The Ninth Book

Gav Thorpe

Like drowning men floundering through a heavy surf, the column of leather- and fur-clad warriors used their arms as much as their legs to forge a path through the blizzard. The snow was waist-deep at times, the fresh fall as incessant as it had ever been for the last two days.

Only the darkest glimmer of shadow in the distance promised shelter to Kurya Slavonich and his company; a forest that offered the possibility of brief sanctuary from the snows. The men did not talk, every effort bent towards taking the next step, every frosted breath expelled to propel the mercenaries onwards, step by gruelling step. Many of them dragged sleds behind them, laden with oilskin-covered stores and spare weapons. It had been tempting to discard such baggage after the full ferocity of the storm had become evident, but to these hardened warriors their bows and axes and shields were a way of life, not a burden. Ponies were expensive and their feed a further weight to be carried, so the mercenaries pulled their own stores and daydreamed of the riches that had brought them into such fearsome weather.

They had been heading south through Kislev, towards the troubled lands of the Empire where rival claimants to the crown of the Emperor had renewed their sporadic warring and were offering huge payments to those who plied swordcraft as their trade. Slavonich had known that a winter trek was not without risk, but the lure of gold was such that he had put together a company of two hundred souls willing to barter their lives for mercenary gold. They were drawn from all over the north; men of Ungol and Ropsmenn descent, and even a few Norsii. All had lived hard lives, fighting each other and their cruel land to eke a living. Now the civil wars of the Empire offered a chance to be free of such labours; one good campaign would see them all rich for life.

The storm had forced them east, into the foothills of the mountains. The forest ahead, a great swathe of pine that ran for leagues to the south, was known to Slavonich and it was to this shelter he led his men.

It was almost impossible to say what time of day it was, the dark clouds obscuring the light of the sun, but the greybeards reckoned that nightfall was close at hand when they reached the eaves of the forest. Almost immediately the company’s pace quickened, heading into the deeper parts of the woods where the trees’ branches overlapped and the curtain of snow was reduced to a steady but gentler fall.

They turned southwards again, as near as Slavonich reckoned it, determined to press onwards until night made walking impossible. Every hour spent resting was another hour postponing that fabled payday on the fields of Reikland or Wissenland or Stirland.

With the wind broken by the trees, the men were able to light torches and braziers, which were fixed to the sleds to pierce the gloom beneath the unending canopy. In the sputtering ruddy glow, the forest took on a fresh appearance, the flickering shadows doing little to ease the frayed nerves of the men. But it was better than the darkness.

A few of the youngest and nimblest mercenaries were sent ahead to scout for a suitable campsite. They returned soon with astounding news.

‘A castle,’ said Ilya, a young black-haired man with pinched features and a drooping moustache, ‘not so far from here. Dazh be praised, we’ll have a hot fire and a roof tonight.’

‘There’s no castles in these parts,’ replied Slavonich. He stroked a gloved hand through his immense beard, dislodging water and ice. ‘Unless you mean the boyar’s tower.’

‘Aye, sounds right,’ said another of the scouts, a half-Norse by the name of Ulfgad. His braids slapped against his leather breastplate as he turned to point westwards, into the forest. ‘A large tower, stone-made and dome-topped like the city buildings. A few outhouses too, of heavy logs. Easily enough for five hundred men.’

‘It was a hunting lodge,’ said Slavonich. ‘Some Gospodar noble built it centuries ago so he could go out into the woods.’

‘That’s a big tower for a hunting party,’ said Ilya.

‘There’s more than wolves, bears and deer in these trees,’ said Slavonich. ‘A man needs a good wall to keep some of the beasts at bay in these parts. Last I heard it’s been abandoned for over a hundred years.’

‘I didn’t like the look of it,’ said Lushka, the youngest of the company at only sixteen winters old. He shook his head inside his fur hood. He had never revealed his origins, but his cultured accent and sharp features showed he had Gospodar blood in him; a bastard of some noble, Slavonich suspected. ‘It had a bad aspect to it. No plants growing near. Those empty windows were staring at us as we looked, I swear.’

‘Bad aspect or not, it’s better than camping in the snow,’ said Slavonich. ‘Show us the way.’

Their blood is thin, chilled by cold, but it calls to me all the same; like orange blurs amongst the blackness of the trees, lines of ruddy life against the glow of their torches. I smell the sweat of their exertions, hear the pant of their breath as it carves clouds in the air, sense their exhaustion and their relief.

The crunch of the snow is loud in my ears. Their guttural chatter is tired and muted, but still it carries far on the wind. I move closer, staying out of the light of their pitiful fires and look upon these vagabonds trespassing in domains that do not belong to them. Each is both ugly and beautiful. Ugly in their mortality, their flesh weak and haggard, their skin marked by the sun, their eyes clouded by the chill. Beautiful also, each of them an intricate tracery of veins and arteries flowing with life. I see the pulse from their hearts surging from chest to toes, quivering along blood vessels to every part of their body, sustaining them against the winter’s grip.

I feel its lure; the beast inside urging me to feed. It would be easy to pick off one of them right now, to drag him into the darkness and open his throat to drink deep of the luscious fluid that courses through his scrawny body. I will not. I am not hungry. I am not an animal. There is no point.

They are fools. They wander these woods, thinking that their numbers keep them safe. The old one, the leader, thinks he is wise, but he is as blind as the rest of them. Their stench follows them leaving a spoor easily tracked; the beating of their hearts is like a drum sounding through the forest. They think they have found shelter, but all they have discovered is a tomb.

They are being stalked. They are prey.

The boyar’s tower was as described: octagonal, five storeys high and topped with an onion-shaped dome of green and red, the paint on the mouldering wood scoured by decades of wind but still visible. A roofed wing ran away to the north, a single storey high, its tiles broken, the beams sagging. The arched windows were dark and no smoke rose from the chimneys that ran up the tower. The wooden frames were devoid of glass, the painted sills cracked and rotten. The outbuildings showed similar dilapidation, their logs ill-fitted, wooden rivets broken away, doors hanging loose on rusted hinges.

‘You see what I mean,’ said Lushka. ‘No moss or climbing plants, not a burrow or nest to be seen. That is unnatural.’

‘Animals remember long,’ said Slavonich, leading the troop across the wide clearing surrounding the building. ‘They still avoid this place.’

‘And the plants?’ Lushka said, insistent. ‘Are they still afraid?’

‘Hush,’ said Slavonich.

There were no tracks in the fresh snow save for those left by the scouts, which were rapidly being obscured by the continuing snowfall. Slavonich and half of the men headed to the main door, a great portal almost twice the height of a man at the top of a flight of worn stone steps. The brass bolts holding the timbers in place were still sound, the door as solid as the stone that held it. The rest of the company spread out to investigate the other buildings and shouted back that they were stables, coach house and kennels.

Slavonich looked around and saw a gap in the trees that had once been the old road leading here. Everything was swathed in snow, and it was impossible to tell if the ancient flags were still in place or had been swallowed by the wilds.

‘It’s open,’ reported Ilya, heaving his shoulder against the door to push it a fraction. ‘No lock or bolt.’

‘Let’s get inside,’ Slavonich called out to his men, waving them towards the tower. ‘Get a fire in the grates and thank Dazh for delivering us from the storm.’

Taking the torches from the sleds, the mercenaries filed in. The hallway just beyond the door was small, threadbare carpet covering the floor and similarly forlorn tapestries hanging over the stones of the walls. A candelabrum hung from the ceiling, its candles nothing but misshapen stubs that had melted over the scrolled ironwork. Slavonich’s first thought was that with a bit of spit and polish, that fitting would fetch a few coins in Erengrad or Kislev. There were two doors from the hall. Slavonich took a few men to the right and sent another party to the left.

Beyond the door was a larger space, a reception area with bulging armchairs and settees. Low tables, varnish cracked and stained, were placed in the middle. There were sconces around the walls, set between life-size portraits of stern-looking men and demure ladies dressed in old fashions with high collars and elaborate ruffs. The floor was set with interlocking wooden tiles, heavily scuffed and marked, ill-fitting in places where glue had worn away.

‘No cobwebs,’ said Lushka.

Slavonich ignored the boy as more light was brought in. Some of the mercenaries slumped into the couches and chairs, grateful for rest, but Slavonich was not yet ready to settle in. There was another door opposite, surrounded by empty shelves coated with a thick layer of dust.

A call from behind attracted the captain’s attention.

‘Stairwell!’ He recognised the voice of his second-in-command, Piotr; a friend since they had been children.

‘Wait for me!’ he shouted back, opening the other door.

It led into what had been a library, or so he guessed from the lamps on the tables and the ring of shelves around the walls. There was a writing desk, a drinks cabinet – sadly empty he quickly discovered – and a small fireplace. There were no logs set in the grate.

‘Heathens,’ muttered Slavonich. Even if the tower had been abandoned decades ago, the old inhabitants should have honoured Dazh by leaving tinder and fuel for future visitors.

There was nothing to see here, so while more of the men made themselves comfortable, some of them lying down on the thick rug that covered the library floor in their exhaustion, he turned back and headed after Piotr.

He found his friend in a larger hallway on the opposite side of the entrance chamber. There was a large fireplace to one side and an ornate wooden staircase to the other. Piotr and about a dozen mercenaries sat on the bottom steps, waiting for their captain. Others were bringing in stores from the sleds, piling the supplies along the wall between fire and steps.

‘Biggest bedroom is mine,’ Piotr said with a grin, pretending to yawn elaborately.

‘I thought I was captain,’ said Slavonich. ‘I should get the biggest room.’

‘There’s plenty of space out back,’ said Piotr, jabbing a thumb towards a barely noticeable door beneath the stairway. ‘Scullery, kitchens, servants quarters. Must’ve had twenty, thirty men and women working here. I’ve sent some boys to get the stove lit. There’s a small courtyard and well too, we’ll have a pot on soon enough. Hot tea for everyone!’

‘Good work,’ said Slavonich, patting Piotr on the shoulder as he took the first few steps. ‘Coming?’

‘Lead on.’

The tramp of boots was muffled by the thick carpet on the stairs, and the blackness above was forbidding. The flicker of the torches glinted on something at the head of the stairs, causing Slavonich to start and take a step back. He thought he had seen a figure there.

Drawing his sword, he advanced, Piotr holding a torch beside him.

The figure revealed itself: a suit of empty armour on a stand, in ancient Gospodar style with a high plumed helm, scaled undershirt and ring-pierced leather breastplate. The workmanship was sound, though many of the straps and fittings were worn. A few dents and scratches showed that its use had not been purely ornamental.

‘We’ll have that,’ said Slavonich, running a hand over the gilded beading that edged the helm’s visor. ‘Worth a bit to some Gospodar runt trying to prove he has the warrior blood of Mishka in his veins.’

Turning to their right, they found themselves at the end of a passageway, lined by empty pedestals that might once have contained statues, busts or perhaps vases. Everything was in order; there was no sign of looting. As expected, they found several bedrooms, modest in size, comfortably furnished but without linen; another flight of stairs led further up the tower at the far end.

The bedrooms grew larger on the next floor, and on the third storey there were only two rooms: a massive ballroom and an equally large dining chamber. All were furnished, but all small objects – candlesticks, plates and cups, goblets and curtains – had been taken away. The tower had not been abandoned in a panic, but Slavonich wondered why the heavier tables, beds, chairs, benches and cabinets, and the portraits downstairs, had been left behind.

The last set of stairs was a spiral of ironwork that led into a single large area beneath the dome. Snows drifted through cracks in the roof where the timbers had warped over a long succession of summers and winters, and a window banged against its frame in the wind.

Slavonich noticed none of this, astounded by the rest of the room’s contents.

Eight work benches lined the walls, each beneath a narrow window. On them was all manner of strange items: alembics and pipes, contorted glasswork, saws and knives, pincers and clamps, oil burners and crucibles, talismans and fetishes, dishes and cups. In the dim light, the mercenary leader could see that many were bloodstained or smeared with oily residue.

There were eight other tables, biers of woven leather, placed in the centre of the room like a star. On each was a corpse, of increasing disassembly. The first had its skin removed to reveal muscles and ligaments; the next was pared down to blood vessels and nerves; more showed bones and organs exposed; another was dismembered, the constituent parts laid out in proper place, limbs and head neatly severed; the last was nothing but a skeleton with its brain placed in a silver bowl beside its opened skull.

Piotr hissed and there was a babble of alarm from the other mercenaries. Slavonich silenced them with a snarl. While the others slunk back towards the door, Slavonich took the torch from Piotr and approached the tables. In the dancing light, half-faces seemed to grin and leer, eyes glinted menacingly and limbs appeared to twitch. Swallowing his fear, Slavonich inspected the least-mutilated body.

It was a man of middle years, his skin dark from the sun. The hands were calloused from labours, the joints gnarled and prominent. His head had been shaved – Slavonich had thought he had glimpsed a bag stuffed with hair a moment earlier – and the skin peeled away from the rest of his body.

There was no sign of injury or disease, and no markings made by man that he could see, on the bodies or around them. It was a macabre laboratory, but nothing more sinister. Perhaps the boyar had sponsored these investigations.

‘A physician,’ he said, moving to a workbench. He picked up an amulet, revealing it to be the sigil of the Guild of Medicine in Kislev. ‘Nothing worse.’

‘A bad one,’ joked Baldimir. ‘Judging by their health.’

‘Why are they like that?’ asked Lushka, who was peering over the older soldiers’ shoulders at the doorway.

‘Research, most like,’ said Slavonich. ‘Studying how everything fits together.’

‘No, I mean why have they not decayed? Even a corpse a few days old has some corruption.’

‘Preserved, no doubt,’ said the mercenary captain, walking back to the corpses to sniff loudly. He smelled nothing at all, not rot nor embalming fluid, but that didn’t mean they had not been treated with something else. ‘Why does everything have to be unnatural to you?’

‘This place is cursed, I know it,’ said Lushka.

‘Feel free to leave any time you like, little one,’ said Piotr, heartened by his leader’s proclamation. ‘There’s enough beds downstairs, we don’t have to disturb these fellows.’

Most of the mercenaries turned back down the stairs, but Lushka was not satisfied. He prowled around the room, looking for evidence of dark magic or unholy rite.

‘Not every old tower is the abode of a wizard,’ said Slavonich, stepping towards the door. ‘Your mother should have told you different stories as a child.’

Lushka said nothing, but his face was pale and his eyes wide. He was the last to leave and shut the door behind him. Taking a knife from his belt, he wedged it into the jamb of the door to stop it from opening. It was best not to take anything for granted.

How sad it must be to spend one’s short span entirely ignorant of the doom that awaits you. These mortals stumble through their lives, spouting pieties to false gods and throwing themselves upon the mercy of uncaring deities. They know nothing of the life after; nothing of what death entails.

Their fear and superstition drives them, yet it is those same crude emotions that fuel their nightmares and give life to the force that will consume them. Their anger, their pettiness, their fear and their greed nurture the beings that will devour their souls and none of them realise it. Perhaps it is better that they do not know, for such knowledge would most probably drive them insane.

From the tree-line I can sense them, spreading through the tower like a cancer growing in a lung or liver. They seek to understand their place, to know what surrounds them, but they cannot see it.

I can see it. I can see the shapes moving between the trees. I can smell the flax of their sheepskin cloaks and hear the panting of their hounds. The chink of mail rings and the slap of scabbards are as clear to me as the clarion of the herald announcing the arrival of a king.

And beneath, it stirs. It draws like to like, the corrupt to corruption. I feel its malignancy seeping through the woods, a beacon of darkness that must be answered. The enemy is gathering, drawing ever closer. The prize below was not meant for the eyes of mortals to look upon, nor intended for the followers of the darkest powers to possess.

My time is short. If I act too late, others will take what I seek.

Somewhat disconcerted by their discovery in the higher reaches of the tower, Slavonich and his men returned to the lower levels, staking out claims to beds and floorspace in the bedchambers. Slavonich turfed Piotr out of the master bedroom after winning a round of ice-water-fire and called for his pack to be brought up to him. He laid out on the bed and shut his eyes, enjoying the softness of the mattress. He let his mind wander; he would have a bed like this in the lodge he would build when they returned from the Empire. Before his belongings arrived there was another shout from below, rousing him from the doze that had been creeping over him.

With a grunt, he hauled himself off the bed, yawned widely and made his way back downstairs. He found many of his company crowding into the hall at the foot of the stairs, all looking towards the grand fireplace.

‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘Can a man get no rest?’

‘I was lighting a fire in the grate,’ said Boian as the mercenaries parted to allow Slavonich to approach. The veteran was standing beside the huge fireplace, wagging his head in disbelief. ‘I reached up to pull myself to my feet, and that brick moved.’

He stood aside to reveal a small doorway had opened in the wall beside the chimney. It was dark beyond, but in the light of the torches, Boian could see smooth stone steps leading down.

‘Probably a wine cellar,’ said Piotr.

‘A secret wine cellar?’ said Lushka. ‘This boyar must have distrusted his servants considerably.’

There were mutterings amongst the men, and a few made signs to ward away evil spirits. Slavonich heard curses mentioned more than once.

‘Take a look,’ said the captain.

‘Not I,’ said Lushka. ‘I said there was something ill about this tower. The forest canopy will be shelter enough for me tonight.’

The young man pushed through the throng towards the entrance chamber, picking up his pack and weapons from the pile beside the door.

‘If you survive, I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said as he left.

A few others grumbled complaints and followed, casting nervous glances back towards the cellar doorway, touching fingers to talismans hanging over their furs and armour.

‘Idiots,’ snapped Slavonich. ‘We’ll find their frost-bitten corpses tomorrow.’

‘I’ll take a look,’ said Piotr. He lit a lamp and glared at the others. ‘Florjan, Dimitri, Ilya, Drago, Lew… Let’s go and find some hidden boyar gold. If Dazh has favoured us, we won’t need to trek to the Empire to be rich!’

Some more reluctantly than others, the named mercenaries grabbed their axes and swords and fell in behind Piotr as he ducked through the small opening. As the last of them passed out of sight, the slamming of the main door thundered through the tower, signalling the departure of Lushka and the others who had decided to leave.

A handful of them have trusted their crude senses, the itch at their necks and the twitch of their thumbs that tells them that something is wrong with the tower. In other circumstances they would have made the right decision, but tonight there is no sanctuary; they simply flee the wolf to fall from the cliff. Against the dark cold of the forest they are bright maps of heat, their hot breath leaving trails behind them in the chill night air. The torches they bear are like blazing beacons to my eyes.

And not only to my eyes. I smell the hounds on the breeze and glimpse the slink of canine bodies through the trees. The northmen have trained their dogs well. They do not yelp or bark or snarl, but stalk in silence, circling around their ignorant prey. Three dozen hounds at least, each a huge beast capable of bringing down a man. Not all have fur. I see creatures with horns and scales, touched by the magic of the North. Some have two heads, others great spines jutting from their flesh. All have fangs like daggers and eyes like coals.

The men see nothing in the darkness; see nothing of the monstrous shapes skulking through the shadows beyond the touch of their lamps and torches. Their footfalls are like the slamming of coffin lids, though to their ears they crunch softly across the snow.

The dogs wait patiently as the men flounder further under the trees, seeking a fallen trunk or arching root to make their camp beneath. Barbed tails swishing, the Hounds of Chaos await the command of their master before they strike.

I cannot see him yet, but I sense that he is close. He is a pit of darkness that moves through the winds of magic like a snow-devil, creating a vortex of power around himself. It is his servant that tried to claim the book and it is this man who would see me robbed of my prize.

After a half-dozen steps, the stairwell doubled back on itself at a small landing, taking the men directly under the tower’s foundations. Another ten steps later, Piotr stopped at an archway and held up his lantern. There were letters etched deeply into the stone lintel.

‘I do not have the reading,’ said Piotr, slightly shame-faced. ‘What does it say?’

Ilya had been taught a little by his uncle, who was a merchant, and so he joined Piotr and looked up at the inscription.

‘It says “Here lies the family Von Carstein.” That’s all.’

‘A family crypt?’ said Dimitri. ‘Why have it out here?’

‘Disgraced, probably,’ said Drago. ‘Cast out of the city, perhaps?’

‘Or maybe nothing more than brigand-boyars,’ said Florjan. ‘Casting themselves as nobility when their fathers were nothing more than bandits.’

‘Let’s hope that they had some of their loot buried with them,’ said Piotr, stepping under the arch.

‘I’m not a grave robber,’ said Drago.

‘Hush, man!’ said Piotr. ‘I’ve seen you prise the gold teeth out of a fallen Norse chieftain’s mouth, and chop the head from a boy no more than twelve winters to get his necklace.’

‘That’s different,’ said Drago. ‘That was spoils of war.’

‘So’s this,’ said Piotr, turning back, his craggy face highlighted in the gleam of the lantern. ‘This tower belongs to us now, by right of conquest, right?’

‘The priests, they lay charms upon the dead,’ said Drago. He shook his head, but followed when Piotr pressed on.

The catacomb formed a ring of tombs, following the outer wall of the tower above. The dead were laid out in upright lidless caskets; a circle of skeletons dressed in mouldering finery, swords and shields laid at their feet and Gospodar-style helms upon their heads. Piotr stopped at one and crouched down. He picked up something from the bottom of the casket and held it up in the light: a silver ring.

‘Too big for such skinny fingers,’ he said, pocketing the find. ‘Search the others.’

The mercenaries did as they were told, though without the enthusiasm of Piotr. From the first dozen graves they amassed a small pile of brooches, rings, bracelets, belt buckles and neck chains.

‘These are just for us,’ Piotr said with a wink. ‘If Slavonich wanted the spoils, he should have come down himself, right?’

‘Right,’ said Ilya, slipping a jewelled brooch in the form of a butterfly into a pouch at his waist.

‘There’s more back here,’ said Lew, waving his torch towards another opening, just about high enough for a man to duck under. ‘Must be thirty or more coffins in here. Women and children by the looks of it.’

‘Dazh shines bright upon us,’ Piotr said gleefully, peering into the side chamber.

‘He does indeed,’ said Ilya, his voice quiet. They turned to see him standing at an archway a little further around the ring, his eyes wide. There was something about the way the light gleamed from the doorway that excited the mercenaries and they hurried to join Ilya, thoughts alight with possibilities.

An octagonal chamber lay within the circle of tombs. Tall gilded candlesticks lined the chamber, and between them low tables were set with silver chalices and golden goblets that reflected the fires of the torches.

At the centre of the chamber was a stone slab, waist-high and carved with hunting scenes. Upon the slab lay a figure garbed in armour similar to the suit they had found in the tower. A long sword was clasped in bony hands and a shield bearing a gilded wolf’s head was propped up at the corpses feet.

‘Wait!’ snarled Drago, grabbing Piotr as he was about to step into the mausoleum. The mercenary pointed at the ground.

Around the slab was painted an eight-pointed star, composed of two squares overlapping. Sigils marked each point and intersection, and small dishes were laid out in the areas between, filled with different powders, liquids and other identifiable compounds. There was blood splashed against one wall, and a trail of the same smeared across the octagram behind the slab.

I can sense them more clearly now, the riders and warriors of the North. They will be here soon and…

It stirs again, sending out a pulse of dark magic, reacting to intrusion. The sorcerer perhaps? No, he is all but spent, destroyed by his curiosity and greed. It is someone new. The Kislevites have found the catacombs. It has been woken by their life essence, the hated power close at hand. It hungers too, as I have hungered, and in its waking it sends shivers across the winds of magic; pulses of darkness and despair.

It is hard not to feel some sympathy for those cursed fools who are even now sealing their fate. Caught between powers that they barely recognise and have no ability to comprehend, they are still oblivious.

Those that fled have found a place to shelter, beneath the overhang of a rocky cliff. Their fire is a beacon and the hounds have stopped circling. The Northmen know that there are others close by and quicken their pace. There is anger in them, and anticipation. Strange omens and the prophecies of their shamans have brought them to this place, and now they think their prize is being stolen.

The situation is rapidly becoming more complicated than I had hoped. It is time to act. It is not their prize, it is mine. They have spent their lives looking for this place; I have spent five of their lifetimes to seize what lies beneath the tower.

Slavonich broke from his sleep in an instant, heart pounding. He couldn’t be sure what had woken him, but he thought it had been a scream.

He had been right. Another drawn-out shriek sounded dimly in the distance, from outside the tower. Throwing aside his blanket, Slavonich grabbed his axe from the bedside table and headed to the window. Snow was thick on the sill and the cold wind swept through the empty frame. His face prickled with the chill as he leaned out.

There were howls now; bestial howls that the wind and snow could not mute. He could not tell from which direction, but it did not matter. He did not turn as there came a rapping on the chamber door.

‘I heard it!’ he called out.

The door opened and he glanced back to see Ivan, bow in hand.

‘What should we do?’ said the mercenary.

‘Do?’ laughed Slavonich. ‘We bloody well stay here, that’s what we do. Those fools wanted to leave, I didn’t make them. Never seen a wolf that will attack a stone tower.’

At that moment, a movement outside caught Slavonich’s attention. It was a flicker by the tree-line, barely glimpsed through the falling snow. He squinted, straining his eyes to see through the drifting flakes, but the light from the tower barely reached the trees.

He stood up in shock as a thunderous bang on the door below startled him, cracking his head on the top of the window. Snarling with pain, Slavonich rubbed his head and leaned out again as another loud knock hammered on the timbers of the door. Beneath him stood a man in armour, his helmetless head surrounded by long black hair flowing in the wind. The stranger’s features were narrow and foreign, with the prideful air of the aristocracy about them.

Eyes as dark as the night looked up at Slavonich.

‘Would you grant sanctuary to a stranger on this fell night?’ the man called up. His accent was strange, tinged with the tone of northern Kislev but certainly not originating from there. ‘It would be in your best interest.’

Looking into those dark eyes, Slavonich could see that the stranger was an honourable man. A thought came to the mercenary captain: Dazh demanded that hospitality be extended to those in need. On a night like this, it would be a crime to make his visitor stay out in the cold, what with the wolves in the forest growing bold.

‘Will you let me in?’ the stranger asked.

‘Of course,’ said Slavonich. The stranger’s voice had a haunting quality that reassured Slavonich at the same time as it exuded authority. ‘You will be our guest for the night.’

He turned to Ivan and waved the man away.

‘Go on!’ said Slavonich. ‘Go and let him in. He’ll be half-frozen by now. I will be there in a moment.’

Ivan nodded hesitantly and disappeared out of the door. Slavonich hurriedly pulled on his boots, feeling the weariness of a long trek and the late hour weighing heavily on his bones. He pushed several bronze and iron rings onto pudgy fingers and ran those fingers through his beard to straighten out a few tangles.

Slavonich stopped, unsure why he was preening himself in such a way. His guest was certainly a noble, but he had never been one to put on airs and graces for their benefit. Come to think of it, he wasn’t quite sure why he had let the man enter in the first place.

Confused, Slavonich hurried down the stairs to the ground floor. He found the stranger standing at the doorway between the main hall and the entrance chamber, a ring of mercenaries around him with bared weapons. The nobleman’s sword was still in its sheath; Slavonich saw an ornate grip, hilt and guard gilded, a ruby inset into the crosspiece.

‘Your men are dead,’ said the stranger, looking past the wary mercenaries.

‘I heard,’ said Slavonich. ‘Wolves got them.’

‘Not wolves,’ said the stranger. ‘Hounds. Hounds of the Northmen. Hounds of Chaos.’

This caused some disconcert amongst the soldiers, and Slavonich hushed them with a growl.

‘How do you know this?’

‘You have to leave here,’ said the noble, eyes unblinking. ‘The hounds are not the only creatures of the Dark Gods that approach. Warriors and knights are in the woods, seeking this place. You must leave before they arrive.’

The man spoke sense. He could see the earnestness in the stranger’s eyes, hear the sincerity in his tone. Yet there was a part of Slavonich that was not so sure, a nagging voice in the back of his mind.

‘Better to have a place to defend,’ he said, surprised that he had uttered the words. Disappointment crossed the noble’s face.

‘You will be trapped here,’ the stranger said, every word insistent. ‘Better to leave now and move south. They are not interested in you, they just want to enter the tower.’

Slavonich had fought enough Chaos warbands to know the truth of the noble’s words. He had left the North to get away from such enemies; the soldiers of the Empire were easier foes.

‘There’s no profit to be made by staying here,’ said the stranger. Now he turned his gaze to the rest of the men. ‘Only death lingers here.’

Slavonich was about to comply with the man’s suggestion, but the order to his men stuck in his throat. Stubbornness born out of a hard life surged rebelliously through the captain.

‘They are coming,’ said the stranger, his voice calm and measured.

Just then, they heard another scream.

It came not from outside, but echoed up from the open doorway beside the fireplace; a drawn-out shriek of pure terror.

Ilya stumbled back across the tomb, feet scuffing through the markings around the central slab. The corpse behind the slab – or what had appeared to be a corpse – dragged itself after him, one clawed hand outstretched towards the mercenary. In its other hand, it clasped a heavy book, the volume bound in pale material. The silver sigils upon the tome gnawed at Ilya’s thoughts, as if the book was whispering to him. Visions of death, of skulls and walking corpses, crossed his mind, against a backdrop of a mighty black pyramid around which dark energies writhed.

The thing crawling across the floor should not have been alive. From a tattered robe protruded arms skeletally thin, the wasted flesh pocked with sores and welts. The thing’s hood had fallen back, revealing a face that was all but fleshless, the eye sockets empty but for flickers of fire that burned into Ilya’s mind. On its brow was carved a rune that shifted and moved – a mark of Chaos.

He screamed again as he fell back, tripping over Piotr’s foot.

Piotr stepped forwards, sword in hand, and ran his blade through the creature’s chest. The thing gurgled and hissed, grasping Piotr’s boot with its free hand. A fanged mouth opened wide, revealing a forked tongue that flickered quickly in and out.

He chopped off the hand that clasped his leg, sword ringing against the flags of the tomb, the noise echoing loudly around the chamber. The thing did not flinch, but stared up at him with those orbless sockets, thin lips curling back to reveal black gums.

Snarling, Piotr took his sword in both hands and swung, slashing through the creature’s throat. Its head lolled to one side, still attached by bone and sinew. Another hacking blow severed the skull, sending it rolling across the floor.

‘Grab the plates and cups and anything else of value,’ said the burly mercenary, ripping the book from the dead thing’s grasp. ‘Let’s get back to the others.’

There was a shout from the floors above, echoing down the stairs, followed by several others, all warning of the approach of armoured warriors and riders. Slavonich felt the stranger at his shoulder as he moved to the main door and looked out.

Sure enough, it was a Chaos warband.

Bearing torches that spat with multicoloured flame, the warriors of the North moved across the clearing. They were clad in heavy plates of armour, and cloaks of furs and mantles of scaled skin hung from their shoulders. Their tall shields were embossed with screaming faces, human skin drawn taut across them splashed with crude designs in blood. Their helms covered their faces, some bearing one, two or three horns, others with crests of coloured hair. They held axes and maces and jagged swords, which glowed with magical power.

Behind the men on foot came six riders, five of them clad the same but mounted on wide-shouldered steeds with flaming eyes and metallic flesh. Their spears were hung with fetishes and trophies – bones and skulls that clattered in the winter wind. Hounds trotted at the side of the Chaos Knights, monstrous things that were far more than hunting dogs.

The sixth was unlike the others. He was the champion, a Northern warrior elevated by the Dark Gods, possessed of powers beyond mortals. He was plain to pick out, a T-shaped banner pole attached to his back, a disc of bronze depicting a leering daemonic face emblazoned upon it. His armour was like smoked glass, a greyish-white that moved constantly, almost lost amongst the falling snow. One gauntleted fist held an axe with a head of fire, the other a sword whose blade was of the same shining material as the champion’s armour.

The champion wore no helmet. His flesh was a dark red, cracked and flaking like rust. Bright yellow eyes like those of a cat stared unblinking at Slavonich as he stood transfixed in the door. Slavonich felt terror freezing him; catching hold of his heart and stopping it.

The moment passed as the nobleman laid his hand on Slavonich’s shoulder.

‘Do not fear,’ said the stranger, and Slavonich’s panic passed.

The mercenary slammed the door and turned back to the mob of soldiers who had piled into the entrance hall after him.

‘It’s too late,’ declared the captain. ‘We’re trapped here.’

The woe of the mercenaries vocally increased. Slavonich felt a hand soft on his arm and looked round to see the stranger staring at him earnestly.

‘I can help you,’ he said. ‘I ask only one thing in return for my services.’

Slavonich eyed the man from toe to scalp and could tell from his poise and size that he would most certainly be handy in a fight. More than that, the nobleman exuded assurance; Slavonich was sure that with him on their side they could defeat the Chaos warband.

‘What is your price?’ he asked, as a moment of scepticism freed him from his admiration of the stranger.

‘A book,’ said the nobleman. ‘Your men have found it in the catacombs. Keep the gold and jewels. I just want the book.’

‘Some old book?’ laughed Slavonich. ‘Sure, why not? If you get us out of here alive, you can have your book. Sure.’

‘Thank you,’ said the stranger. ‘Now, follow my instructions precisely.’

It is a craving that drives them, just as the hunger drives me. Their fear rules them and they crave leadership. The old one, the one called Slavonich, has already deferred to me, and the others are even easier to sway to my will. Some would call it magic, others charisma. It is neither of these things. It is simply the natural order of humanity to follow when led.

There is panic in them. Their hearts flutter as they peer out of the windows and see the armoured figures advancing through the snow. They have given no thought to the defence of the tower and are woefully unprepared. Where there was inaction, I give them action. I order the door to be barred, the benches and tables to be put across the windows of the lower floors. Those with bow and arrows I send to the upper floors, though I fear in the blizzard their aim will be poor.

The rest I split between the main tower and the servants’ wing. The tower is sturdy, the main attack will come through the other hall. Slavonich is quick to agree when I dispense my orders, taking two-thirds of the fighters with him to defend the kitchens and other rooms attached to the tower.

A shout of triumph rings loudly through the noise of the bustling mercenaries; a marksman above has found his target. It will be a distraction, little more. Under my direction, the men with me ready their weapons, bank up the fires and stand at the door and windows.

Then it comes, the first bite of blade into wood, from a window in the library. There are shouts from the soldiers. I reassure them with meaningless words of honour and courage. Like thirsty dogs, they lap up the platitudes, though I can see inside them and still their hearts race and the sweat trickles down their backs.

One of them thrusts a spear through the gap between two benches across the window. The strike is rewarded with a howl of pain. The magic churns, flung into fresh motion by the spilling of blood. The red fluid decorates the speartip as it is withdrawn. It glitters, full of life force, every drop holding the key to existence. Its smell is intoxicating. Even the thin smear on the iron blade is enough to make my throat itch, to rouse the thing inside me that desires the essence.

Outside, the champion roars a challenge in words the men cannot understand. I know the language though; it is a promise to slaughter everyone inside the tower. Though the mercenaries do not understand the tongue spoken, they recognise the intent and the power behind the tone. Their brief moment of victory flickers and fades.

I glimpse nervous glances, dry lips licked, the stroke of talismans and the making of signs. They mutter prayers to their gods.

Those gods are not listening. Other gods, even darker gods, are our audience tonight.

The hall was filled by a clatter as Ilya dropped his armfuls of grave ornaments in surprise. His comrades were armed, the windows barred by furniture, and war shouts sounded from outside.

‘What?’ Coming up the steps, Piotr’s single word summed up everything Ilya felt.

‘Northmen,’ came the reply from Stanislav. ‘They have us surrounded.’

The men who had explored the crypt put aside their loot and searched through the baggage for their weapons.

‘Who is that?’ asked Ilya, eyeing a tall stranger clad in ornate armour stood at the doorway to the entrance hall.

‘Not sure,’ grunted Stanislav. ‘Turned up just before the Northmen. Slavonich let him in.’

Ilya absorbed this information without comment, still confused. He found his sword and shield amongst the piles of boxes and sacks and armed himself. Novak came running into the chamber from the servants’ entrance, blood streaming from a cut across his left arm.

‘They’re breaking in,’ he said, breathless and afraid. ‘Slavonich needs more men to hold them back.’

A thunderous thud resounded through the tower, silencing any answer. The men turned their gazes to the stranger, who was calm amongst the tumult.

‘They have chopped down a tree for a battering ram,’ he said slowly. ‘We cannot spare any more men.’

‘They’ll be through soon,’ warned Novak. ‘They are too strong for us.’

‘Hold them as long as you can,’ said the nobleman. ‘Send Slavonich to me.’

Novak disappeared back into the servants’ quarters.

‘Find something to brace the main door,’ said the stranger. He pointed to the banister of the stairs. ‘Those timbers should work.’

The men with axes set to hacking at the thick wood, their blows drowned out by the pounding on the door. Splinters and wood chips spread across the floor as the men laboured, and dust filled the air, coating furs, hair and beards.

An ominous crack echoed from the entrance chamber.

‘Quickly now,’ said the stranger, still showing no signs of fear.

Slavonich emerged as the men hacked through the last part of the banister. He said nothing as he watched his men carrying the carved timber towards the doorway, as if in a daze. With a shake of the head, he turned his attention to the nobleman.

‘Do you remember our agreement?’ said the stranger, before Slavonich could speak.

‘I remember,’ replied the mercenary captain, nodding. ‘I’m afraid I’m not sure I can deliver my end of the bargain.’

‘You have no need to be afraid,’ said the stranger. ‘I can help. Whatever happens next, remember that we have a common foe tonight. We are allies, yes?’

‘I guess so,’ said Slavonich, uncertain of the man’s intent.

‘Good. You can trust me.’

This is a terrible place, surrounded by the darkest magic. As I open up my mind to the winds of magic, I feel the horrific memories etched into the fabric of the tower. Norsii kings once gutted and beheaded their enemies here, dedicating the souls of the slain to the gods of Chaos. Over that stone, they raised a temple, before being driven north by Sigmar and his warriors.

The temple was cast down and the stones were scattered, but the histories of humans are short while the memories of the stones is long indeed. Over the age of the Empire, this place has drawn all manner of men, its origins forgotten but its location remembered in folk tales and legends. A few seek treasures, lured to this place by their greed. Most came with a more sinister purpose, as do I. All of them lost their lives, consumed by the power they sought to embrace.

The boyar was no different. A weak man, driven by his fear of death, seeking the ultimate solution; immortality. He obscured the truth with tales of hunting, but the stones remember. The blood of the sacrifices, the chants of the necromancers, the swirl of dark magic; all of them continue to echo down through the centuries.

The boyar did not succeed; not wholly. He is still here though, three hundred years after he died. His legacy continued, his fortune expended after death to finish what had been started in life. My thoughts touch upon the boyar’s spirit, caged within the mouldering bones in the crypt beneath my feet. The dark magic stopped the soul from fleeing the corpse, but it is dormant, waiting for the energy to be set free again.

I have that power. I do not have all of the knowledge of the First, the Great Necromancer, the Lord of Nagashizzar, but I have learned much in my long existence and my unnatural state brings with it many benefits.

The dark magic is mine to control. It is part of me, in a way it will never be a part of a mortal form. Its curses and temptations mean nothing to me; I am already immortal. I was reborn with that innate power, the ability to see the souls that have departed, to reach into the other realm where they swirl and rest, to give back that spark of life that has departed.

I am considered a monster by most, but I am a lifebringer. It is this understanding, this revelation, that drives mortals insane when they come to understand it. To be undead and yet alive, standing between two realms of mortal and immortal, is to be the balance between the scales of oblivion and existence. No sane mind, no human mind, can look upon both of those worlds and remain intact, but it is my natural sphere; the place to which I was brought so many, many years ago.

The boyar responds to my presence, the magic I guide with my mind seeping into frail bones and ancient armour. His soul flickers, grows, draws strength for the power that I am feeding him. His will is strong, as it must be for any that attempt to cheat death and succeed with any degree of self remaining. He was a fighter, a leader of armies, and it is those memories that I stir, instilling the boyar’s skeleton with a semblance of purpose.

The rest is up to the spirit of the man. His bones tremble, quivering with dark magic. I sense the twitch of a finger and feel animation returning, tendrils of magic replacing sinew and muscle that rotted away a long time ago.

One warrior will not turn the battle in my favour. The magic courses, the stones releasing their power, the screams of the dead offered up to this benighted place writhing and clawing at the barrier between life and death. I push the magic, letting it flow through my body out of the stones before it throbs down into the catacombs, earthing into the skeletons of the boyar’s retainers like lightning onto a temple spire.

Unlife floods through the crypt, empty sockets gleaming with unnatural vigour.

I issue a silent command and the dead rise, ready to do my bidding.

The clatter of armoured feet on the steps behind him caused Ilya some consternation, thinking for a moment that there had been some other entrance into the crypt from outside. His consternation became horror at the sight of the figure that emerged from the opening beside the fireplace.

The dead lord had returned to finish what the mutated wizard had not managed!

Ilya’s scream drew the attention of all the others, who turned in wide-eyed dread at the column of skeletons marching in step from the crypt.

‘The touch of Chaos is on them,’ snarled Piotr, stepping towards the apparitions.

‘Hold your men,’ the stranger said, his voice low, laying a hand on the shoulder of Slavonich. ‘These are not your enemies. They are the guardians of the tower, brought forth to defeat your foes.’

Slavonich looked with narrowed eyes at the nobleman, but also raised his hand, waving Piotr and the others to stand back.

‘What ally have you made?’ hissed Ilya.

In answer, the main door cracked heavily again and the shouts of the Northmen could be heard more clearly. There came warning shouts from the entrance chamber.

‘Better on our side than theirs,’ Slavonich said with a grimace, taking a pace back to let the wight and its entourage pass him by. ‘Let them through. They’ve died once already, at least they can do it again for us.’

The captain flinched as the wight stopped beside him and turned glowing red eyes upon the mercenary leader, as if understanding his words. A gauntleted hand raised a rune-etched blade in salute to the stranger, magic glittering along its edges.

‘Kill them all,’ said the nobleman, pointing towards the door.

Such mercenaries as stood between the undead and the portal scurried from their path as the beam bracing the door shook violently and splintered. The planks of the door were split asunder by hammer blows and axe blades, the ancient timber finally failing against the inhuman assault from the warriors of Chaos.

The wight met the first of the Northmen to come through, its shining sword catching him high across the helm, slicing the top from his head. In eerie silence, the armoured figure raised his shield and charged the next, the other skeletons following behind.

Those warriors at the door who saw the undead fell back with panicked shouts, allowing the unliving cohort to stream into the open. Ilya and several others followed behind, their terror outmatched by a macabre curiosity to see the dead slay the living. The stranger followed them, his eyes lit by the same ruddy glow that emanated from the sockets of the fleshless fighters.

It was Ilya’s first proper look at their foes – hulking warriors in heavy armour and fur cloaks. Their bulk dwarfed the skeletal warriors, their weapons heavy-bladed and capable of chopping through armour, flesh and bone. Several were cut down, overcome while still reeling from their shock at the appearance of the dead attackers. The animated corpse of the boyar struck out to the left and right, dismembering and beheading with every blow.

From around the tower, the leader of the warband appeared, bellowing orders in his harsh language. Pulling back from their attack on the tower, the Chaos warriors formed around their champion, hacking and chopping at the skeletons and their immortal commander. Blades bit into bare bone, cracking skulls and smashing limbs and ribcages. To Ilya it looked as if salvation had been short-lived as half a dozen skeletons were smashed to the ground in quick succession.

Tearing his eyes from the brutal scene, the mercenary glanced at the stranger. The fire in his eyes burned brighter, his pale flesh gleaming from within, veins pulsing strangely beneath alabaster skin. A half-seen aura surrounded the nobleman, a shadow that had nothing to do with the torches of the Northmen or the light spilling from inside the tower.

Those skeletons that had fallen shuddered and flailed. Broken bone knitted to broken bone and the unliving warriors pushed themselves to their feet once more, picking up notched and rusted weapons to attack again. Three were struck down immediately by the Northmen, but not before the undead had stabbed and sliced through the armour of another warrior of Chaos.

Where the eight fought, the Northmen died; where the champion of Chaos swung his weapons, the skeletons were hurled back, smashed to pieces. Man-by-man, the Chaos warband was being whittled down, unable to match the necromancy sustaining their foes, returning them to the melee.

After some time, the wight and the champion came together, the latter swatting aside a handful of skeletons with the flaming head of his axe. The ice-shard of Chaos crashed against the diresword of the wight with a deafening ring and a blast of magical power. The boyar turned aside the next axe blow with its shield and lunged, the tip of its enchanted blade carving a furrow across the champion’s helm.

Ilya breathed out explosively, realising that he had been holding his breath as the two unnatural warriors had clashed. He sucked in again with an ill-feeling as the Chaos champion’s sword screamed through the wight’s breastplate, erupting from the dead warrior’s back. The boyar stumbled, lashing out, the tip of its deathly sword slicing through the champion’s leg. The flaming axe descended, smashing the head from the wight, burying deep inside the animated carcass.

Groans and shouts of fear surged from the watching mercenaries as the champion erupted from the fight, sending skulls and limbs flying around him.

The champion has bested the boyar and I do not have enough warriors to stop him, no matter how many times I bring them back. I had hoped to avoid this, but I must take a personal hand in the battle.

I stop the flow of dark magic, letting it build up inside my body. It twists and writhes inside me, but it is my slave not my master. My flesh is as dead as the bones of the skeletons; a simple vessel to be animated to my will.

The magic surges, flowing down every limb, filling me with its power.

Thinking that he had perhaps seen the worst imaginable, Ilya nearly fainted as he caught sight of the stranger. The flickering aura around him was more visible now, coursing through veins that stood out like cords, and to the mercenaries’ ears came a faint shrieking and wailing.

The shadows deepened, becoming a tangible, visible cloak of power enveloping the nobleman. Dead faces leered and moaned in that horrifying mantle, but the worst was to come.

The stranger was transforming. Dark hair had turned to snow-white, and pallid flesh was now almost translucent, the tracery of arteries and veins beneath a spasming web that moved unnaturally. Two fangs, each as long as Ilya’s fingers, extruded from the stranger’s upper jaw, their tips glinting in the firelight. Even the nobleman’s armour was contorting and changing, bone-like spines and spikes erupting from the black metal. A clawed hand ripped free the sword in the stranger’s sheath, the blade blazing like a full moon.

Almost faster than Ilya could follow, the stranger raced forwards, sword held high. The chill-shining blade slashed through the closest Chaos warrior, parting arm from body in one blow. Another fell, chest cut open from ribs to shoulder.

The wailing, slashing apparition streaked through the Northmen, leaving blood and limbs scattered across the snow, heading directly for the Chaos champion. The Northmen’s leader swung his axe high, aiming for the stranger’s throat. The transformed nobleman caught the haft of the axe in his free hand, tearing it from the champion’s grip. The moon-lit sword struck down thrice, each blow cutting deeper into the skull of the Northman; the fourth sliced through neck and shoulder in a fountain of freezing blood.

The blood flows around me, but I cannot feed. It is tainted, polluted by the essence of the Dark Gods. With the last of my strength, I draw again on the winds of power and raise up my small force to support me as the warriors of Chaos close around me, seeking vengeance for the fallen champion. The lure of Chaos means nothing to me; it has nothing to offer an immortal lord such as myself.

Swords and hammers and axes strike my armour and bite my flesh, but to no purpose. I am not alive, so I cannot be killed. Hardened by dark magic, my armour turns aside their blows and my body feels no pain.

It is tiring though, animating my warriors and sustaining this immortal form. Every dreg of dark magic that passes through eats away at my will, until there finally does come pain; the pain of hunger. The magic is poor sustenance, fleeting and fickle.

When a dozen more of their number lie dead, the Chaos warriors retreat; the mercenaries are sallying forth from the tower to aid me.

There is no point chasing them, I have no interest in protecting my allies any longer than necessary. If the Northmen return, it is not my concern. Power waning swiftly, I let the magic disperse, stopping any further damage to spirit and body.

I become frail again and allow my skeletal followers to fall to the ground. My energies spent, I sheath my sword and seek out the one called Slavonich. I have delivered my part of the bargain we struck.

The mercenaries shuffled back as the stranger approached, armour and thin face stained with blood. He had returned to a semblance of his former appearance, though now he looked more gaunt and haggard than before. Only Slavonich stood his ground, but his nervousness was plain for all to see as his sword shook in his hand.

‘What are you?’ the captain asked.

‘You know the answer to that,’ said the stranger.

‘Vampyr,’ said Ilya, immediately regretting the outburst as the stranger’s dark eyes bore into him.

‘So I am called by your people.’ The vampire looked at Slavonich and pointed to Piotr. ‘He has what I desire.’

Slavonich glanced at his second, who shrugged and shook his head.

‘This book?’ said Piotr, pulling the tome from under his cloak. ‘If this fellow is willing to give up all the gold and silver we found for it, it must be worth a lot.’

‘It is priceless,’ said the stranger.

Conflicting emotions warred across Slavonich’s face as he considered the alternatives. The stranger’s eyes became slits and his fangs slid into view again.

‘Honour your word,’ said the vampire. ‘It is not wise to cross me.’

‘Give it to him,’ said Slavonich, waving to Piotr. When the other man shook his head again, Slavonich snatched the book from his grasp and flung it at the stranger. ‘Take it and be gone!’

The mercenaries are nothing to me, and leave my thoughts as I disappear into the blizzard; but for the fate that brought the Chaos warriors here on the same night they would have all been slain by my hand.

Their survival does not matter. They have played their part and I have what I came for.

I can feel it pulsing in my hands, beating with its own unlife, imbued with the power of its creator. It is the final thing I need; the ultimate prize in a quest that has lasted centuries. I will study its contents and learn the final secrets of the Great Necromancer. With its power my plans will come to fruition. The weak Empire of men cannot stand against the great enemy of the North. Their greed and fear will eventually doom this world, and with damnation will come the end of my kind.

We need the blood of these fragile mortals just as much as the Dark Powers crave their souls. I will not let the frailties of men condemn me to destruction; I am immortal and intend to live forever. I will be their undying lord, their protector against the evils of Chaos. Under my command they will be safe from corruption, protected from possession and though they will never thank me for it, I will save their souls from the most terrifying destiny.

Lovingly, I stroke a hand across the human skin-bound book beneath my arm. It is mine now; the last part of a masterpiece written by the greatest lord of the undead.

The ninth book of Nagash.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

GAV THORPE

Gav Thorpe has been rampaging across the worlds of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 for many years as both an author and games developer. He hails from the den of scurvy outlaws called Nottingham and makes regular sorties to unleash bloodshed and mayhem. He shares his hideout with Dennis, a mechanical hamster sworn to enslave mankind. Dennis is currently trying to develop an iPhone app that will hypnotise his victims. Gav’s previous novels include fan-favourite Angels of Darkness, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and the Eldar Path series amongst many others.

You can find his website at mechanicalhamster.wordpress.com

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2011 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Clint Langley

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