that it instantly drew their attention. Mordecaul spun around to see a great eagle swoop low towards them, its wingspan the width of the winding road.
Plummeting out of the clouds behind it came one of the Templehof vargheists, screeching in outrage as it folded its wings for a killing dive. The great eagle banked hard, lashing out at its pursuer with talons the size of a farmer’s sickle. It tore the wing-devil’s face clean off, leaving only a flayed, screaming skull.
As the eagle dived low the second of the two vargheists shot out of the clouds, slamming its own claws into the creature’s shoulders and pulling up hard. Above it, something writhed in the clouds, looking to Mordecaul like a mass of ectoplasmic figures. The skies pulsed red as the Mortis Engine slowly descended. The ragged nature-priest shrieked, crying out for Taal to save him. Mordecaul had to fight hard not to scream himself, screwing his eyes shut to blot out the thing’s unholy glory. A black claw beckoned behind his eyelids, mocking him, drawing out his dreadful suspicions and making them real. He shook his head in defiance and looked up once more.
The aerial battle between the eagle and the vargheists was becoming more and more frantic. The eagle was biting and slashing, banking and swooping, but it could not shake both the vargheists at once. Wherever it struck, the greyish flesh would heal over once more, caressed by the bilious energies of the unholy palanquin. Blood pattered down onto the upturned faces of the captives, each of them silently willing the eagle to prevail as the aerial struggle unfolded.