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The Hunter’s Quarry – Colin B Harvey

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Cursed City’

A Black Library Publication

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The Hunter’s Quarry

Colin B Harvey

‘Hold,’ she intoned, her voice crisp and clear. ‘It’s a trap.’

The Kosargi looked down in surprise at the hand restraining his great muscular arm, preventing him from crossing the threshold. She could see that he was struggling to conceive how so slight an individual could possibly restrain him.

His gaze travelled up her taut arm until it reached her pointed features. Croxis stared at him levelly, urging him to recall her true nature, to understand why she possessed such strength. Finally, his features cleared and she saw that he had remembered who she was and what she was. The vampire let a smile cross her thin, almost translucent lips, briefly revealing her elongated fangs.

The ogor turned his gaze instead to his patrol. They, too, had come to a faltering, confused stop. Now they stood, caught between bewilderment and expectation. The lead soldier let out a low hiss, returning his view to the figure lying some twenty feet distant, his heavy brow furrowing in confusion.

‘Prey,’ he gurgled, gesturing emphatically with his chipped, bloodstained bardiche towards the prostrate figure. The rest of the Kosargi patrol group rumbled their approval. Croxis, though, merely smiled and nodded. It was true, the figure was indeed their prey, and the Kosargi’s instinct was to chase their prey until it could be chased no more.

Yet Croxis’ instinct was altogether different, so she had stopped the chase at the very last instant. Something about their quarry had unsettled her. She had caught sight of the figure – a young Kurnothi female – grabbing some sort of ornamental wooden plate from the reeds near the stream from where it had been hidden. Presumably it held some religious or familial significance to the girl, sufficient for her to sneak back into the forest when all of her kith and kin had long since fled or perished.

Croxis had commanded the patrol group of Kosargi Nightguard to grab up their bardiches and join her in the chase. They had pursued her all the way here, to the extent of the Weald, where they had come to a halting stop on Croxis’ say-so.

Ahead of them lay the Kurnothi girl, having apparently tripped and hit her head on the gnarled root of an outlying tree, the ornamental plate lying smashed some short way distant. To Croxis’ mind, given the girl’s obvious dexterity and the merry chase she had just led them on, this seemed an unlikely outcome. Something was clearly afoot.

‘Prey,’ urged the lead Kosargi, struggling against her iron grip. Croxis considered. The sweet aroma of the Kurnothi girl’s blood was difficult to resist.

‘Oh, very well,’ muttered Croxis, releasing the monstrous arm. ‘Do what you must.’

Unleashed, the lead Kosargi roared in triumph and staggered forwards, the rest of his patrol following suit. The quartet of undead ogors lumbered from the confines of the forest towards the fallen Kurnothi, raising their blades and slavering excitedly.

The figure remained inert until the very last moment, when she abruptly turned and launched a fragment of the wooden plate at the lead soldier with absolute precision. It hurtled through the air and embedded itself in the Kosargi’s leering face with a tremendous squelchy crunch, causing him to stagger back in surprise.

‘Told you it was a trap,’ muttered Croxis witheringly.

‘It is,’ agreed a sardonic female voice behind her. ‘And so’s this.’

Croxis hissed, wheeling around to see the grinning Kurnothi archer standing before her. She recognised her from her reputation, but it wasn’t the extraordinary antlers rising from her headpiece or the matching, majestic bow. It was the unflinching gaze and the piercing emerald eyes that confirmed her identity beyond doubt.

Qulathis. An assassin of legendary skill and ruthlessness, the one individual whose name was liable to strike terror into the hearts of Croxis and her vampire brethren. They regarded each other for a moment in which time seemed to slow, almost to a halt. Croxis watched as the arrow sailed through the air, following its path until it entered her chest. She looked up to Qulathis, and knew the archer was smiling behind her mask. Croxis could do nothing but let out a shriek of impotent outrage as she burst into a million spinning particles of dust.

Elsewhere on the field of battle, one of the Kosargi was emitting a titanic roar of frustration, desperate to avenge its leader by eviscerating Mira, who had been the bait, with its bardiche. Mira, however, had other plans. She easily evaded the lumbering creature’s efforts, laughing as she did so. Mira was having sufficient fun not to notice the other two Kosargi crashing towards her from behind.

Seeing his fellows bearing down upon her, the first ogor let out another roar, this time of triumph. Mira turned too late to see the leading Kosargi raising its bardiche, ready to slice her in twain. In that moment a silver streak raced through the air, piercing the Kosargi’s helmet and causing the beast to collapse sideways in an ungainly heap. Mira saw her chance and leapt out of the way of the remaining beasts as they converged on her position.

Lanstarn, a muscular male Kurnothi, launched himself from the trees towards the other ogors. The first spun around with its mighty blade but was too slow for the fast-moving assailant, succeeding only in decapitating his fellow. Lanstarn meanwhile retrieved his silver javelin from the skull of the prone ogor, and as the Kosargi bore down on him thrust it up in a fluid movement, through the monster’s chin and into its slow-acting brain. The creature crumpled on its front, embedding the javelin still further.

This left only the first Kosargi, who had finally succeeded in pulling the fragment of wooden plate from the middle of its face, leaving a sizeable fissure in its skull-like features. It continued its advance towards Mira, its mangled countenance intent on revenge.

Behind the last Kosargi, Qulathis stepped forwards, arrow nocked. She unleashed first one shard and then another in rapid succession into the ogor’s trunk-like leg. The creature fell forwards, grabbing Mira’s ankle, and dragging her towards its gnashing teeth. The girl struggled to extricate herself but to no avail.

Before Qulathis could loose another arrow, Lanstarn hurled himself towards the prone Kosargi and thrust the javelin downwards, plunging straight through the ornate helmet and into the back of its skull. This particular Kosargi was even more robust than its fellows. Even pinned to the ground in this fashion, the beast continued to drag the girl towards its chomping mouth.

Lanstarn let out a grunt of exasperation, twisting the javelin violently in the zombie’s brain until eventually – finally – it stopped moving. The Kurnothi warrior stood back, gasping in triumph, bloody javelin in hand. Mira prised the zombie’s fingers from her ankle, a look of disgust on her aquiline features.

Lanstarn reached down to pull her to her feet, but she batted his hand away scornfully, scrabbling upright without assistance. He let out a low laugh.

The three Kurnothi regarded each other amidst the Kosargi corpses, the spilled brains and rapidly rotting cadavers. Qulathis nodded approvingly to her comrades before turning her gaze towards the Weald.

Their mission had begun.

The trio moved lithely and wordlessly through the desolate forest. It was almost impossible to bear. Everything around them called out in pain. The trees, the roots, the shrubs, even the moss, this world they knew so well. All of it, dying and decaying. A symphony of agony.

‘The Weald is the world, and the world is the Weald.’ They had all three grown up with the mantra. The forest was so vast, so verdant, it provided everything they needed, everything they would ever need.

The Kurnothi were taught from an early age never to venture beyond the Weald’s boundaries. But that didn’t stop Qulathis. Her natural inclination was to explore, to discover. By the age of ten she knew every hidden pathway and concealed nook the Weald had to offer. The impulse to go beyond its limits had been too much to resist.

Qulathis and her younger brother Nurrago would bet each other as to how far they could travel from the Weald’s perimeter. In time what began as a childish dare to run to a nearby rock or bush, transformed into something altogether grander. Expeditions to settlements beyond, even the occasional unexpected encounter with their temperamental Sylvaneth cousins. It turned out the Weald wasn’t the world at all, just a part of it. Not even a particularly large part. A fragment, in fact.

It was during one of these illicit expeditions that they first saw them. It’s more accurate to say that they heard them – more accurate still to say they heard the screams of those they encountered. Qulathis and Nurrago mounted a ridge to try and get a better view. They saw a caravan of darkness tracing its way inexorably through the foothills, dispensing with all in its path. It was like someone had spilt black ink upon a parchment.

They sensed evil but did not know its name. All too soon they would learn that the approaching army was led by vampires driven by an insatiable and all-consuming desire for blood.

The Soulblight.

Qulathis and Nurrago raced back to the Weald to alert the elders to the approaching army. By this point Qulathis’ wayward nature was well understood, and many amongst the elders were minded to discount her testimony on this basis alone. By the time she had convinced them otherwise it was too late, and the Soulblight vanguard had already breached the Weald’s perimeter defences.

At the head of the invading army was a creature called Radukar the Wolf. The most infamous of the Vyrkos Dynasty, he was renowned for his savagery and ferocity. In a land of ravening monsters, you would be hard put to find anything as monstrous – as unremittingly cruel – as the Wolf.

Unlike many generals of history, Radukar had led the charge. Immediately behind him rode the bald-headed and bearded figure of his lieutenant, Zakramise, another of the Vyrkos breed, a creature whose sadism the people of the Weald would come to know all too well. He strode through the Kurnothi ranks, dealing death with his mighty, serrated sword. And behind him rode his unruly entourage – fellow Soulblights, laughing and joking as they dispatched any Kurnothi they encountered.

Next came the shock troops: lumbering undead ogor bodyguards called Kosargi, ripping apart anything they captured. Beyond them came the rest of Radukar’s army: relentless multitudes of soulless undead warriors given animation by the death magics of Shyish.

The Kurnothi, a warrior race, were characteristically valiant in their attempts to defend themselves. Despite the crushing odds, despite the unremitting horrors, the Kurnothi fought for their home. They knew the Weald, they knew how to hide, how to attack. The guerrilla army managed multiple heroic victories over their undead invaders.

But in the end, it wasn’t enough. Such tactics were useless in the face of Radukar’s troops, whose excessive numbers meant they could easily overwhelm the aelven defenders.

They had returned at nightfall. It had been a routine patrol, undertaken by the three of them: Qulathis, Lanstarn and Mira. Even in the darkness, the flames and the smoke had been visible from a mile or more distant. As realisation dawned, their walking quickly transformed into a run, until the dead and the dying were all around them. Qulathis had soon found her father, life seeping from every pore, draining away in trickles of scarlet.

A normally reticent man, he found a strange eloquence as death approached. He whispered of how the vampire hordes had simply marched into their hideout, Zakramise at their head. The Kurnothi had taken up arms to defend themselves, but in moments the vampires had swarmed across them, lacerating and gouging all they encountered, the air full of their laughter and their victims’ shrieks.

As life drained away, her father spoke of her brother Nurrago. He told of how his quick-thinking courage had enabled the elders to escape down a hidden tunnel. He spoke of how an enraged Zakramise had singled Nurrago out, casting aside anyone who sought to defend him like they were so much matchwood. Her father talked of how Zakramise had eventually caught and fallen upon her brother in a frenzy of ripping and devouring. Her father’s wounds had been so great he had been able to do nothing but watch the horrendous fate that befell his son through a haze of blood and tears.

She remembered her father’s fingers entwined with hers as he murmured his last. He had breathed a single word, and she had nodded her understanding.

‘Revenge.’

There was no sign of her brother amongst the dismembered corpses, amongst the entrails, bones and blood. Maybe he was lost amidst the carnage; maybe he had crawled away, to die with the moss and the insects. Maybe Zakramise had devoured him in his entirety.

Later, Qulathis would learn of the reasons for the sudden attack. Apparently Radukar’s thirst for invasion had driven him from the Weald, on to the city of Ulfenkarn. Satisfied that the Kurnothi insurrection was almost at an end, he had tasked his ambitious second in command with clearing whatever remained. In this task, Zakramise had performed admirably. Aside from the few elders Nurrago had helped escape and a smattering of guerrilla fighters, the resistance was smashed. The Weald had finally fallen.

Revenge. She knew she was lost to it, as assuredly as the Weald was lost. When they had embarked on this mission, she had believed that Lanstarn and Mira felt the same. Lanstarn had been Nurrago’s best friend for so long. His anguish had seemed as great as hers. Mira, too, had great affection for her brother. On occasion, Qulathis had even teased Nurrago about it.

A sudden motion from Mira was enough to snap Qulathis from her reverie. The young girl was the finest tracker Qulathis had ever known and she trusted her beyond words. Mira was making a two-part gesture: a sweeping motion ahead, meaning imminent danger, and a second upward sweep, meaning ‘take to the trees’. Neither Qulathis nor Lanstarn needed to be told twice. They ascended the far-reaching trunks in silence, and with a grace characteristic of their people.

They watched from the heights of the canopy as another Kosargi patrol made its way along the makeshift path, thrashing at the undergrowth with their bardiches.

Lanstarn looked meaningfully to Qulathis, but she shook her head. Neutralising the perimeter patrol had been part of the plan. But if they attempted to engage every patrol they encountered, they ran the risk of bringing all of the Kosargi in the area down upon them. The three of them would wait for as long as they must.

She dreamt of him again. This time they were playing a children’s game. Nurrago was laughing and shouting with characteristic glee. Lanstarn was there too, snickering and joking with his friend. Happier times.

The game involved leaping from tree to tree with the intention of launching a graincorn into your opponent’s goal. The goal itself could be any collection of high-up branches, but the game worked best if you could find an abandoned zora eagle’s nest.

Her fresh-faced, azure-eyed brother was athletic and courageous in his play, but she was better. He couldn’t abide losing to Qulathis, so elder sister that she was, she would always throw the match at the last moment. Amongst the family and wider tribe it almost became another mantra: Nurrago always wins. As a consequence, she would have to suffer his inevitable jibes. In this particular memory, as in so many others, Qulathis caught her father gazing at her, a look of profound pride on his kindly features. He knew she had deliberately thrown the contest.

‘They’re gone,’ whispered a low voice in her ear.

Qulathis’ eyes snapped open. Lanstarn’s reassuring face looked down at her. She nodded silently, peering over the edge of the branches on which she had been sleeping. The Kosargi patrol had helpfully left a trail of flattened bushes and snapped twigs in their wake, so there was no doubt as to their direction of travel. It was time the three Kurnothi moved on too.

They heard the dripping first.

The canopy was much denser here. Only occasional shafts of light pierced the darkness. A non-Kurnothi might have mistaken the dripping for the sound of dew falling, the natural moisture of the deep forest. But Qulathis and her compatriots knew otherwise.

They moved sinuously, silently across the terrain, arriving at the nearest of the victims. A Kurnothi woman, tied to a tree far above them. Trails of blood dripped from many cuts, patting unevenly into the chalices positioned around the base of the trunk. Qulathis stared up at the woman’s face, caught in a rictus of agony. She saw the lips tremble, ever so slightly, and she knew the woman still lived.

‘Kurnoth preserve us,’ said Lanstarn softly. ‘We must save her.’

‘It’s not just her,’ said Mira, voice trembling with fury. She had moved further into the gloom. They followed her gaze, perceiving another figure tied to a tree, and beyond that another. Each victim dripped blood.

‘We cannot,’ said Qulathis firmly. ‘They are beyond helping.’

‘They still live,’ Lanstarn responded, incredulously. ‘Even if we cannot save them, we cannot leave them like this.’

‘This is not why we are here,’ hissed Qulathis. ‘Three of us cannot defeat an occupying army.’

‘Then why are we here?’ demanded Lanstarn.

‘You know why.’

The words hung in the cool air.

Lanstarn clasped her arm. ‘Qulathis. He was my best friend. He is gone. Rescuing these people… Maybe… Maybe this would be a better tribute.’

She took his wrist and easily prised it away. ‘They will come, and they will overwhelm us.’

The two stared at each other through the gloom, grief etched into both their faces. The sudden rapid snapping of twigs made them turn. Mira had evidently made a decision. She was running towards one of the trees, to which a young boy was strapped. Knife unsheathed, her intention was clear – to clamber the trunk and rescue him. Qulathis knew that single-minded determination all too well. She saw herself in the young girl.

‘Wait, Mira–’ Qulathis began, but it was too late.

From within the shadows of the forest, a white shape was suddenly speeding towards Mira and knocking her off her feet.

Qulathis already had her bow in her hand and unleashed an arrow at the assailant’s chest. The bestial vampire staggered backwards on its clawed feet, its snarling features covered in blood. As the creature dissipated to dust, Mira collapsed to her knees, a sizeable portion of her neck torn away.

All around them, more shapes were emerging from the darkness. Hissing, the creatures closed in on them. Just ahead, Mira continued to kneel. She looked to her comrades in wide-eyed horror, her body beginning to spasm.

Qulathis unleashed arrow after arrow into the vampires, her accuracy never wavering. All around, the air was full of swirling dust as the creatures vanished into oblivion. As she launched each missile, Qulathis’ lips murmured gratitude to the Oak of Ages Past. The arrows had been wrought from the arm-thick splinter the Oak had graciously provided. Formed from the stuff of Ghyran – the very essence of life – each shard was lethal to the Soulblight.

Still they kept coming. In a series of poised, graceful manoeuvres, Lanstarn leapt from one opponent to the next, driving his javelin into their chests, twisting them apart.

Finally, the vampiric creatures relented. Qulathis and Lanstarn stood, momentarily catching their breath in the watery half-light, then turned and ran to their friend. Her young body lay on its side where she had collapsed. The spasming had ceased. Now she was still.

Qulathis fleetingly hoped that Mira might have performed her usual trick of feigning death, that she might suddenly spring into activity. But as they neared, Qulathis could see this was no trick. The girl was beyond saving, of that there was no doubt.

Qulathis crouched beside her young friend, pulling back her matted hair and stroking her face. Mira meanwhile looked up, eyes full of fear.

Qulathis said simply, ‘Go to Kurnoth. He’s waiting for you.’ And with that, Mira let out a final sigh of relief, and closed her eyes. In a moment more, her breathing had ceased.

Qulathis took a moment to murmur a prayer of loss, then gently lowered Mira’s head to the ground. She took the girl’s knife from her outstretched hand, and added it to her belt.

Straightening up, Qulathis saw Lanstarn gazing at her.

‘We must bury her…’ Lanstarn began, but she shook her head.

‘We must make sure her sacrifice means something,’ Qulathis said. ‘We have to go.’

Lanstarn went to protest but Qulathis grabbed his hand and held it tight. ‘Please,’ she said simply.

Lanstarn hesitated, then nodded grimly.

They had to seek refuge. Qulathis steered them towards one of the few subterranean hideouts the vampires had failed to uncover. She was relieved to discover that this was still the case.

Despite Lanstarn’s protestations, Qulathis took first watch. While he slipped into an exhausted, deep sleep, she used Mira’s blade to carve the head of an arrow to a sharper point still, and remembered.

‘Enga’la Weald is lost,’ the elders had said. ‘You fought valiantly, Qulathis, but that time has passed. Forget this world, forget your home, and come with us to Everspring Swathe, where we will begin again.’

Battle-worn, convulsed with grief, most of her fellow warriors had agreed. But not Qulathis. She would not give up her people, her history and her culture so easily. In fact, she had made a vow that she would bring everlasting true death to each and every one of the vampires and their accomplices. The elders feared such actions would bring the Soulblight down upon Everspring Swathe too, and forbade her from such a path. But Qulathis knew what she must do. She would keep her promise, or she would die. And so, reluctantly, the elders had exiled the young warrior.

Mira and Lanstarn had insisted on joining her in her banishment, such was their love for Nurrago. And yet, when it came to it, revenge was not enough for either of them. In the forest, both Mira and Lanstarn had wanted to rescue their fellow Kurnothi from the vampires’ bloodletting, or at least save them from their agonies. Theirs had been a perfectly reasonable, emotional response. But it had slowed them down, made them vulnerable. Mira had paid with her life. That guilt would lie on Qulathis’ shoulders for the rest of her days.

She looked at the sleeping figure of Lanstarn. She knew what she must do.

Radukar had delighted in making An’alla, a sacred Kurnothi glade, his base of operations. He had demolished the wooden temple at its centre, digging down and pushing out the soil from the heart of the space to create an immense circular wall around it. This wall, together with the existing thick forest around the perimeter, meant that the space, once a revered site of devotion to the deity Kurnoth, was now more akin to an impregnable fortress.

Fortunately Qulathis had no intention of entering this fortress. She instead planned to carry out her mission from a distance, waiting till nightfall and working the wall to her advantage. She had encountered several Kosargi guards at the base, but rather than take them on in face-to-face combat she used the terrain to her advantage to draw them out. By feigning the growls of forest predators, she was able to send the thick-skulled brutes off to investigate, allowing her to ascend the wall unnoticed.

Qulathis had left Lanstarn sleeping, unaware that his part in their mission was over. She had scraped morg wist, a fungus spore from a fallen tree trunk, and combined it with pekkada leaves to create a compound. A touch of this on Lanstarn’s lips and under his nostrils was sufficient to ensure he slept much longer and deeper than he otherwise would have done. He would eventually awaken and immediately grasp she had abandoned him. By then, though, it would be too late. Her singular task would be done, or she would have perished in the undertaking.

Qulathis settled down atop the wall to watch. Some kind of festivity or ceremony seemed to be taking place. It took only a moment for her archer’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. Vampires clutching goblets capered about the arena, periodically going to the trees dotted around and helping themselves to the blood dripping from the Kurnothi victims strapped to them. It seemed that this process enhanced the flavour of the blood, like a vintage wine. Certainly it seemed to have an intoxicating effect upon them.

Amidst the revelling vampires sat a throne and upon that throne sat the figure of Zakramise. This close, Qulathis could see the jagged scar bisecting his left cheek. His vulpine eyes were narrowed in bemusement. He seemed disinterested in the raucous activities of his underlings, though it was clear his new-found authority rested well with him. He lifted his goblet to let a staggering functionary fill it with blood from an ornate jug. No walking to the trees and draining the Kurnothi for Zakramise.

But the functionary stumbled, spilling the scarlet liquid over his lord’s tunic. Zakramise snarled and thrust him back in fury. The functionary stumbled, barely remaining upright, much to the hysterical delight of the entourage.

It was a good distraction. Without thinking, Qulathis already had the bow in her hand, and the shard from the Oak of Ages Past poised. This was the shard that would penetrate Zakramise’s heart, and avenge her family.

She forced herself to be patient, taking the time to find the perfect angle, aiming for a gap in the vampire’s armour. In that moment, the functionary moved across her line of vision and she recognised his distorted, anguished features. She lowered the bow in horror.

Nurrago.

Her shock was such that she did not hear the vampires creeping up behind her until it was too late. Unable to loose her arrow, she instead swung the bow, catching the lead Soulblight across the face. He hissed in outrage, but another leapt forwards in his stead. Qulathis stumbled backwards, losing her footing and smashing her head on a rock. Through a haze of blood she saw the leering vampires bearing down, before consciousness deserted her.

She awoke, and that was astonishment enough. She had expected to be with Kurnoth by now. Instead, her hands were tied to a pole behind her so that her movements were utterly constricted. Her head hurt but she did not sense her neck had been torn at, or even punctured. More astonishment.

A few feet before her sat Zakramise, legs astride the arm of the throne. He was surrounded by his entourage of preening and cooing vampires. Her quiver and bow, together with Mira’s knife, lay beside the throne, ignored.

Zakramise frowned. ‘I know you,’ he said distractedly. She saw that he was toying with her arrow, the one meant for him. ‘You killed many of our kind.’

She laughed at this. ‘More than you can count.’

The vampire lord considered. ‘I suppose you’re the one that killed Croxis. On the edge of the Weald two nights ago. Am I correct?’

Qulathis nodded. ‘She barely had time to scream.’

The other vampires hissed at this.

Zakramise lifted a gloved hand and the noise subsided. ‘She was our beloved sister.’ He held the arrow aloft. ‘And this. Intended for me, I take it?’

Qulathis merely smiled.

Zakramise continued to inspect the shard, caressing its fine point with his fingers. ‘Such a beautiful arrow. I can sense its power. I’m flattered.’

Her fixed smile continued.

‘Fortunately, Versnos here stopped you and brought you to me,’ said Zakramise, stroking the bumpy head of an emaciated-looking vampire, who gibbered appreciatively.

Zakramise uncrossed his legs and leant forwards in his throne. ‘Tell me, huntress, why did you come back?’ he enquired, his curiosity seemingly genuine. ‘I thought your kind had abandoned this place.’

In that moment, she saw a figure stumbling towards the throne, clutching a refreshed jug of blood atop a wooden tray. Nurrago. Or rather, a hollowed-out version of him. A face contorted in agony, those formerly azure eyes bleached and staring. A corpse reanimated. Nurrago stumbled across Zakramise’s line of sight, so the vampire could no longer see Qulathis.

Furious, Zakramise leapt to his feet, pushing Nurrago so hard he collapsed amidst the mud, the jug sprawling from his grasp. Zakramise proceeded to straddle the prone figure and bring Qulathis’ arrow down hard into Nurrago’s back, plunging it repeatedly into his ragged tunic.

‘I… told… you… to… be… careful!’ Zakramise cried gleefully. The other vampires clapped and hooted with laughter.

Qulathis couldn’t help herself. ‘Stop!’

Zakramise broke off his attack, looking to her in surprise. The laughter abruptly ceased. Nurrago continued to drag himself away, the arrow protruding from his shoulder.

The vampire lord rubbed his grizzled beard. ‘What’s this you say?’ he called.

She struggled to regain her composure, but it was too late. Zakramise saw where she was looking, and wheeled around to Nurrago, peering at his muddy, bloody features.

‘Of course,’ he laughed. ‘I see it. The family resemblance. Unmistakable.’ He turned back to Qulathis. ‘A brother, perhaps? Hmm?’

‘You will not touch him, monster!’ she bellowed. With no perceptible effort, Zakramise proceeded to lift Nurrago by his jaw so that he was once more standing. Zakramise stepped back. The zombie swayed but didn’t fall. The entourage cheered.

‘You must be hungry,’ the vampire cooed. ‘Look what we brought you.’ Grinning, he pointed to Qulathis.

Nurrago looked to his sister, his face a mass of confusion, then back to Zakramise. The arrow still protruded from his shoulder.

‘That’s right, my friend,’ urged Zakramise. ‘You must feed.’

Nurrago started to walk towards her.

‘It’s me, Nurrago,’ urged Qulathis. ‘Your sister. Remember.’

Nurrago continued to stagger towards her, hands outstretched. His contorted features showed no signs of recognition. Instead, they wore a look of insatiable hunger.

Zakramise looked on, grinning broadly, while his entourage whooped and shrieked with laughter. By now, Nurrago had reached his sister, splayed fingers grabbing her face. He began to press against her skull, ready to tear it apart. She recoiled from his gaping mouth, from the stench of his dying body.

Suddenly she recalled the proud face of her father and the words came to her. ‘Remember,’ she whispered, ‘Nurrago always wins.’

Nurrago stopped. An emotion crossed his face and for a moment his faded eyes seemed to become azure again.

‘Sister… Sister…’ came the guttural noise. She saw that his hands were reaching for her bound wrists, wrenching apart the rope, freeing her.

‘Little brother,’ she murmured, gently grabbing the shard and pulling it firmly from his shoulder.

Zakramise’s expression had changed from laughter to one of burgeoning fury. ‘Feed, I say!’ he demanded, coming closer. His entourage looked to one another. The laughter was dying away.

Nurrago suddenly turned, lunging at Zakramise. The force of the attack took Zakramise by surprise and forced him backwards through the mud. Zakramise’s entourage moved to protect their leader, uncertain of whether they should interfere in the fight. Freed from her bonds, Qulathis looked for the best course of action.

The vampire Zakramise had called Versnos had noticed she was free and beckoned to his fellows to follow him. In that moment Qulathis caught sight of a glinting length of silver sailing through the air and into Versnos’ back, straight through his chest and out the other side. The vampire burst into a flurry of dust as a fast-moving figure retrieved his javelin from where it had impaled itself in a tree stump.

The entourage broke apart, snarling. Lanstarn moved through the vampires, working the element of surprise to his advantage. Many more exploded into dancing particles. Despite their intoxication, the group quickly found their wits and began pushing him backwards, past the battling Zakramise and Nurrago, towards Qulathis.

The enraged vampires continued to advance. With only the single arrow in her hand, there was little Qulathis could do. A fleeting look passed between her and Lanstarn. He nodded in understanding.

Lanstarn plunged into the middle of the vampires, using his javelin like a lance. The Soulblight fell upon him.

Qulathis began to run, to dodge and to weave around the outlier vampires. She found the bloodied Zakramise standing over the collapsed form of Nurrago. Zakramise was passing his colossal, serrated blade from hand to hand, grinning, about to deliver the final blow. Evidently Zakramise had been waiting for her to bear witness.

‘I want you to see this, Kurnothi vermin,’ snarled Zakramise. ‘I want you to see how completely you have failed.’

In that moment he went to bring the blade down, but Nurrago made one last lunge. The vampire hissed, easily sidestepping and bringing the sword crashing across Nurrago’s neck, sending the decapitated head flying. Nurrago’s body rocked momentarily before falling to one side.

It all happened in a second. But a second was all she had needed.

Zakramise turned to see Qulathis stepping breathlessly backwards.

‘I didn’t fail,’ she declared.

He looked at her quizzically. She stared triumphantly back at him, deliberately dropping her eyes to the shard protruding from his chest. He didn’t look down, but instead simply smiled, as if at some great joke.

And then the vampire lord exploded out of existence.

She stood atop the hill and looked down upon the Weald. Above the rustling of the distant trees, she whispered two prayers of loss and gratitude. One was for her brother, released from his undead torture. The other was for her friend Lanstarn, whose sacrifice she would place alongside that of Mira.

She had grabbed her quiver, bow and Mira’s knife from where they had been abandoned and ascended into the canopy before more Soulblights converged upon An’alla. Zakramise’s successor would quickly emerge, and the vampires would reassert their grip on the Weald, of that there was no doubt. No matter. She had kept her promise to her father.

From her vantage point looking down on the Weald, the thought made her hesitate. She suddenly felt the weight of the quiver upon her back. The Oak of Ages Past seemed to whisper to her.

You have avenged your family. Now avenge your people.

Bow in hand, Qulathis the Exile turned away from the Weald, towards the watery sun.

Towards Ulfenkarn.

About the Author

Colin B Harvey is a London-based writer working across games, comics, books, radio and VR. He wrote the games Blood and Truth (Sony 2019) and Sniper Elite 4 (Rebellion 2017), tie-in material for Big Finish’s Doctor Who and Highlander ranges and comic stories for 2000AD and Commando. Most recently he wrote and presented ‘The Origins of the Metaverse’ for BBC Radio 4. ‘The Hunter’s Quarry’ is his first story for Black Library.

An extract from Cursed City.

Though the shutters were barred, and the doors bolted, the Black Ship was more alive in the long hours of the night than it had been during the dreary grey day. The tavern was ablaze with the light of whale-oil lamps and its common room rumbled with the clamour of a hundred raucous conversations, people huddling together in the warmth that was absent in the cold streets. Flagons of ale, steins of beer, bottles of pungent vodka and glasses of dark wine were carried to patrons throughout the building’s three levels, borne upon wide copper trays by the buxom, strong-armed beer maidens employed by Effrim Karzah, the establishment’s roguish proprietor. Notes of music crawled through the rooms as a rotund performer worked a hurdy-gurdy and bellowed salacious sea shanties.

A long casketwood bar dominated one side of the common room. Patrons flocked to the counter, loudly shouting for more drink. Whalers with salt-encrusted slickers would brush shoulders with crookbacked lobstermen, their fingers and hands scarred from the claws of their catch. Stokers who worked the immense try pots to render blubber into oil sought to cool their hot work with cold ales. Drovers and stevedores propped their boots on the copper rail that ran along the base of the bar and swapped lies about the day’s custom. Among those seeking to retreat from their labours mixed those whose vocation catered to such relaxation. Gamblers and panderers, sellers of wares and seekers of services all ventured to the counter to engage those gathered there.

Only at one spot was the bar not crowded. Towards the back of the common room, for a radius of a dozen feet, there was an open space. Within that space only two people stood. The two men had been there for some time now, yet none of the carousing inmates of the tavern intruded on their privacy. From the guarded looks that sometimes were directed their way, it wasn’t courtesy that provoked such distance, but fear.

One was tall with a light complexion and locks of fair hair spilling out from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His features had a rugged handsomeness about them, with a hawkish nose and piercing blue eyes. A long coat encompassed his figure, but around the waist it was bound by a wide belt from which hung a rakish sword and a big horse pistol. It was not the open display of weapons that so unsettled the occupants of the Black Ship, however. Hanging about the man’s neck was a pendant, a little silver talisman cast in a symbol long taboo in Ulfenkarn. The hammer of Sigmar. To openly display veneration of the God-King in the city was to invite swift and terrible destruction. Had night not already fallen, were the doors not already barred, there were many who would have slunk back to their slovenly hovels. As things stood, they tried their best to keep apart from the stranger. When doom came for him, nobody wanted to share in it.

Except perhaps the man who was with him. He was thin with short black hair and a trim moustache beneath his knife-sharp nose. Though he wore clothes that were rich by the standards of Ulfenkarn, his skin had the grey pallor of those who toiled away in the mushroom plantations beneath the streets. His eyes looked as though they were caught in a perpetual scowl, disdainfully appraising everything and everyone they gazed on. From his haughty demeanour and sinister appearance, there were many in the Black Ship who marked him as an agent of Ulfenkarn’s rulers, one who’d been promised the Blood Kiss by his masters. Why a spy for the vampires was sharing a drink with a Sigmarite was a mystery none felt inclined to explore.

Gustaf Voss pushed back the brim of his hat so he could better see the bottles arrayed on the rack behind the bar. ‘They’ve a nice vintage from Carstinia there,’ he commented to his companion. ‘That is if you don’t think it would be too strong for you?’

The other man gave him a stern look. ‘That’s an old Belvegrodian fable, you know. That they don’t drink wine.’ He frowned at his glass and tapped a finger against its stem. ‘I don’t like drinking in public. It dulls the senses and you never know what might be watching, waiting to exploit the first hint of weakness. If you’re going to have libations, it’s better to indulge when you’re alone.’

Gustaf cast his eyes at the empty space around them. ‘We’re as good as alone right now, Vladrik,’ he said.

‘All it takes is wealth to be popular in places like this,’ he replied. ‘Though I don’t know if there’s enough money to make them friendly while you’re wearing that.’ He gestured to the hammer around Gustaf’s neck.

Gustaf took a pull from his beer stein and wiped away the residue of foam from his mouth. ‘There was a saying, something along the lines of “Let them hate as long as they also fear.” That wisdom has served me well until now.’ He gave Vladrik a more serious look. ‘If I make myself conspicuous then the man I’m looking for might find me, instead of making me find him.’

‘Or you might draw attention from those you don’t want to see,’ Vladrik cautioned. ‘I’ve told you I’ll find Jelsen Darrock for you.’

‘It’s been two weeks that I’ve been hearing that,’ Gustaf said. ‘You haven’t given me any results.’

Vladrik swallowed some of his wine and dabbed a monogrammed handkerchief against his lips. ‘Better than anyone, you should know that those who serve the Order of Azyr can be very hard to find when they want to be. I think Darrock has been keeping himself under cover right now. He’s been busy. Only two days ago someone broken into Count Vorkov’s coffin and put a stake through his heart. Aqshian fyrewood. Very rare. Very dangerous. The kind of thing even a vampire doesn’t recover from.’

Vladrik leaned closer and laid his hand on Gustaf’s arm.

‘That’s one thing I’m still unsure of. Did the Order of Azyr send you to Ulfenkarn to help Darrock or to stop him? You’ve never told me which.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Gustaf said. ‘If you expect an answer, find Darrock for me.’

Gustaf spun around suddenly, one hand dropping to the big horse pistol on his belt. Someone had entered the circle of privacy that surrounded them. A haggard stevedore, the quality of his tunic and the polish of his boots indicating him to be a mark above the labourers who crowded behind him, marched towards the shunned pair. He threw back his head and gave Gustaf a sneering study.

‘You make sport of us, do you, outlander?’ He gestured at the talisman hanging from Gustaf’s neck. ‘Even a fool fresh off the boat knows better than to wear that openly. So, if you aren’t a fool, you must be an idiot.’

Drink slurred the man’s words, but Gustaf wasn’t one to allow even a tipsy antagonist to challenge him.

‘Where I come from, men are still men. They don’t hide their faith and cower in the shadows like vermin. They don’t bow and scrape to the monsters that prey on them.’

The stevedore’s face turned red. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

‘He’s got a gun, Loew,’ one of the other labourers warned.

Gustaf fixed his steely gaze on Loew. ‘I don’t need gun or sword to settle accounts with cowards,’ he said, moving his hands away from the weapons hanging from his belt. For a moment, the tableau held, the two men glaring into one another’s eyes, each ready for his foe to make the first move.

Loud pounding against the Black Ship’s door interrupted the brewing fight. Silence descended on the tavern. Most of the patrons turned to look towards the barred entrance while others retreated into the nearest shadow. From outside, an imperious voice demanded entry.

‘The Volkshaufen,’ Vladrik hissed. He quickly bolted what was left of his wine.

‘Maybe,’ Gustaf said. It was rare for the watchmen to be abroad at night. Ulfenkarn had other guards who patrolled the city when the sun set… but not the sort to ask admittance.

‘Make yourself scarce until we know who it is,’ Gustaf told Vladrik. He didn’t watch his companion withdraw and climb the back stairs to the Black Ship’s upper floor. His attention was fixed on the barred door and whoever was demanding entry.

Perched on a stool near the entrance was a short, scrawny creature with long ears and scabby green skin. The grot looked across the room to where Karzah sat at one of the gambling tables. The Black Ship’s proprietor nodded reluctantly. The grot jabbed the hulking brute that stood beside it with a sharp stick. The square-jawed orruk roused itself from its fungus-addled lethargy and drew back the bar on the door. Karzah preferred to use the greenskins as his establishment’s first line of defence because their blood wasn’t appetising to the things that prowled the city.

Instead of the Volkshaufen, it was a trio of men in finely cut sealskin coats who sauntered past the orruk. Gustaf noticed the mirror discreetly placed on the ceiling above the door. All three men were reflected in it, but that meant nothing. If one of them was a vampire and was aware of the mirror’s presence, he could project an image into the glass and thereby conceal his nature.

Of course, in Ulfenkarn, a vampire had little reason to hide what he was. At least from people who weren’t Jelsen Darrock. Or Gustaf Voss.

‘Looks like it’s already too late to teach you anything,’ Loew told Gustaf, a trace of regret in his voice. ‘May the soil rest easy on your grave,’ he added, withdrawing back among the labourers. They retreated while the three men walked straight towards Gustaf.

‘Now there’s a peculiar sight,’ one of the men quipped as he approached. He turned his ferret-face and glanced about the tavern. ‘It seems no one wants to drink with you. Don’t you have any friends?’ The question brought a cruel laugh from one of his associates, a bull-necked ruffian who looked more like a shaved bear than anything human.

‘No company is better than poor company,’ Gustaf replied. He raised his beer stein and took a quick drink.

Ferret looked at his associates. ‘Bravado,’ he said. ‘I like that. I tell you what, I don’t like to see someone drink alone.’ He walked to the counter and snapped his fingers at one of the barkeepers. ‘Bring me ale,’ he demanded.

While Ferret waited for his flagon, the men with him circled around Gustaf. Bear took position to his left while the other, a nasty specimen Gustaf decided to think of as ‘Cur’, sidled towards his right.

‘We’ll have a drink and then we’ll leave,’ Ferret said, a sneer on his face as he regarded Gustaf. ‘No smart words for me now?’ He glanced at his associates. ‘Notice how the banter falls off when they feel the noose get tight?’

Bear laughed at the remark. Cur just closed his fingers around the grip of his sword.

‘To your health, as long as it holds out,’ Ferret toasted Gustaf, raising his flagon.

At that moment the subject of his mockery exploded into action. To onlookers, it all seemed to happen simultaneously, so quickly did the outlander move. A boot kicked out and struck the flagon, bathing Ferret’s face in ale. Gustaf threw the beer in his stein into Cur’s face, blinding him. Bear sprang forwards, but as he did the stein came smashing down onto his head and dropped him to the floor.

Gustaf dashed away from his reeling foes and hurried across the common room. Before he reached the door, the orruk had once more drawn the bar away. He lunged past the greenskin and out into the darkened street. He could hear angry oaths and the stamp of running feet from the building behind him.

Of more immediate concern were the men who’d been waiting outside.

The ruffians converged on Gustaf the moment he stepped from the Black Ship. In their eagerness to seize their victim, they made a costly mistake. Like Ferret and his associates inside, these men discovered that their enemy was far from helpless. Steel flashed in the light escaping from the tavern as Gustaf whipped the sword from his belt. Its keen edge slashed across the face of the closest ruffian. He reeled away across the icy ground and pitched backwards into the arms of his comrades, screaming and clutching at the gory wreckage left by the blade.

Shocked by the abrupt violence, the ruffians were slow to react when Gustaf turned from them and ran down the darkened street. It was only when Ferret appeared in the Black Ship’s doorway and cursed at them that they remembered their task. Leaving their maimed companion to writhe in the dirt, the thugs set off in pursuit of their quarry.

‘You can’t escape, outlander!’ Ferret shouted as he led the mob. ‘I’ll carve your face worse than you did Karl’s before I turn you over to the boss!’

Gustaf risked a glance over his shoulder as the threats reached his ears. There were nine men chasing after him, each brandishing a sword as they ran. A single adversary, even two, and he’d have stood his ground and crossed blades with them. These, however, were odds that surpassed even his confidence.

He saw the dark mouth of an alleyway ahead of him on his left, just beyond the shadowy hulk of a broken wagon. Gustaf feinted a sideways lunge to the right, then pivoted and threw himself to the left.

‘He’s ducked under that wagon!’ one of the thugs shouted.

Gustaf grinned and hurried down the alleyway. He’d soon put distance between himself and the ruffians.

At least that was the hope, but after only a few steps into the narrow alley Gustaf was betrayed. Trying to keep tabs on his pursuers, he didn’t see the pillory until he blundered into it. The prisoner, some manner of thief to judge by the marks branded into his cheeks, had been left out to give back to the community what he’d stolen in the only way the poor could make recompense. Locked in the pillory, the prisoner’s blood could be drained by anyone who wished to offer it in place of their own as their blood tithe. Usually a prisoner didn’t live long enough exposed in the cold to see the sun set, much less to last after nightfall. By some perverse chance, there was just enough life left in the thief to cry out when Gustaf stumbled against him.

The cry carried out into the street.

‘He’s not here, you idiots!’ Ferret roared. ‘He’s down there!’

Gustaf ran as his pursuers picked up his trail. His lead was less than a dozen feet. The slightest setback would see him fall into the clutches of his enemies. When he dashed out the other side of the alley, he found that setback. The narrow pathway opened into a small courtyard bounded on all sides by dilapidated buildings. He was trapped.

Vicious laughter rang out behind him. Gustaf spun around to see Ferret and his men slowly emerging from the alley.

‘Outsmarted yourself, didn’t you?’ Ferret grinned. He waved for the thugs to spread out and encircle Gustaf. ‘Remember, the Elder said he wants him alive. Whatever else happens’ – he made a dismissive shrug – ‘happens.’

‘I can promise a few of you won’t have an easy time of it,’ Gustaf swore, punctuating his words with a flourish of his sword. His other hand pulled the horse pistol from its holster.

‘Good.’ Ferret laughed. ‘If you kill a few that just means more pay for the rest of us.’ He gestured with his hand, motioning his confederates to close in.

Before they could, Ferret barked in alarm. His sword clattered against the cobblestones as he raised his arms in surrender.

Standing behind Ferret, the edge of her sword pressed against his throat, was a woman wearing a long black cloak. Gustaf could only see clearly the hand gripping the sword. The skin was coarse and deeply tanned, the fingers calloused from rugged employment. The face was largely hidden by the shadow of a hood, but he could feel the intensity of her gaze as she looked at him.

‘You seem to be the leader,’ she snarled at Ferret, pressing the sword closer so it drew a bead of blood from his neck. ‘Call your dogs off.’

‘Do as she says,’ Ferret called to his men. None of them moved in response to his plea. ‘I’m the only one who knows the Elder. If I die, nobody gets paid.’ The last bit of logic swayed the ruffians. Sullenly they backed away from Gustaf and shuffled towards the edges of the close.

Gustaf peered suspiciously at the woman behind Ferret. He kept a firm grip on his weapons, but didn’t move.

‘What are you waiting for?’ the woman snapped at him.

‘I’ve been in Ulfenkarn long enough to know better than to trust anything,’ Gustaf replied. He glanced around at the thugs and the narrow confines of the close. ‘Nobody does anything in this city unless it is to benefit themselves.’

Ferret laughed. ‘Is that what you want? A cut of the reward?’

The woman responded by whipping her sword away from Ferret’s neck and smashing the hilt against his ear. He crumpled at her feet, staggered by the blow. ‘Get moving or stay here with your playmates,’ she shouted at Gustaf. ‘I’ve done my part.’

She turned and ran into the dark alley.

Gustaf lost all hesitation. He sprang forwards and dashed into the alleyway, mashing Ferret’s face with his sword’s guard as he passed.

‘After them!’ Ferret shrieked, one hand trying to staunch the flow of blood from his broken nose. ‘I want them! I want both of them!’

Click here to buy Cursed City.

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