red thirst Page 7

  Dien Ch'ing leaped, feet out. Vukotich knew he was going to take a terrific blow on the chest, and probably lose his ribs. But Genevieve was fast, and yanked him out of the way, launching a fast blow of her own.

  She punched Ch'ing in the side, and brought him down.

  Blasko had a knife out, and was panicking. He stabbed at the girl, ordering his men to follow suit.

  Genevieve avoided the daggerthrust, and kicked Blasko's weapon from his grip. Ch'ing launched a toe-point kick at the vampire's head, and struck the empty air where it had been.

  Blasko's men had their halberds up, but Maximilian put up his hand, and overruled their master. Of course, as Prince Oswald's father, he must know who she was.

  "Treachery!" shouted the Grand Prince.

  Blasko reached for Vukotich's neck. The mercenary grabbed the Lord Marshal's wrists and squeezed. Blasko sank to his knees, but as Vukotich bent over him, he pulled the chain, and Genevieve was off-balanced.

  Ch'ing chopped at her face with his hands. Another girl would have been killed, but she was just pushed backwards. The Celestial was unbalanced, and launched himself into the air. Twisting like a daemon acrobat, he sailed over the halberdiers, and landed rightside-up behind Genevieve, landing a snake-swift punch on her shoulder as she turned to face him.

  Someone started screaming in a loud, high-pitched voice. It was Claes Glinka, howling for help while people fought for his life.

  Blasko struggled out of Vukotich's grip, and made a dash for safety, careering through his own men. His nerve had gone completely. He came to the edge of the stage, and tottered over. There was a splash.

  Vukotich and Genevieve stood up, their chain taut between them. Dien Ch'ing smiled at them, bowed, and launched his last attack.

  His hands took on a golden glow as he passed them through the air, and his eyes shone. He muttered in his own language, calling down unholy powers. Lightning crackled around him, and a wind came up from nowhere.

  He levitated off the stage and floated towards them, gesturing wildly.

  "Sorcery," shouted someone. A couple of mages tried working spells of their own. Maximilian ordered everyone to stand back.

  The Celestial rose slowly, wisps of white matter emerging from his mouth and taking a shadowform around him. He was floating in the middle of a phantom creature, his eyes glaring out through the horned sockets of a snarling dragon, his outstretched arms the leading edges of ragged spectre wings. A pike was flung at his heart. It turned aside, and clattered to the stage, the force of the throw spent. A mage, the symbols of power standing out on his cloak, strode forwards, his hands up, chanting wildly. Dien Ch'ing let rip with a laugh that literally froze the blood, and the mage was struck with the full impact of it, frost sparkling on the surface of his eyeballs, white droplets of iced sweat starting out on his exposed face. He tumbled like a broken statue, and cracked against the stage.

  Everybody stood back.

  Vukotich looked at Genevieve, who was staring up at the Celestial, her face set, her body tense.

  Ch'ing grew a foggy grey claw from his chest, and it drifted out at the end of an arm, reaching for Glinka. The Moralist shrieked and sobbed, and clutched at the robes of an Acolyte who was trying to flee. The ghost hand settled upon Glinka's head, and closed into a fist. Glinka's screams shut off, but his twisted features were dimly discernible through the thickening murk.

  The Celestial's wings were spreading, casting an expanding shadow over the crowd below. The rope of ectoplasm that linked him to Glinka pulsed and thickened. A flower opened in his chest, and bubbles of purple erupted into the ghost arm, drifting through the grey fog towards Glinka's head. Vukotich sensed that if the purple touched the man's face, he would be dead.

  "Silver and iron," said Genevieve, raising her left arm, dragging Vukotich's right up with it. "Silver and iron."

  The links touched the spectral arm, and jerked up into it, cutting like a heated wire through hardened cheese.

  In their attempt to bind them, their captors had given them two of the most magical elements known to alchemy. Silver, anathema to vampires, shapeshifters and spirits. And iron, the scourge of daemonkind.

  The chain emerged from the top of the ectoplasmic tube, and the spectral limb came apart, a light dew falling from the air where it had been. Glinka was screaming again, and pleading with someone for help. Maximilian slapped him with the pommel of his sword, and shut him up.

  Vukotich and Genevieve, their chain stretched between them, looked up at the Celestial. Ch'ing beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

  Maximilian ordered the archers to bring him down, but their shafts snapped in two as they neared the mage. He was still protected by powerful daemons.

  Before he vanished into the clouds, Dien Ch'ing waved a cloaklike wing in mocking farewell. To Genevieve, he said, "we'll meet again, my lady," and then he was gone. Vukotich felt a spurt of anger. Why did the Celestial see Genevieve as his chosen foe? Was he so insignificant as to be ignored? Then, a bone-deep tiredness hit him, and his head was as heavy as lead. He watched the mage blend with the grey clouds, and sank to his knees, pulling at Genevieve.

  "Blasko's gone," Maximilian said. "All that armour has taken him to the bottom. He'll be food for the Blackwater Beastie."

  "Grand Prince," said Genevieve, between breaths, "there was a plot. The Lord Marshal was in league with the Proscribed Cults."

  Maximilian snorted. "I thought as much. Never cared for the fellow. Wouldn't put an egg in his broth. No taste."

  Vukotich tried to get up, but his limbs were too much for him. His aches were beginning to tell. And he hadn't eaten for days.

  "Sir," said one of the men-at-arms to Maximilian. "Look."

  The Grand Prince strolled over. Genevieve followed, and Vukotich had to crawl after her on his elbows like a dog.

  Attendants were trying to calm down Glinka, whose robe had fallen open.

  "Glinka's an altered," said the guard.

  It was true. There were spindly extra arms descending from the Moralist's armpits.

  "Not so pure, after all, eh?" Maximilian was trying not to gloat. Vukotich knew this revelation would mean the end of the Moral Crusade. The Grand Prince turned to an attendant. "Get me a drink," he said. "Get us all a drink. And I don't mean blood-and-be-damned coffee!" A blacksmith was found, and their shackles sawn off. Genevieve was quiet, surrounded by officials asking her questions. She was polite in her answers, but distant. Vukotich rubbed his wrist. It felt strange to be free. It was amazing what you could get used to if you had to. Then, he collapsed again.

  He woke up to find Maximilian von Konigswald by his bed, with a bottle of Alte Geheerentode rum.

  He had slept for two days.

  During that time, mobs had torn down the Temple of Purity, and Claes Glinka had been imprisoned for his own protection. Since his exposure as an altered, he had been a raving madman. His coffee houses closed down, and mainly reopened as the taverns they had once been. The second-hand bookstalls in the market were burdened with unsaleable tracts of moral improvement. Wladislaw Blasko's body had not been found, and a new Lord Marshal had been appointed from among the ranks of the city's best men. Dien Ch'ing had disappeared completely, spirited away by daemons. According to Celestial lore, any follower of the dread Tsien-Tsin who failed in the accomplishment of a mission could expect a long and painful afterlife in the Netherhells, and so Ch'ing was not thought to have escaped Justice by his disappearance. The Courtesans' Guild had declared that its members would work one evening for free in celebration at the downfall of the Moral Crusade, and the largest city-wide festival ever to be seen in Zhufbar had taken place. And Vukotich had missed it.

  "Where's..."

  "The girl?" Maximilian looked puzzled. "Gone. She slipped away before all the celebrations started. A pity. She'd have been a heroine all over again. It's her way, though. She did the same thing after she and my son... well, you know the story."

  Vukotich sat up in bed. His wounds di
dn't pain him so much now, although his throat was still tender.

  Genevieve! Gone!

  "She said something about a Retreat. Some convent or other. In Kislev. You'd best leave her be, lad. Heroine or not, she's still... well... not quite like us, you know. No, not quite like us."

  Maximilian poured him a goblet of the dangerous spirit, and he scalded his throat with it.

  "She left you something, though. She said you'd know what it was for."

  Vukotich took another fiery swallow. Hot tears came to his eyes. It was the strong spirit. Alte Geheerentode would make any man's eyes water.

  The Grand Prince threw the padded ring, shining silver where it was sawn through, onto the bed.

  "Genevieve said you'd understand. Do you?"

  Fingering the marks on his neck, Vukotich wasn't sure. Inside him, the last sparks of her were fading. The wounds he would wear forever, but the link he had had with the vampire was shattered with their chain.

  He picked up the silver, and gave it to Maximilian. "Give it to the temple," he said, "for the poor."

  "Which temple?" asked the Grand Prince.

  Weariness crept up Vukotich's body again. Inside him something was dying.

  "Any one," he replied. "Any one."

  THE DARK BENEATH THE WORLD

  by William King

  A scream echoed through the cold mountain air. Felix Jaegar ripped his sword from its scabbard and stood ready. Snowflakes fell, a chill wind stirred his long blonde hair. He threw his red woollen cloak back over his shoulder, leaving his swordarm unobstructed. The bleak landscape was a perfect site for an ambush; pitted and rocky, harsher than the face of the greater moon, Mannslieb.

  He glanced left, upslope. A few stunted pines clutched the mountainside with gnarled roots. Downslope, to the right, lay an almost sheer drop. Neither direction held any sign of danger. No bandits, no orcs, none of the darker things that lurked in these remote heights.

  "The noise came from up ahead, manling," said Gotrek Gurnisson, rubbing his eye patch with one huge, tattooed hand. His nose chain jingled in the breeze, "There's a fight going on up there."

  Uncertainty filled Felix. He knew Gotrek was correct; even with only one eye the dwarfs senses were keener than his own. The question was whether to stand and wait or push forward and investigate. Potential enemies filled the World's Edge Mountains. The chances of finding friends were slim. His natural caution inclined him towards doing nothing.

  Gotrek charged up the scree-strewn path, enormous axe held high above his red-dyed crest of hair. Felix cursed. For once why couldn't Gotrek remember that not everyone was a Trollslayer?

  "We didn't all swear to seek out death in combat," he muttered, before following slowly, for he lacked the dwarfs sure-footedness over the treacherous terrain.

  Felix took in the scene of carnage with one swift glance. In the long depression a gang of hideous green-skinned orcs battled a smaller group of men. They fought across a fast-flowing stream that ran down the little valley before disappearing over the mountain edge in a cloud of silver spray. The waters ran red with the blood of men and horses. It was easy to imagine what had happened - an ambush as the humans crossed the water.

  In mid-stream a huge man in shiny plate-mail battled with three brawny bow-legged assailants. Wielding his two-handed blade effortlessly, he feinted a blow to his left then beheaded a different foe with one mighty swing. The force of his blow almost overbalanced him. Felix realized the stream bed must be slippy.

  On the nearer bank a man in dark-brocaded robes chanted a spell. A ball of fire blazed in his left hand. A dark-haired warrior in the furred hat and deerskin tunic of a trapper protected the wizard from two screaming orcs, using only a longsword held in his left hand. As Felix watched a blonde man-at-arms fell, trying to hold in entrails released by a scimitar slash to his stomach. As he went down burly half-naked savages hacked him to pieces. Only three of the ambushed party now stood. They were outnumbered five to one.

  "Orcish filth! You dare to soil the sacred approach to Carag Eight Peaks. Uruk mortari! Prepare to die," screamed Gotrek, charging down into the melee.

  An enormous orc turned to face him. A look of surprise froze forever on its face as Gotrek lopped off its head with one mighty stroke. Emerald blood spattered the Trollslayer's tattooed body. Raving and snarling, the dwarf ploughed into the orcs, hewing left and right in a great double arc. Dead bodies lay everywhere his axe fell.

  Felix half-ran, half-slid downslope. He fell at the bottom. Wet grass tickled his nostrils. He rolled to one side as a scimitar-wielding monster half-again his bulk chopped down at him. He sprang to his feet, ducked a cut that could have chopped him in two and lopped off an earlobe with his return blow.

  Startled, the orc clutched at its wound, trying to stop the blood flowing down its face. Felix seized his chance and stabbed upwards through the bottom of the creature's jaw into its brain.

  As he struggled to free his blade another monster leapt on him, swinging its blade high over its head. Felix let go of his weapon and moved to meet his attacker. He grabbed its wrists as he was overborne. Foetid breath made him gag as the orc fell on top of him. The thing dropped its weapon and they wrestled on the ground, rolling downslope into the stream.

  Copper rings set in the orc's flesh pinched him as it sought to bite his throat with its sharp tusks. Felix writhed to avoid having his windpipe torn out. The orc pushed his head under water. Felix looked up through stinging eyes and saw the strangely distorted face leering down at him. Bitterly cold water filled his mouth. There was no air in his lungs. Frantically he shifted his weight, trying to dislodge his attacker. They rolled and suddenly Felix was astride the orc, trying to push its head under water.

  The orc grabbed his wrists and pushed. Locked in a deadly embrace they began to roll downslope through the freezing water. Again and again Felix's head went under, again and again he floundered gasping to the surface. Sharp rocks speared his flesh. Realization of his peril flashed through his mind; the current and their own momentum carried them towards the cliff edge. Felix tried to break free, giving up all thoughts of drowning his opponent.

  When next his head broke surface, he looked for the cloud of spray. To his horror it was only twenty feet away. He redoubled his efforts to escape but the orc held on like grim death and they continued their downward tumble.

  Ten feet now. Felix heard the rumble of the fall, felt the distorted currents of the turbulent water. He drew back his fist and smacked the orc in the face. One of its tusks broke but it would not let go.

  Five feet to go. He lashed out once more, bouncing the orc's head off the stream bottom. Its grip loosened. He was almost free.

  Suddenly he was falling, tumbling through water and air. He frantically grabbed for something, anything, to hold. His hand smashed into the rock and he struggled for a grip on the slippery streambed. The pressure of the freezing water on his head and shoulders was almost intolerable. He risked a downward look.

  A long way below he saw the valleys in the foothills. So great was the drop that copses of trees looked like blotches of mould on the landscape. The falling orc was a receding, screaming greenish blob.

  With the last of hs strength Felix flopped over the edge, pushing against the current with cold-numbed fingers. For a second he thought he wasn't going to make it, then he was face down in the stream, gasping in bubbling water.

  He crawled out onto the bank. The orcs, their leaders dead, had been routed. Felix pulled off his sodden cloak, wondering whether he was going to catch a chill from the cold mountain air.

  "By Sigmar, that was well done. We were sore pressed there," said the tall, dark-haired man. He made the sign of the hammer over his chest as he spoke. He was handsome in a coarse way. His armour, although dented, was of the finest quality. The intensity of his stare made Felix uneasy.

  "It would seem we owe you gentlemen our lives," said the mage. He too was richly dressed. His brocaded robes were trimmed with gold thread, scr
olls covered in mystical symbols were held by rings set in it. His long blonde hair was cut in a peculiar fashion. From the centre of his flowing locks rose a crest not unlike Gotrek's save for the fact that it was undyed and cropped short. Felix wondered if it was the mark of some mystical order.

  The armoured man's laughter boomed out. "It is the prophecy, Johann. Did not the god say one of our ancient brethren would aid us! Sigmar be praised! This is a good sign indeed."

  Felix looked over at the trapper. He spread his hands and shrugged helplessly. A certain cynical humour was apparent in the way he raised an eyebrow.

  "I am Felix Jaegar, of Altdorf, and this is my companion Gotrek Gurnisson, the Trollslayer," Felix said, bowing to the knight.

  "I am Aldred Keppler, known as Fellblade, Templar-Knight of the Order of the Fiery Heart," said the armoured man. Felix suppressed a shudder. In his homeland, the Empire, the order was famed for the fanatic zeal with which they pursued their crusade against the goblin races. And those humans they considered heretics.

  The knight gestured to the wizard. "This is my adviser on matters magical; Doctor Johann Zauberlich of the University of Nuln."

  "At your service," said Zauberlich, bowing.

  "I am Jules Gascoigne, once of Quenelles in Bretonnia. Although that was many a year ago," said the fur-clad man. He had a Bretonnian accent.

  "Herr Gascoigne is a scout. I engaged him to guide us through these mountains," said Aldred. "I have a great work to perform at Carag Eight Peaks."

  Felix and Gotrek exchanged glances. Felix knew the dwarf would rather they travelled alone in search of the lost treasure of the dwarven city. However, parting company from their chance-met companions would only arouse suspicion.

  "Perhaps we should join forces," said Felix, hoping Gotrek would follow his line of reasoning. "We too are bound for the city of the eight peaks, and this road is far from safe."

  "A capital suggestion," said the wizard.

  "Doubtless your companion, he goes to visit his kin," said Jules, oblivious to the daggered stare Gotrek gave him. "There still is a small outpost of Imperial dwarfs there."