Castle of Blood, page 1
• THE VAMPIRE GENEVIEVE •
by Kim Newman
DRACHENFELS
GENEVIEVE UNDEAD
BEASTS IN VELVET
SILVER NAILS
THE WICKED AND THE DAMNED
A portmanteau novel by Josh Reynolds, Phil Kelly and David Annandale
MALEDICTIONS
An anthology by various authors
THE HOUSE OF NIGHT AND CHAIN
A novel by David Annandale
CASTLE OF BLOOD
A novel by C L Werner
THE COLONEL’S MONOGRAPH
A novella by Graham McNeill
INVOCATIONS
An anthology by various authors
PERDITION’S FLAME
An audio drama by Alec Worley
THE WAY OUT
An audio drama by Rachel Harrison
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer Horror
Guest List
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Epilogue
About the Author
An Extract from ‘The House of Night and Chain’
A Black Library Publication Imprint
eBook license
A dark bell tolls in the abyss.
It echoes across cold and unforgiving worlds, mourning the fate of humanity. Terror has been unleashed, and every foul creature of the night haunts the shadows. There is naught but evil here. Alien monstrosities drift in tomblike vessels. Watching. Waiting. Ravenous. Baleful magicks whisper in gloom-shrouded forests, spectres scuttle across disquiet minds. From the depths of the void to the blood-soaked earth, diabolic horrors stalk the endless night to feast upon unworthy souls.
Abandon hope. Do not trust to faith. Sacrifices burn on pyres of madness, rotting corpses stir in unquiet graves. Daemonic abominations leer with rictus grins and stare into the eyes of the accursed. And the Ruinous Gods, with indifference, look on.
This is a time of reckoning, where every mortal soul is at the mercy of the things that lurk in the dark. This is the night eternal, the province of monsters and daemons. This is Warhammer Horror. None shall escape damnation.
And so, the bell tolls on.
Prologue
Darkness, heavy and dank, infested the cellar. The blackness stretched across the ceiling, sprawled along the floor, clung to the walls in a thick skein of brooding shadows. The air itself was rank with the absence of light, cold and clammy as it was drawn with each breath. There was an atmosphere of lurking menace, the nameless fear that plucks at the heart when midnight crawls across the land.
The old man’s wrinkled hand closed tighter about the ivory walking stick he held. His bleary eyes stared into the darkness, instinct defying the logic that told him he could see nothing. His ears strained for every sound. He could hear the creep of centipedes as they stalked rats in the dark. The drip of water falling to the cellar floor. The rasp of gnawing fangs as vermin tried to chew their way into boxes and barrels. There was nothing to betray the presence of someone waiting in the room. Just the same, the old man knew it was not empty.
‘He is here?’ he whispered, his lisp drawing out the words.
‘He’s here,’ confirmed the trader who stood just behind the old man on the copper stairs. He drew a long rod of alabaster from his belt and set his palms against either end of it. The middle of the rod began to glow, throwing a bluish light across the cellar.
The cellar was a large room, with walls fashioned from blocks of dark iron. The floor was dirt and sparkled with the copper flecks mixed into its grains. Heavy archways supported the high ceiling and the bronze-sheeted roof. Much of the room was occupied by tin boxes and bronze barrels. Rats and centipedes alike retreated from the light.
There was one occupant of the cellar who did not retreat. He rose from the crate he had been sitting on when the trader activated his torch. He was so tall that he seemed almost like an ogor from the savage wilds – and such a comparison was not unjustified. His was a barbarous aspect. His dark skin was tattooed in white, creating a deathly image. His face was stained, teeth inked across his lips, his eyes staring from the sockets of a painted skull. Each bone was picked out in white on his long fingers and brawny arms. He wore a morbid helm fashioned from the head of a wolf, its snout and fangs stretching across his forehead. A breastplate of assorted bones was tied around his chest. A short skirt of skin circled his waist, the withered face of the man whose body had been flayed to craft the garment frozen in a silent scream.
‘This is him,’ the trader said, not without a shudder.
The old man limped down the last few steps, leaning heavily on his stick. He knew he was a complete contrast to the barbarian. His body was frail, wasted and thin beneath the velvet coat he wore. Frilled cuffs fell around his shrivelled hands, and rings of teak and mahogany circled his fingers. The buttons on his vest were of pure ebony, and the buckle on his belt was of polished cherrywood. There was the smell of rosewater on his pale, wrinkled skin. Nothing, however, bespoke the great wealth he enjoyed like the gold-petalled lily that was pinned over his heart. Scarce was the soil vibrant enough to support such delicate growth in this region of Chamon.
‘This is him,’ he repeated as he walked down to the cellar. There was no trepidation in his voice, only eagerness.
The trader stepped down to accompany the old man. He was middle-aged, his brown hair rapidly retreating from the middle of his head, silver sneaking into his thick moustache. His build was heavy, straying towards a paunch. His crimson doublet was not so refined as the coat of his companion, but there was a gaudy opulence in its flash of embroidered vines and leaves. Everything in his garb was of a similar character, loudly announcing prosperity and lacking the refinement of the old man’s riches. For the trader, wealth was an accomplishment to be boldly proclaimed. To the old man it was a natural birthright.
‘Thokmal has journeyed far to bring what you seek, Your Illustrious Highness,’ the trader said. He gave the old man an apologetic look. ‘I’m afraid that the expense I’ve incurred is more than we originally bargained.’
The old man fixed the trader with a steely gaze. ‘You will be paid, Gustav.’ He reached for his belt and untied the leather bag hanging there. Turning his attention back to the barbarian, he tossed the pouch to Gustav. ‘Money is of little value to me now.’
Gustav pounced on the bag and quickly opened it. He grinned as he filled his fist with teakwood coins.
‘Take whatever you need for your commission,’ the old man said as he walked towards the barbarian. ‘How much do you want?’ he asked the tattooed tribesman.
Thokmal crossed his brawny arms and returned the old man’s gaze. The barbarian’s eyes were intense, the pupils tinged a raw and vicious red. The stare of the wolf whose head he wore could not have been more ferocious. The old man could feel the hate, the smouldering rage behind the tribesman’s eyes. The bloodlust just waiting to be unleashed.
‘No money,’ Thokmal said at last. His voice was a deep rumble, like the pulse of a war drum. ‘You cannot buy what I have brought.’
The old man reared up, the ivory stick raised to strike Thokmal. ‘You have brought it and it will be mine!’ he hissed. His aged frame trembled with fury.
‘You cannot buy what I have brought,’ the barbarian repeated. His face pulled back in a cold smile, his real teeth showing beneath those inked across his lips. ‘It can only be given.’
‘Given?’ the old man muttered, his arm still raised to strike.
Thokmal nodded. ‘I do not sell.’ He pointed at Gustav, crouched on the floor counting his coins. ‘He would sell it. I will not.’
‘Then I will take it!’ the old man snarled. The ivory stick swung down at Thokmal’s head. The barbarian caught it in his hand and plucked it from the old man’s grasp as though he were but a child. The old man staggered, almost falling onto the floor as he lost his balance. He managed to keep from collapsing by sheer force of will. He would not prostrate himself before a savage from the wilds.
‘You understand,’ Thokmal growled, approval in his tone. ‘You know what it is you ask for. What it means. How it must be used.’ The barbarian tossed the ivory stick back to the old man. ‘I see in your eyes the same fire that is in mine. You know how it must be used. And you will use it.’
‘It will be used,’ the old man hissed as he leaned against his stick once more. ‘It will be used more than even your bloodthirsty soul would dare!’
‘There is a price,’ Thokmal warned.
‘And I will pay it,’ the old man said. ‘Gladly. Happily. I have waited twenty years, and now what I want is within my grasp!’ His face darkened. ‘Give it to me, or I will take it from you.’
The barbarian glared back at the old man. ‘It does not matter from whence the blood flows,’ he growled.
‘But your god does care how much blood is given to him,’ the old man retorted. ‘Yes, you can kill me, but I promise you that in doing so you will be cheating your god. Give it to me and your god shall have a feast. I will give him gallons of blood! Pools of it!’
; Thokmal again held the old man’s gaze. Slowly he reached for a bundle of skins resting on the box beside him. His stained fingers pulled away the dried gut that bound the bundle together. As he drew the covering back, a sinister object was revealed. It was a long knife of bronze, its blade curved like a sabretusk’s claw, its pommel shaped into a skeletal visage. An air of evil radiated from the weapon, a miasma of murder and massacre.
The old man hurried forwards, ignoring the pain in his aged bones. His lips curled in a triumphant smile. ‘At last revenge will be mine,’ he chortled.
The barbarian took a step back and studied the old man. Thokmal was pleased by what he saw.
‘You see, Your Illustrious Highness,’ Gustav crowed from back near the stairs. ‘I told you he’d bring the phurba.’ He pointed at the sinister knife Thokmal had revealed. ‘All I had to do was let the Skullcaller tribe know you were seeking it.
The old man turned and fixed Gustav with a grim look. ‘And now you know that I have found it.’
Gustav cringed at the murderous tone in his patron’s voice. ‘We… had… an agreement,’ he sputtered as he stumbled to his feet, his hands closing tight around the money.
‘You were paid,’ the old man sneered. His eyes glittered with malice. ‘I can trust you to bring me something for pay, Gustav, but how can I ever trust you to keep quiet about what I have bought?’
‘You can trust me! You can trust me!’ the trader insisted as he slowly backed away towards the steps.
The old man shook his head. ‘A man who values only money can never be trusted.’ He looked aside, at Thokmal. ‘I have only just met your friend, but we understand each other better than you can imagine.’
Gustav cried out and turned to run. Thokmal’s hand had darted for the bone vest he wore. Before the trader could reach the bottom step, his cry of fear became a groan of agony. A bone-handled knife shivered in the middle of his back, thrown across the cellar by Thokmal. The tribesman stalked over to Gustav and ripped the blade free. Coldly, he flipped the wounded man over and plunged the knife into his heart.
The old man paid no notice to Gustav’s murder. He was too busy winding the skin coverings back around the phurba. He held the bundle close to his chest as he limped across the cellar.
‘I will know if you do not use it,’ Thokmal warned as the old man walked past him.
‘You can leave Gustav’s body here when you are through,’ the old man said. ‘This is where he hid contraband. None of his serfs know about this place. Nobody will find him.’
Thokmal twisted his knife, cracking Gustav’s ribs. He reached into the trader’s chest and pulled out the dripping heart. He shook the disembodied organ at the old man. ‘You have made a promise to my god. Khorne will be angry if you break your oath.’
The old man laughed, a sound as cold as the hiss of a serpent. ‘I have waited twenty years for this. No power of gods or men will keep me from my revenge.’ He studied Thokmal for a moment. He was pleased by the uneasiness he saw when the barbarian met his gaze.
‘I believe you,’ Thokmal said. ‘I think I will leave this place as quickly as I can. I will return to my tribe.’ His smile was as cruel as it was nervous. ‘I believe your words, and I know the carnage that will spawn from them.’
The old man turned away and started up the steps. ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Death now walks the streets of Ravensbach.’
Chapter I
Magda brought the slim, rakish blade whipping around. The sword slashed across its target, ripping deep into the bloated paunch. Innards spilled out and streamed across the copper-sheeted floor. A smirk of satisfaction teased at the young woman’s lips. She quickly tried to correct herself and adopt a more sombre pose, but she already knew it was too late. She had exposed herself and would now suffer the price.
‘A lack of focus will get you killed.’ The scolding words rang across the room.
Magda turned around and sheathed her sword. She set her hands on her hips and threw back her head in an effort to look defiant. Inside, though, she felt as if a bunch of mice were running around her guts. However hard she worked, however independent she thought herself, the displeasure of her father made her feel like a guilty little girl caught swiping fruit from the larder.
Ottokar Hausler stamped his way across his shop, each step a little heavier than the last. He used his left hand to brush away the belts and scabbards that hung from the beams. The right did not so much as sway as he walked, locked in place at his side. A dark glove covered the right hand, and the sleeve of his doublet covered almost all of the rest. There was only a little patch behind the wrist that was uncovered, revealing a flash of silver.
‘You have to concentrate,’ Ottokar said. His face was full, just on the verge of becoming flabby. The sharp nose was tinged red and the cheeks were flushed. There was still a keenness in his eyes, but it was dulled by the sheen of liquor. The sound of swordplay could still rouse him from his cups.
Magda swept a stray lock of night-black hair from her face and matched her father’s judgemental stare. She pointed to the stuffed target dummy she had disembowelled, sand still running from it onto the floor. Unlike her father’s, the glove she wore was to better her grip on a sword, not hide an infirmity. ‘My technique improves every day,’ she proclaimed. ‘I’m faster and more accurate–’
Ottokar waved aside her boast. ‘Skill is not enough,’ he said. ‘Discipline! Discipline is the key. You can be fast as lightning, precise as a viper, but still be an amateur with the sword.’ He came a few steps closer and then stamped his foot down on the pedal that controlled the target dummy.
Magda whipped around, and the blade leapt from its scabbard and ripped across the throat of the sackcloth dummy. More sand rained down on the floor. She started to turn back to her father. Only then did she realise he had stamped on the pedal a second time. The dummy was swinging around, a wooden sword in each of its eight arms. There was no time for her to dart in and strike, and no chance to parry all of the enemy swords. She jumped back and crashed to the floor.
‘Never let down your guard,’ Ottokar warned.
‘My blade crossed its throat,’ Magda countered. ‘If it had been a man, he would be dead.’ She rose to her feet and started brushing dust from her breeches.
Ottokar shook his head. ‘Some men take more killing than others, and the dead do not stay as dead as they should be.’ He sighed and gave her a studious look. ‘I would think that your paramour would have told you something about those kinds of things.’
It was one barb too many for Magda. Perhaps he was justified in criticising her ability with the sword, but he had no authority to speak about anything else she did. Ottokar had forfeited that right a long time ago.
‘You surprise me, father. You condescended to take an interest in me.’ Magda recovered her sword from the floor and swept it through the empty air. ‘Aside from what I can do with this.’
The sharp words caused Ottokar to look away. He glanced across his workshop, at the swords hanging on the walls and resting in barrels. The forge and the anvil, the ingots of bronze and iron and steel that he would shape into weapons. In one corner, each perched on its own stand, were elegant blades crafted in another time, weapons Ottokar would not allow anyone to buy. They had to be earned, bestowed on those the swordsmith felt were worthy of them. Guilt gnawed at Magda when she reflected that she was one of the few to have been given one of those swords.
‘This is my world,’ Ottokar said. ‘This is the only place where I am any good to anyone.’ He reached over with his left hand and gripped the lifeless hulk that had replaced his right. The motion caused anger to swell within his daughter.
‘Spare me the melancholy,’ Magda snapped. ‘You lost your arm in a duel, not your life.’
Ottokar looked at her, his eyes glittering with emotion. ‘Were they not the same thing?’
‘Only for someone who cares only about swords,’ Magda retorted.
‘You were too young to remember…’
‘Yes, I was too young to know who you were before you lost your arm. That’s an excuse I have heard many times, father. I weary of hearing it.’ Magda slammed the sword back into its sheath and marched towards the shop’s exit. ‘Do one thing for me,’ she said as she passed Ottokar. ‘Wait until I’ve left before you crawl back into the bottle.’
