‘Excellent. It will take me that long to see to raising a proper host, to carry us in style to our respective destinations.’ Mannfred spread his hands. And to ensure that you return on your shield, rather than behind it, ally-mine, he thought. ‘If you were capable of drinking, I’d raise a toast to you, oh mighty Arkhan.’
‘And if I had any interest in drinking with you, Mannfred, I would accept. Go, you may leave me here. I must attune myself to your sorceries and find the right strands to pull and those to cut.’ Mannfred hesitated, and Arkhan gave a rasping laugh. ‘Fear not, vampire. Leave your dogs to guard me, if you wish. Summon ghouls or assign your pantomime Templars to stand sentinel over me, to ensure that I do not steal your treasures. I care not.’
Mannfred bowed shallowly. ‘You cannot fault me for being overcautious, Lord Arkhan. Allies, in my experience, are as the shifting sands – untrustworthy as a matter of course. But you shame me with your generosity of spirit, and courtly manner. I leave you, sir, to do as you must. And I go to do as I must.’ Mannfred swept his cloak up about him and turned and left.
As he stalked through the corridors of Castle Sternieste, Mannfred forced aside the worries that gnawed at him. He didn’t trust Arkhan, but he had little choice at this juncture. As old and as learned as he was in the arts of sorcery, Arkhan was older still. The liche had likely forgotten more about magic than Mannfred would ever be able to learn. He had been present at the birth of necromancy, and he was as good as Nagash’s will given form.
But that wouldn’t save him, once he’d outlived his usefulness.
Something yowled, and he paused. He looked up and saw Arkhan’s detestable cat slinking through the ancient support timbers above. It glared down at him with milky-eyed malevolence, fleshless tail twitching. Mannfred’s eyes narrowed. Was it watching him – spying for its master? He raised his hand, ready to blast it from existence, when something stopped him. He caught a glimpse of a massive, gaunt shape, twitching and flickering with witch-fire, out of the corner of his eye, like a giant squatting to fill the corridor behind him, and he whirled with a snarl. But there was nothing there. No giant and no shadow, save his own.
When he looked back up, the cat had vanished.
Mannfred looked around once more, and then continued on his way. He soon arrived at the high garden that he had made his war chamber for the coming campaign. He could not say why he had done so; he had rarely visited the high garden in all the months he had made Sternieste his home.
And do you remember why you avoided coming to Sternieste? Vlad purred softly. This was my garden, wasn’t it? Where I held my councils of war, in that golden age between conquest and damnation, while Sylvania was still to be won. I am honoured that you have chosen to honour my memory in such a way, my most attentive student.
Mannfred stopped. He ran his hands over the crown of his head. He had had hair once, a luxuriant mane of hair, the hue of a raven’s wing. He had been beautiful, and proud of that beauty. But after rising from the sump of Hel Fenn, he had shaved his head. His return was a rebirth. In death, he had been purged of old failings and faults, and vanity was discarded with the rest. Or so he’d thought.
Really, though, it had been to mark himself as different to Vlad. Vlad, with his icy mane and aristocratic mien; Vlad who held to the noble traditions of a long-gone empire – including the superstition that councils of war should be held in the open air, beneath the eyes of the gods so as to gain their favour.
Mannfred felt a chill course through him. Was that why he had been drawn to Sternieste, to the garden? Was he unconsciously imitating Vlad?
How many of Nagash’s detestable tomes did I gather again? One or two, surely. Your initiative in that regard is impressive, I must say. Then, you never did know how to quit while you were ahead, did you? Vlad laughed.
No, no, he had chosen Sternieste for the strategic advantage it provided. And the garden… Well, few others even knew it existed, which made it the ideal spot to confer with his subordinates without danger of eavesdroppers.
Am I so poor an example, then? Vlad whispered.
‘You’re dead. You tell me,’ Mannfred muttered. Vlad’s laughter accompanied him into the garden, where the inner circle of the Drakenhof Templars sat or stood, arguing loudly amongst themselves. Well, Anark and Markos were arguing, which had become an annoyingly regular occurrence. The two vampires snarled and cursed at one another, and Mannfred thought they might come to blows. He paused, waiting, amused now, his previous uncertainties forgotten.
‘Oh very good,’ he said, after the spectre of violence had passed on, thwarted. ‘I do so enjoy a spirited debate. I hope it was about something important.’
‘He refuses to acquiesce to my authority,’ Anark growled. Elize had one hand on his shoulder and her other pressed flat to Markos’s chest.
‘When you show me a reason to respect the puerile demands that flutter from your flapping lips, perhaps I will,’ Markos snapped.
Mannfred sighed and strode between them. Elize retreated as Mannfred’s hands snapped out and his fingers fastened on the throat of either vampire. Unliving muscle swelled as Mannfred hauled them both up and off their feet and into the air. ‘This debate, while amusing, is most assuredly moot, my friends. The only authority here to which you must acquiesce is mine own.’ Point made, he dropped them both. Anark, with a beast’s wisdom, scrambled away. Markos sat and glared, rubbing his throat. Mannfred ignored him.
‘The liche thinks that he can shatter the mystic cage that holds us,’ he said, pushing aside the flicker of anger that accompanied those words. ‘Out, all of you. Rouse the barrow-legions and draw the souls of the cursed dead from the stones where they sleep. The muster of Sternieste marches to war, and I would have every muck-encrusted bone and ragged shroud ready. Go, fly, rouse my army,’ Mannfred said, sweeping out a hand.
Markos and the others filed out of the garden. But before Elize could follow them, Mannfred stopped her. As he did so, he noticed that her pets hesitated. Brute and shadow, Anark and the Crowfiend. Anark hesitated more obviously, waiting like a loyal hound. The Crowfiend lurked outside the entrance to the garden, as if he were only stopping to admire the mouldy tapestries that dangled from the walls there. Mannfred looked at Elize and she motioned delicately to Anark. He turned and left, visibly reluctant. The Crowfiend drifted away a moment later, silent and seemingly unconcerned.
‘The loyalty you inspire in your get awes me, Elize,’ Mannfred said. He clasped his hands behind his back and strode towards the tree. ‘Do I inspire the same devotion in any creature?’
‘I am your loyal servant, my lord,’ Elize said softly.
‘So you have shown again and again, sweet cousin.’ Mannfred glanced at her. ‘You are one of the rocks upon which my foundations stand.’ He looked away. ‘We are sallying forth from this besieged province, cousin, and I would have the Drakenhof Templars in the vanguard.’
‘We have ever stood at the narrowest point, my lord,’ Elize said.
‘That point, I’m afraid, is going to become narrower still.’ He lifted a hand, and spoke a single, shuddering syllable. The air thickened and the light dimmed, as if a fog had settled over the garden. ‘There,’ Mannfred said. ‘Now we can speak freely with one another, without curious ears eavesdropping. Anark will accompany Arkhan into Bretonnia.’
‘Bretonnia,’ Elize repeated. She hesitated, and then nodded. Mannfred had not told his inner circle just what he was after, but he had no doubt that the brighter sparks among them had already guessed. ‘Are you certain now is the time, my lord?’