‘Then you don’t need him! You have me,’ Mannfred howled, jerking in his captors’ grip. ‘I have always been loyal to you! I brought you back – me, not him!’
Nagash took Mannfred’s chin in one black claw. ‘LOYAL. YOUR KIND DOES NOT KNOW LOYALTY. DO THEY, ARKHAN?’ The witch-lights flickered towards Arkhan, where the liche stood watching.
‘Loyal or not, he has served you,’ Arkhan said, one hand still pressed to his chest where the Everchild had struck him. He could feel something there, as if she had passed something to him, but he could not say what. ‘As have I.’
‘YES. AS YOU WILL CONTINUE TO DO, UNTIL THE GREAT WORK IS COMPLETED. AS THIS ONE WILL DO. AS ALL HIS KIND WILL DO.’ Nagash leaned towards Mannfred. ‘YOU WERE CREATED TO SERVE ME. YOU ARE AN EXTENSION OF MY WILL, NOTHING MORE. AND I WILL DASH YOU DOWN OR CALL YOU UP AS IT PLEASES ME.’
With that, Nagash sank his fingers into Mannfred’s chest and wrenched a gobbet of flesh free. Mannfred screamed and thrashed as Nagash turned and squeezed the bloody hank of meat onto the pile of dust and soil his servants had created earlier. When the last drop of blood had been wrung from it, he tossed it aside without a second glance.
‘RISE,’ Nagash said. It was not a request. The air, murky and foul, twitched like an inattentive cat. ‘RISE,’ he said again.
The air twitched again. Dust billowed, mixing with Sylvanian grave soil and Nehekharan sand. Something vague was beginning to take shape. Mannfred’s howls of denial grew louder as the pool of his blood began to bubble and froth.
Arkhan watched, curious. The blood of all vampires was, at its base, the blood of Nagash, albeit diluted by poison and sorcery. The black brew devoured and replaced all that was human in them, making them over into something else. It made a dreadful sort of sense that Nagash would know how to manipulate it.
For as long as he could recall, the vampires had thought themselves separate and superior to beings such as himself. They had thought themselves the inheritors of Nagash’s legacy, rather than merely another sort of servant.
Today, Nagash proved them wrong.
The blood began to spread, increasing in volume, and rising upwards like a geyser to encompass the dust. The vague shape became less so. To Arkhan, it was as if someone were swimming towards him across a great distance. A sound drew his attention.
Mannfred was weeping. Great red tears rolled down his cheeks, and his mouth was open in a soundless howl of fury and fear. He’d been forced to his knees by Nagash’s servants, and he’d ceased his struggles. He stared at the pulsing column of blood as if it were the end of the world.
Then, maybe it was.
Arkhan turned back as Nagash stepped close to the blood and, without hesitation, plunged his arm in. There was a sound like the ocean’s roar and the crash of thunder, and then Nagash jerked something out of the blood and tossed it aside. As it struck the ground, Arkhan saw that it was a human figure, flesh stained red.
The blood splashed down and lost all cohesion. The figure lay on the ground, curled into a ball. Nagash reached for it, as if to shake it to wakefulness. A bloodstained hand snapped out, seizing his wrist. Nagash paused.
A voice, hoarse with disuse, said, ‘I… live.’ The figure uncoiled and rose awkwardly, as Nagash jerked his wrist free and stepped back. Beneath a mask of dried blood, feral, handsome features twisted in confusion as dark eyes gazed down at clawed hands in incomprehension. ‘I live? I-I… Isabella?’
The eyes flickered up as Mannfred at last tore himself free of his captors and lunged towards Arkhan. Unprepared, Arkhan could only stumble back as Mannfred tore his tomb-blade from its sheath and shoved him back.
‘No,’ Mannfred wailed, ‘No, not again, never again!’ He hurtled towards the newcomer, his stolen sword licking out to remove the latter’s head.
The newcomer sprang aside, stumbled and dived for one of Nagash’s warriors. He ripped the archaic blade from the wight’s belt and whirled about, bringing his newly procured weapon up just in time to block Mannfred’s next blow.
‘You,’ he said, eyes narrowing as they fixed on Mannfred’s contorted features. Thin lips peeled back, revealing an impressive mouthful of fangs.
‘I killed you once, old man. I can do it again,’ Mannfred shrieked.
Arkhan moved to break up the duel, but stopped at an imperious gesture from Nagash. The Undying King wanted to see what happened next. The two vampires lunged towards each other, their blades connecting in a screech of metal. They spun in a tight circle, their swords locked together. For a moment, Arkhan thought Mannfred had the advantage. The other vampire seemed weak, uncertain… But then, slowly, steadily, he began to gain the upper hand. Arkhan realised that he’d been feigning weakness, in order to draw Mannfred in.
Mannfred was too blinded by rage to see what his opponent was up to. He lunged, and the other vampire performed a complicated manoeuvre that Arkhan had last seen on the proving grounds of Rasetra more than a thousand years before, blocking the blow and disarming Mannfred all in one smooth motion. Mannfred, unable to halt his lunge, stumbled forward. His opponent’s blade was suddenly there to meet him, and it slid into his belly with a wet sound. Mannfred coughed and his eyes bulged in shock as he clawed at his opponent’s blade.
He forced Mannfred down to his knees, the sword still in his gut. With his free hand, he grabbed the back of Mannfred’s scalp and dragged his head up. ‘Where is Isabella, boy? Where is my ring?’ he hissed, glaring down at Mannfred.
‘Dead, and gone,’ Mannfred spat weakly. ‘Just as you were.’
‘You should know better than that, boy,’ the other vampire growled. He kicked Mannfred off the blade, and raised it over his head, as if to split Mannfred’s skull. But before the blow could fall, Nagash raised his hand.
‘HOLD, VAMPIRE. YOUR STUDENT STILL HAS HIS USES, AS DO YOU.’
The vampire turned, his eyes widening in shock. ‘Usirian’s teeth,’ he hissed. ‘Nagash…’
‘YES. AND IT IS NAGASH TO WHOM YOU OWE YOUR FEALTY, VLAD VON CARSTEIN.’ Nagash loomed over the two vampires, his eyes burning like twin infernos, the air turning sour around him. ‘KNEEL, VAMPIRE. KNEEL AND RECEIVE MY BLESSING. KNEEL, AND JOIN ME.’ Nagash raised his claws as Vlad sank slowly down to one knee, his sword planted blade-first into the ground. There was a great roar, as of a thousand-thousand voices raised in agonised protest, and the world contracted like a beast in pain. The earth trembled, and the sky wept oily rain. And Nagash found it good.
‘THE GREAT WORK CAN NOW COMMENCE.’
About the Author
Josh Reynolds has blazed a trail across the Warhammer World with the novels Master of Death, Neferata and Knight of the Blazing Sun, along with the Gotrek and Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen. As well as numerous short stories, he has also written the Warhammer 40,000 audio drama Master of the Hunt and contributed to the Apocalypse anthology Damocles with the novella Hunter’s Snare. He lives and works in Sheffield.