‘And what is this bibelot, this morsel, that I should exert myself so?’
‘Oh, something of great value, for all that it is but a small thing… a name.’ Mannfred cocked his head. ‘Much diminished, this name, but valuable all the same, I think.’
‘Speak it,’ Be’lakor said.
‘Free me,’ Mannfred replied.
‘No. Why should I? What good is this name to me?’
‘Well, it is not so much the name as the soul upon which it hangs. A divine soul, Be’lakor. One which has supped at the sweet nectar of immortality, but now is but a mortal. Helpless and fragile.’
‘A god,’ Be’lakor rasped. The daemon’s eyes narrowed. ‘The gods are dead.’
‘Not all of them. Some yet remain.’ Mannfred stepped back. He spread his arms. ‘One, at least, is here, in this pestilential forest. Hidden amongst the cattle.’
‘A god,’ Be’lakor repeated, softly. The daemon’s features twisted. Mannfred could almost smell the creature’s greed.
‘An elven god,’ he said. ‘One whose blood, mortal or not, contains no small amount of power, for one who knows how to extract it. I had considered it myself, but, well…’ He motioned to the cage. ‘I will gladly offer their identity in exchange for but the simple favour of cleaving these pestiferous roots which do bind me.’
Be’lakor was silent for a moment. Then, with a gesture, a sword of writhing shadows sprouted from his hand. He swept the blade across the bars, and Mannfred clapped his hands to his ears as he heard the trees which made up his prison scream in agony. He made to leave, but found the tip of Be’lakor’s blade at his throat. ‘The name, vampire.’
‘Lileath, goddess of moon and prophecy,’ Mannfred said, gingerly pushing the blade aside. It squirmed unpleasantly at his touch.
‘Where?’ Be’lakor growled.
‘That was not part of the bargain,’ Mannfred said. ‘But, as I am an honourable man, I shall tell you anyway. The King’s Glade. She sits on the Council of Incarnates, and listens to their bickering, no doubt plotting some scheme of her own.’
Be’lakor grinned. Then, in a twist of shadow, the daemon prince was gone. Mannfred sagged. Free of the deadening effect of the magics, he suddenly realised just how weak he truly was. Hunger gnawed at him.
He heard the rattle of weapons, and realised that Be’lakor’s destruction of the cage had roused the guards. Mannfred smiled, and as the first elf entered the chamber, he was already in motion, jaw unhinged like that of a serpent and claws sprouting from his fingertips. He bowled the elf over with bone-shattering force and tore the spear from his grip. He hurled it with deadly accuracy, spitting the second and driving her back against the wall. With a growl, he tore the helm from the first guard’s head and fastened his jaws on the helpless elf’s throat.
Pain lashed across his back, even as he fed. He turned, jaws and chest stained with blood, and twisted aside as the sword came down again. The elf pursued him as he slithered away. Mannfred caught the blade as it stabbed for his midsection, and hissed in pain as the sigils carved into its surface burned his flesh. He drove the claws of his free hand into the elf’s throat and tore it out.
He fed quickly, knowing that more guards were on their way. When he had supped his fill from each of the guards, he fled into the labyrinth of roots, taking care to keep to the shadows and to hide himself from the spirits which haunted Athel Loren. Freed of his cell, his magics had returned, and he had little difficulty in reaching the surface.
As he reached the open air, he tilted his head and sniffed. Escape was his most pressing concern, but he hesitated. He had been betrayed and humiliated. All of the plots and schemes he had concocted in his confinement came rushing back, and he savoured them. No, it wouldn’t do to leave without saying goodbye. Nagash was beyond the scope of his powers. But he could still poison the well.
Which one will it be? he thought, as he glided through the trees, moving swiftly, conscious of the alarms which were even now being raised. The Incarnates were all, like Nagash, beyond him, though he hated to admit it. That left only certain individuals. And only one whose scent was close at hand.
Mannfred smiled as he set off in pursuit of his quarry. How appropriate, he thought. Maybe fate is on my side after all. If nothing else, it might prove amusing to take Be’lakor’s prize off the table before the daemon got a chance to claim her. And if in doing so he could rend his faithless former would-be allies from a safe remove, all the better. Moving swiftly, he navigated the ever-shifting trails of the forest, avoiding the kinbands likely dispatched to bring him to heel, until he found the one he sought.
And then, with the surety of a serpent, he struck.
Duke Jerrod rose to his feet and spun, his sword flying from his sheath and into his hand. The point of the gleaming blade came to rest in the hollow of Mannfred von Carstein’s throat. ‘Do not move, vampire, or I will remove your foul head,’ Jerrod said.
The Council of Incarnates was squabbling again, arguing over which course of action to take. He’d hoped that the battle with the beastmen would have seen them united at last, but such was not to be. Even as they’d returned to the glade, arguments had started anew. While Hammerson seemed to take a perverse pleasure in watching such rancorous discussion, Jerrod no longer had the stomach for it. It reminded him of the last days in the king’s court, before Mallobaude’s civil war. An enemy on the horizon, and all of them more concerned about getting their own way. Even demigods, it seemed, were not immune to foolishness.
He had been kneeling in the glade, praying to the Lady, asking for some sort of sign which might show him the way, when he’d heard a stick snap beneath the vampire’s tread. Mannfred smiled and spread his hands. ‘Why would I move, when I am where I wish to be, Duke of Quenelles?’ He stepped back slowly, and bowed low. ‘At your service.’
‘I doubt that,’ Jerrod said. He kept his sword extended, ready for any attack the vampire might make. His blade had been blessed by the Lady herself, and would cut through magic and flesh with equal ease. That said, he felt little confidence that he could do much more than distract the creature before him until aid arrived. Even in Bretonnia, the name of von Carstein was a watchword for savagery and death. ‘I did not expect you to escape. Few make it out of the depths of Athel Loren alive.’
‘Well, I’m not really alive, am I?’ Mannfred said. His smile slipped. ‘I am not much of anything now.’ He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, and said, ‘We are two of a kind, you and I… lords without lands, deceived by those we placed our trust in, and fought for.’
‘We are nothing alike, vampire,’ Jerrod said. A part of him screamed for the vampire’s head. The creature deserved death for his crimes. But another part… He blinked. ‘What do you mean “deceived”?’ he asked, without thinking.
Mannfred pulled his cloak tight about him. ‘You do not know, then. How unfortunate. But how in keeping with the selfishness of such creatures, that even now, when you have sacrificed so much, she still refuses to tell you.’
‘She,’ Jerrod said. He knew who the vampire meant. Lileath, he thought.
As if he’d read Jerrod’s thoughts, Mannfred nodded. ‘Yes, you know of whom I speak.’ He frowned. ‘I come now to warn you, Duke of Quenelles, as I wish I had been warned. A final act before I depart this malevolent grove, to perhaps rectify at least one wrong in my misbegotten life.’
‘Say what you have come to say, beast.’ Jerrod readied his sword. ‘And be quick. I hear the horns of Athel Loren sounding in the deep glades. Your jailers will be here soon.’