[Warhammer] - Zavant Read online

  Drakhov wiped his lips clean with one scarred, ointment-smeared forearm, replacing the clay stopper and returning the canteen to its place amongst the clutter of tools and other belongings that hung from the pattern of belts that ran across his hunched, hairy shoulders and criss-crossed over his heavy torso. Then, picking up his axe, the many telltale notches of battle evident on the rim of its silver blade, he continued on, deeper into the stinking darkness of the sewer passage.

  The atmosphere in these tunnels was thick and oppressive, the air hot and foetid, and rivulets of sweat ran freely down Drakhov’s ointment-covered body, mixing with the filth splashed up from the muck he was wading through and the noxious stuff that dripped down on him from the low ceiling. At the same time, he chewed thoughtfully on a wad of raw garlic, the juice dribbling down his chin onto the matted mess of his filth-encrusted beard.

  Even here, in the reeking sewers of Altdorf, the Old World’s greatest and most populous city, the stench that emanated from Drakhov was enough to make the slime weep from the tunnel walls.

  The ointment—a thick, pungent garlic paste mixed with witchbane and other magical herbs known to repel servants of the Dark—was a secret mixture of Drakhov’s own devising, added to and perfected over many years of wurdolak-hunting. Others of his unique and strange profession, other liche-thing hunters, other vampire slayers, had their own methods and means of protection. On those rare occasions when two or more wurdolak hunters would meet to pool their forces against a nest of the creatures, they would talk long into the night celebrating their victory against the Dark, spending hours comparing and discussing the different ways of dealing with the various kinds of wurdolaki. Some swore that you needed a different mix of protective unguent for each kind of vampire, but Drakhov had never felt the need. His own formula had served him well enough over the years.

  To the rest of humanity, the wurdolak—the vampire or nosferatu, as they were known beyond the borders of Kislev—were all one of a kind, all the same nightmare lords of the undead, but Drakhov and those of his profession knew that there were several distinct species, each with their own strengths and weaknesses, their own tell-tale traits and differing natures. And there were as many different kinds of vampire slayers as there were species of creature they hunted. In his travels, Drakhov had encountered many such brother wurdolak slayers: Bretonnian Grail Knights whose belief in the nobility of their Lady-blessed cause was even more impervious than the shining plate-armour they all seemed to wear; rough and rugged Empire woodsmen who viewed the creatures they hunted as being no different from the savage forest wolves that preyed on their cattle stocks. Then there were the wild-eyed religious fanatics following the dictates of their fierce warrior gods, or the silent, grim-faced ones who could often be spied weeping over the faded icon images of women and children or any other similar kind of pathetic keepsake evidence of their wurdolak-slaughtered loved ones.

  Drakhov was none of these things. He did what he did because he hated and opposed the Dark with all his being. He had first fought it out in the far Northern Wastes, where it wore the forms of twisted, unspeakable monstrosity and called itself Chaos, and now he fought it still here in the so-called civilised lands of the south, hunting down and destroying the leech-thing servants of the Dark wherever they were to be found.

  And he had been pursuing this particular wurdolak for months, following its trail from city to city, following the corpse-spoor that such creatures always left in their wake. It was one of the hell-bitch species of wurdolak, and those were often the most cunning and dangerous of all to deal with, Drakhov knew. Unlike the other kinds, the Lahmian hell-bitches often moved freely amongst human-kind. All the better, Drakhov supposed, to carry out their endless plots and plans. Not for them an eternity spent skulking in the remote and shadow-haunted parts of the Old World, far from the light of human civilisation, like many other wurdolaki that could no longer pass for anything that might once have been even remotely human. Not for them, either, the chosen unlife existence of their Sylvanian cousins, dwelling aloof in their tumble-walled, moss-eaten castles, surrounded by the faded majesty of ancient and long-vanquished glories and lording it over a ravaged countryside inhabited only by terrified serfs.

  Oh yes, they were cunning, those hell-bitches, and this one was the equal of any of her scheming sisterhood. Drakhov had found and almost caught her twice in this last half-year, the first time in Tilea and then again in Bretonnia. She had almost succeeded in turning the tables on him that second time in Moussillon, drawing him into a trap. She had already departed that ghoul-damned ruin of a city by the time he found her lair, but her servants had not. He found a brood of her paramours—wretched and pathetic mixed human and wurdolak things wholly in the thrall of their daemonic mistress—and Drakhov had taken great and savage pleasure in bringing their existence to an end by fire, wooden stake and silver blade.

  He was not surprised that the trail should have led here, to the capital of the Empire. So many plots and conspiracies both began and terminated at the heart of the Old World’s most powerful nation. Here the creature could don its false human face and hide amongst the teeming throng of the inhabitants of the Imperial capital, where so many strangers and travellers could come and go without comment or suspicion. The only surprise was that the creature should make its lair down here, amidst the filth and darkness of the city sewers. If it thought that such an uncharacteristic ruse would throw Drakhov off the scent, then it was to be sadly disappointed, the vampire slayer thought to himself with a bloodthirsty smile.

  He held up the glass globe-jar that hung from a thong at his wrist, studying the behaviour of the creature imprisoned inside. The tiny homunculus thing spat at him and angrily scratched at the glass barrier with claws like needle points. It was aged for a homunculus—almost two years old—and Drakhov knew that soon he would have to return home to buy a replacement from the Baba Yaga steppe witches who created such things. Drakhov cared for the creature and fed it daily with a few drips of his own blood, yet knew better than to ever feel any affection for the vile little thing. To him, it was merely another tool to aid him in his war against the wurdolaki, although often a highly useful one.

  Drakhov studied its behaviour, noting its increasingly agitated movements and the way it beat the shorn stumps of its clipped, leathery bat-wings against the interior of its glass prison. Thin screeches of alarm emerged from the air holes in the jar’s heavy clay lid. It was part of the Dark, this thing, and now it sensed the presence close by of another Dark-born creature. Its reactions of panic and nervous anger were those of any small predator when confronted with another of its kind far greater and more dangerous than itself.

  As if in confirmation, Drakhov began to feel the tell-tale itching, burning sensation from his old vampire fighting wounds, the scars of which criss-crossed his heavily muscled body, mixing with the protective glyphs and wards that were branded and tattooed into his skin. Popular legend had it that wounds inflicted by the undead never truly healed, and that old scars would open up and bleed afresh whenever their bearer encountered another member of the undead.

  Many vampire hunters, Drakhov amongst them, knew such legends to be at least partially true. It was another old and useful trick: after battle, the vampire hunter rubbed a special alchemist’s mixture of powdered silver and certain rare herbs into their open, still-bleeding wounds. So treated, the wounds, even when healed, would give extra, advance warning of the nearby presence of the undead. Now Drakhov’s potion-treated wounds awoke with the dull memory of the pain of past horrific battles against the wurdolaki, warning him that danger was close.

  “Hell-bitch! Bastard devil spawn!” he growled into the darkness in the fierce, guttural tongue of his homeland, brandishing the shining silver blade of his two-handed battle-axe. “Whore of Nagash, step out here and see what your old pal Vassily Romanenko has got for you!”

  Drakhov’s senses, sharpened to a preternatural level by his days in the Northern Wastes and the subs
equent years of hunting the inhumanly stealthy wurdolaki, detected a slight shuffling movement in the tunnel ahead of him. A pair of glowing red eyes appeared in the darkness, glaring balefully out of the gloom at him. And then, beside them, another pair of red eyes blinked into existence. And another set. And then another.

  There was a low, hungry growl from the darkness ahead of him, followed quickly by an answering growl from the tunnel behind him. With a sudden, sick realisation, Drakhov knew that he had made the greatest, and almost certainly the final, mistake of his vampire hunting career.

  He spun round, his axe blade already arcing through the air to meet the first of the creatures now leaping at his unprotected back. The blow cut the creature in half, the momentum of the swing carrying on to bury the axe blade inches deep in the masonry of the tunnel wall. The second creature leapt forward as Drakhov struggled to pull his blade free from the crumbling brickwork. Cursing in anger, he used the only other weapon at hand, smashing the glass globe-jar into this second attacker’s face. The thin, dying scream of the homunculus creature inside was lost amidst the shrieks of pain from the attacker as the thick shards of glass bit into its eyes and face.

  His axe blade freed again, Drakhov swung out wildly, landing a fortunate blow and crushing the skull of a third enemy. They were ghulaki, he saw. Wasted, pale-skinned ghoul-things; the eaters of the dead, who too often would come creeping forth from their carrion dens and graveyard burrows to serve the bidding of their wurdolak masters. There were many of them here in the tunnel with him, too many. He had been lured here, he realised now. Into this stinking, dark place so much like their charnel pit lairs, into narrow, low-ceilinged tunnels where he would not be able to wield his long-hafted axe to its full, deadly effect.

  Roaring in defiance, filling the tunnels with the echoes of fierce Kislevite battle-cries, Drakhov set about his attackers, determined to make these foul creatures pay the full price of his death in their own flesh and blood.

  A clawed hand reached out for his face, taking away one of his cheeks and gouging deep, bloody furrows in the side of his neck. Drakhov swung the axe blade, and the hand’s owner retreated yowling into the darkness, nursing its now handless stump.

  Drakhov felt the impact of a lithe, putrid-skinned body landing on his back, long-taloned fingers reaching round his shoulders in search of his face and throat. He slammed the full weight of his body backwards into the wall of the tunnel, feeling the brittle bones of the creature snap and break under the impact, even as it tore into him with its teeth, chewing through the thick cords of muscle at the back of his neck. Hissing in agony, Drakhov shunted his head backwards in a sudden and brutal head-butting movement, shattering the bones of the ghoul-thing’s vermin-like face and cracking the back of its skull against the stonework.

  Its body went limp, but Drakhov was off-balance now, pinned against the wall, and the other creatures moved quickly to take advantage of his sudden vulnerability.

  Teeth like needles bit into the wrist of his weapon arm, opening up the veins and chewing through the tendons. Drakhov’s battle-axe landed with a splash in the sewer water, slipping from the fingers of his suddenly nerveless hand. Something that must have been sharp, taloned fingers but felt like a fire-heated lance blade punched through into his abdomen, gutting him. Drakhov felt his lifeblood pour out of him in a warm gush and then his legs failed him and he tumbled into the waters of the sewer tunnel.

  The ghoul pack descended on him, yelping in keen, agitated bloodlust. Sharp teeth and claws tore and worried at him, each bite and slash taking away its own gory souvenir from the vampire hunter’s body. Then, abruptly, after long and agonised seconds, the pack scattered, retreating away from their victim, angrily hissing and snarling at each other and emitting short, sharp barks of nervous excitement.

  Something else was coming out of the tunnel towards Drakhov. The ghoul pack retreated further, cowering in abeyance before their undead master.

  With a monumental effort of his ebbing strength, Drakhov raised his head from water stained red with his own blood. With his one remaining eye, he dimly saw the wurdolak creature—hunched and feral, savage and bestial, a true lord of the carrion eaters—loom over him. With one hand it reached out towards him. Long dagger fingers took hold of his head and twisted it round with a brutal wrenching motion. Drakhov felt something snap in his neck and his vision started to fade.

  In his last few seconds of life, the vampire slayer saw the face of his killer lower itself towards his, its mouth stretching open impossibly wide to display rows of needle-sharp bone fangs and a twitching, razor-edged tongue made to scrape flesh clean off the bone.

  Two vampires, was his last conscious thought, as the hot, stifling, grave-mouth stink of the creature’s breath washed over him. There are two of the creatures loose here in Altdorf. In tracking one, I have instead found another.

  After that, there was only the sound of splintering bone, and then blessed darkness.

  Two

  Vido hurried in surprise to the seldom-used back door at the rear of the scullery, moving in response to the sharp, urgent knock of only a few moments ago. He drew back the heavy, iron bolt that secured the door, pausing to grasp the hilt of the unsheathed dagger concealed inside his cloak and casting a brief glance to check that the heavy wooden cudgel still hung in its usual place within easy reaching distance of the doorway. Vido knew that Konniger had put in place certain other, and far more exotic, means to protect his residence from unwelcome visitors, but, at the end of the day, his more down to earth halfling servant preferred to put his faith in good Nuln-forged steel and stout Reikland oak than any invisible, magical defences.

  He opened the door, instantly allowing in the chill Altdorf night air, making him wish for the comfort of his well-heated pantry room again. The alleyway outside was seemingly deserted, but the one-time thief turned manservant retained the natural caution and suspicion of his former profession, and his keen halfling eyes warily scanned the night-time gloom and shadowed recesses of the other doorways which lined the narrow, cobbled alley. Altdorf’s academic quarter was hardly the most dangerous or forbidding area of the Imperial capital, and the City Watchmen who patrolled its streets rarely had to deal with anything more troublesome than a few drunken student rabbles, but Vido knew that his master’s profession and line of arcane study necessitated that they always take the utmost caution in so many different things.

  Satisfied that the alleyway was truly empty and that there was no sign of danger, Vido looked down to see the small, rag-tied bundle lying on the worn flagstone step of the doorway. He had instantly recognised the now familiar knock, and so was not surprised to see the item lying there, even if the day, and, indeed, the week of its delivery was not in keeping with the usual schedule.

  Reaching down to retrieve the bundle, noting that it bore the familiar red-scrawled “K” emblem to denote its intended recipient, he glanced once more along the alleyway, not at all surprised that as usual there was no sign of whoever had delivered it. Each second week of the month, it was the same; the telltale knock at the door and the package left on the doorstep.

  No matter how quick he was to respond, Vido had never seen or heard anything of the presumed messenger other than their announcement knock on the door. As an expert footpad himself, Vido knew that whoever it was, they certainly knew their business when it came to moving speedily and stealthily, and being able to get out of sight fast. If the messages were coming from the source Vido suspected they were, then the less he knew about the whole business the happier he would be.

  Tucking the rag bundle inside his cloak, he closed and locked the door and then hurried his way upstairs to deliver tonight’s surprise delivery to his master.

  “Another package? So soon after the previous week’s one?”

  Konniger peered down at Vido from over the edge of his book-piled desk, looming over him—at least that’s how it seemed from where the diminutive halfling was standing—like one of the forbidding, scowl
ing-faced gargoyles that decorated the battlements and towers of the great Temple of Sigmar that occupied one full side of the Konigplatz.

  “It came just the same way as all the others,” replied Vido, feeling as always that he was under some kind of vague suspicion. “I know that it’s not the right day, but as far as I can see, there’s no reason to suppose that it isn’t from—”

  Vido broke off, glancing significantly over towards the ornate chess set sitting on a nearby and rare book-free table. “From your, ah, usual opponent.” He looked away quickly, unwilling to meet Konniger’s stern gaze.

  Konniger leaned back in his chair, studying the item laid out on the desk before him. He had unwrapped the rag bundle, revealing, as usual, a small, cork-sealed glass vial containing a rolled-up scrap of parchment. Konniger continued to stare at the vial, drumming his long, tapered fingers on the wood of the desk as he did so.

  Vido recognised this as a sign that his master was irritated. The great sage-detective was a creature of habit, and hated being disturbed from his studies. Vido knew that this unexpected delivery was an unwelcome intrusion into Konniger’s regular schedule.

  “Hmmm. Well then, let us see what our friend has to say for himself this night.” Konniger picked up and uncorked the bottle with one swift, deft hand movement—if he wasn’t already the greatest academic mind of his age, Vido had always thought that his master had the makings of a world-class pickpocket and cut-purse—and unrolled the parchment that came tumbling out into his open palm. Vido found himself straining forward to try to see the crabbed script, even though he knew it would be written in one of those incomprehensible cipher codes that Konniger and his many correspondents were always so fond of using.

  Konniger frowned to himself as he read whatever was written there. Vido watched as he ran one ink-stained finger carefully along the line of cipher letters, checking that his initial translation had been correct, and mumbling to himself as he did so.