No one in Ravensbach was unaware of Mhurghast Castle. Built upon a high hill that overlooked the city, the ancient fortress was visible from every quarter. Its iron shadow lay across the land like a shroud, a whisper of death. Its ragged parapets stared down at the streets below with grim judgement, a merciless gaze in which all were found wanting. The central tower, its roof edged in long spikes, clawed up into the sky, blood bats and carrion crows nesting in its battlements.
When the carriage started to ascend the winding path that led to the castle, a chill of fear closed around Magda’s heart. She had never been this close to Mhurghast, and now that she was all the stories from her childhood came flooding back into her mind. The children of Ravensbach often challenged one another to climb the hill and touch the castle wall. Many claimed to have done so, but they would ascend only far enough to be out of sight of their friends and duck behind one of the jagged rocks that lined the path, waiting until enough time should pass until they could return and claim to have accomplished the dare. Certainly that was what Magda had done when put to the test.
Now she was going to actually enter the site of those childhood fears. It was strange how Magda had thought herself beyond such foolishness until they were almost at their destination. She looked across the carriage to where her parents sat. Neither of them appeared uneasy in the slightest. Her mother looked excited, eager to be the guest of so wealthy a man as Count Wulfsige. Her father wasn’t anxious either. He was slumped against the door, his face flushed and his eyes closed. Magda could smell the bilious liquor on his breath every time he exhaled.
Inge glanced over at Magda and rolled her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Your father couldn’t even stay out of the bottle for one night.’ She looked over at Ottokar and reached across his body to tug at the sleeve of his shirt. It had hiked up quite a bit and exposed several inches of the silver arm. As she did, her fingers struck against the hollow metal and sent a sharp sound ringing through the carriage. The noise awoke Ottokar, who spluttered and swung his bleary gaze around the carriage.
‘Huh? Are we there already?’
‘We’re going up the hill now,’ Magda said. Ottokar drew the drapery that hung over the window further back. Magda could see the steep drop on that side of the path. A matter of less than a foot and the carriage would be careening down the side to be smashed to splinters on the rocks below. A shudder swept through her, and she could feel the colour draining from her face. Ottokar was not so drunk that he didn’t notice his daughter’s anxiety. He quickly closed the curtain.
‘It will not be long now,’ Inge said, settling back in her seat. ‘I rarely ask much from you, Ottokar, but this one time I expect you to not embarrass me. Just for tonight, try to be a man and not a sot.’
Ottokar didn’t respond. He just turned and stared at the closed window. It was Magda who attempted to defend him. ‘Mother, you asked us to come. Father is doing his best…’
Inge sighed, long and deep. ‘No. He hasn’t been at his best for many years now.’ She gave her husband a look that was at once both pitying and scornful. She turned back to Magda. ‘Count Wulfsige invited all of us. The whole family. You don’t ignore a summons like that.’
‘I still don’t understand why he invited us.’
‘Listen,’ Inge said, holding up her gloved hand. She gestured with a lace-covered finger. ‘Do you hear them?’
Magda strained her ears. She could hear the rattle of their coach as it climbed the hill, but it was curiously echoed. She thought it might be some trick of the rocks throwing the sound around, until she faintly heard a horse neigh somewhere below. ‘There are other coaches.’
‘There are other coaches,’ Inge said, her face glowing with pleasure. ‘The dinner isn’t just for us. Count Wulfsige is hosting a banquet.’ She clapped her hands together like a little girl. ‘Oh, the count used to hold the most magnificent parties. Everyone of any significance at all was there! In those days the Hauslers meant something. Your grandfather made blades fit for kings. My family, they were the richest goldmongers in the city. Oh, the feasts back then! There’d be music and dance long into the night. Sometimes it would take the first rays of dawn to put a finish to the merriment.’
‘Count Wulfsige hasn’t left the castle in decades,’ Magda reasoned. ‘Why’d he suddenly decide to host a banquet?’
‘He’s very old,’ Inge said. ‘He has no children, nothing to make him look ahead to tomorrow. So all he has are his memories of the past. Maybe he was thinking on the past and remembered the lavish parties he once held. Maybe he decided to relive those times.
‘Everyone of consequence will be there,’ she told Magda. ‘The best families and their sons. You must be on your best behaviour. Make a good impression.’ Inge frowned as she studied the understated blue dress Magda wore. ‘I do wish you’d taken one of my old gowns. You need sugar to catch flies, you know.’
‘I’m not interested in catching anyone,’ Magda reminded her mother, hoping they weren’t going to argue on the subject again. She returned Inge’s gaze, evaluating her mother’s low-cut gown. The shoulders were bare and the neckline plunged. The waist was drawn tight against her curves, so much so that Magda wondered how her mother was going to walk, much less dance, in the garment. ‘It seems to me you’ve more than enough bait on display.’
Inge ignored the barb and pressed on with her attack. ‘You can do better than Klueger. You should do better than him. If not for yourself, think of your children. What kind of life can a man in his profession–’
Whatever else Inge might have added to her argument went unspoken. The carriage lurched to a sudden halt. It shuddered as the coachman dropped down from his seat and walked to the door. As he opened it, Magda felt a shiver rush through her.
They were in the courtyard of Mhurghast Castle.
Iron walls surrounded them on every side, rising forty feet from the flagstones. Magda looked back at the massive gate and the steel portcullis that rose above it. Its sharpened ends seemed like fangs hanging over the gateway’s gaping maw, as though at any moment it would bite down and swallow those inside the courtyard.
Magda stepped down from the carriage and turned her eyes towards the keep. The building was as grim as the outer walls, a fortress of blackened iron. Gargoyles leered from the battlements, their mouths crusted with corrosion. The windows that peppered the imposing facade were all narrow and recessed into the edifice. The tower rose above everything, a spindle of metal ringed with savage-looking spikes near its summit. From the very peak of its roof a banner snapped in the wind, a red field with a black castle flanked by golden lightning bolts.
‘Mhurghast was more cheerful back then,’ Inge said as she climbed down from the carriage. She pointed to the many iron eagles that jutted from the inside walls. ‘Those haven’t changed though. I could never shake the impression that they were watching me.’
Following her mother’s direction, Magda gave the sculptures closer scrutiny. She was surprised to find that each eagle was slightly different. Perhaps that was what accounted for their eerie, lifelike aspect. It did feel as though they were watching. More than watching – they seemed to be judging.
‘They’re unsettling, aren’t they?’
Magda jumped. She spun around, her hand flying to her hip where her sword would be. Of course, it wasn’t there. Inge might not have got her way with squeezing Magda into one of her old gowns, but she had been adamant that her daughter wasn’t wearing a sword to a formal dinner.
The young man who had spoken took a step back, surprise in his eyes. ‘You must be quick,’ he said.
‘It depends how you mean that,’ Magda said coldly.
The man removed the fur cap he wore and bowed his head. ‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He smiled and nodded at the iron eagles. ‘To be honest, I’m just happy to see I’m not the only one who finds those things creepy.’
Magda looked him over. He was around her own age, handsome in a kind of rakish fashion. His clothing was respectable, if not overly opulent. Gold buttons on his vest, silver buckles on his boots. He had an ebony ring on one finger and… and she realised she was acting like her mother, evaluating people based on their appearance and how much wealth they displayed. She looked around the courtyard again. There were a few other people there, obviously guests who had arrived before the Hauslers. She saw that her mother was speaking with a man wearing the coat and hat of a Freeguild officer. He bore some resemblance to the youth who had surprised her. Magda noted with annoyance that the officer had worn his sword to the castle.
‘Who says I find them creepy?’ she asked, perturbed.
‘I think you’d need to be one of Sigmar’s chosen not to shudder with those things watching you,’ the man replied. He punctuated his statement with a dramatic shiver. Such was its ridiculous excess that Magda couldn’t help but laugh.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and extended her hand. ‘Magda Hausler.’
The man took her hand and bowed. ‘Bernger Walkenhorst.’ His expression became thoughtful, and he glanced at the gloved hand he held. ‘You… Forgive me for saying, but this is the wrong hand.’
Magda’s cheeks turned crimson as she withdrew her left hand from him. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t quite… I mean, this isn’t the sort…’
‘It’s all right,’ Bernger said. His expression still showed a marked curiosity. ‘This isn’t my kind of thing either. I’m not really accustomed to society, as it were.’
‘Then this time it’s me who is relieved to not be the only one,’ Magda said. She pointed to the man speaking with her mother. ‘Your father? He looks like an officer.’
Bernger nodded. ‘He was,’ he replied. ‘That was a long time ago,’ he added hurriedly. His eyes still had that curious look in them. ‘Forgive me if I’m impertinent, but the way you offered your hand – that’s the way duellists greet people. And, well, it seemed when I startled you, you were reaching for a sword.’
Magda could see her mother looking over at them. There was an imploring sternness in her expression. ‘Bad habits I’ve picked up,’ she said. ‘Not terribly ladylike, I know.’
‘Of course,’ Bernger said, snapping his fingers. ‘Hausler. You must be the daughter of Ottokar Hausler, the swordsmith. Why, I’ve heard that he could not only make the finest blades, he could use them too.’ The youth looked around the courtyard, obviously searching for her father.
Magda took Bernger by the arm and indicated the man he was looking for. She could actually feel the disappointment run through him, like water draining out of a waterskin. Ottokar was leaning against a short stone wall. Despite Inge’s attentions, his coat was rumpled and the sleeve of his tunic had pulled back to expose part of his false arm. As though to draw further attention to his disability, Ottokar was wearing a left-handed swordbelt.
‘They still tell stories about the time he was ambushed by the Karver brothers,’ Bernger said. ‘Just his sword against five murderers out for his blood, and it was only your father who walked away.’ He turned his head and smiled at Magda. ‘It’s going to be an honour to break bread with a man like him.’
‘Thank you for saying so.’ Magda knew the words were pretence, a courtesy to salve her own disappointment. Even so, she appreciated Bernger’s sympathy.
Another coach was drawing into the courtyard. Magda waited while the coachman opened the door for the occupants. A young man stepped out, his doublet and hose finer than anything either Hauslers or Walkenhorsts could afford. After him emerged an older woman with a pale complexion and deep, haunted eyes. She was followed by a man in flowing robes. The dark blue garb was edged in gold and embroidered with curious symbols and figures. The man’s face had a dark, mysterious quality to it, his eyes fierce and commanding. His black hair was slicked back in a widow’s peak, and when he gestured to the coachman, Magda saw that his fingers were long and sinuous, moving with an almost boneless fluidity.
‘Lothar Krebs,’ Bernger muttered, uneasiness in his tone. He saw the bafflement in Magda’s eyes. ‘The alchemist,’ he added. ‘I’ve… visited him, on occasion.’
‘Perhaps my mother’s right. Maybe all the people of importance have been invited to the castle.’
Bernger quickly turned away when Lothar looked in his direction. ‘Shall we go inside? I’m sure the interior must be more comfortable than out here.’
Magda was rather doubtful on that score. As her eyes turned to the keep’s entrance, she was struck with a sense of foreboding. The doors were standing open, huge oaken portals banded in steel, the heraldry of the von Koeterbergs branded into them. Enormous chains ran from the top of each to some mechanism buried behind the iron facade. The slabs of iron that formed the doorway were colossal, ten feet wide and half again as tall. Magda suspected they were no less imposing in their depth. How such heavy, enormous blocks of metal could have been raised to the hilltop was beyond her imagining. Legends said that Mhurghast predated the city, built by ancient wizardry long since forgotten by mortals. Gazing on it now, standing at the threshold of the keep, she could easily believe such tales.
An aged servant in a long coat embroidered with the heraldry of Count Wulfsige and fringed in fur stood just inside the entrance. The major-domo’s face was pockmarked from some old affliction, his build that of a scarecrow. His smile when he bowed and greeted the guests had an oily quality to it that made Magda think of charlatans and confidence tricksters.
‘Welcome, honoured guests,’ the major-domo said, his unctuous voice crackling with age. ‘Welcome to Mhurghast. Dinner has been prepared. If you would follow the candles, they will guide you to the dining hall. His Illustrious Highness, Count Wulfsige, will join you when the last guest has arrived.’
Bernger gave the servant a wary look. ‘You didn’t ask our names. How’ll you know when everyone’s here?’
The major-domo smiled. ‘I have been instructed most carefully, mein Herr Bernger Walkenhorst. I know whom to expect, and whom to admit. If you and mein Fraulein Magda Hausler would be good enough to repair to the dining hall. Just follow the candles. If you lose your way, the other servants will set you right.’
Magda gave the major-domo a lingering look. Already Bernger had been proven wrong. Inside the castle was more unsettling than the courtyard. As they walked down the entrance hall, portraits of past von Koeterbergs glowered down at them. Golden fixtures bolted to the walls held the guiding candles, but their flickering light only magnified the illusion of animation in the pictures. She was actually relieved when she heard angry voices drifting out from one of the side corridors.
‘… so sure, so certain.’ The words were spoken in a female voice, the tone waspish.
‘I tell you, I am the sensible heir.’ A man’s voice now, his words clipped and curt.
‘So the count invites this motley rabble to act as an audience,’ the woman said, mockery lacing her speech.
‘If he does not give me what is mine by right, I’ll take it from him,’ the man declared. ‘The old fool can’t have it buried with him.’
Magda and Bernger came abreast of the corridor. They glanced into the shadowy passageway to see the arguing couple. The woman was adorned in an opulent gown, a necklace of obsidian and ebony hanging around her neck, a diamond tiara around her brow. The man’s garb was equally rich, his high boots fringed in ermine and with ivory buckles running down their sides. The buttons on his silk coat were cut sapphires, contrasting with the red hue of his vestments. Several of his fingers wore rings with jewels set into the bands of wood and bone. The largest of the rings did not bear any jewels. Instead it had the crest of a snarling wolf’s head with a star above it and a sword beside it.
Bernger hurried Magda along when the couple stopped their argument and glared at them. ‘That was Baron and Baroness von Woernhoer,’ he said. ‘Next to Count Wulfsige, they might be the richest people in Ravensbach.’
‘What’re they doing here then?’ Magda asked.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Bernger said, bitterness seeping into his voice. ‘The baron isn’t content to be second richest. He expects to claim some sort of legacy from Count Wulfsige. His sort is never satisfied with what they have. They always have to try and grab more, no matter who they hurt.’
Magda tried to ease the outrage she heard in Bernger’s words. ‘Maybe the baroness is right, and he won’t get a thing. That would be a fine joke on someone like him.’
Bernger smiled. ‘That it would.’ As they turned a corner and followed the line of candles into another hallway, his smile faltered. The grimness of the castle’s dark halls closed in around them again. He gave Magda a worried look.
‘I hope the joke isn’t on all of us,’ Bernger said. There was no humour in the way he said it, but instead a severity that sent a chill down Magda’s spine.
The ivory walking stick smacked against the oak floorboards, sending strange echoes whispering through the hallways. The old man leaned heavily against it, each step seeming to drain the last of his strength. He paused and sought to draw breath into his shuddering body. It never felt like he could get enough air. Whatever prayers and potions were administered to him, he couldn’t fill his lungs enough to sustain himself. It felt as though the left side of his body was always empty, the right little better. His life was ebbing away, had been for years. Only purpose had maintained him this long.
A purpose that would soon be achieved.
A servant came forwards to help him as he leaned against his stick and tried to suck air into his failing body. The old man shook the major-domo away, glowering at him from beneath his heavy brow.
‘I will make my own way, Goswin,’ he said. ‘I have walked this path a thousand times in my dreams. Now I will do so for real.’
Goswin bowed and backed away from the old man. ‘As you wish, Your Illustrious Highness.’
Count Wulfsige took another ragged breath. There was no sense in waiting. His strength would not return. All his delay did was buy his enemies a few more minutes. An ugly chuckle rattled through his wasted frame. ‘I wonder if they appreciate how precious these moments are, Goswin. If they only knew.’ The smile the count wore as he limped forwards once more was as grotesque as his laugh, the leer of a murderer twisting the knife in his dying victim.
‘Everything is ready? They are all here?’ Count Wulfsige asked his major-domo.
‘There is one unaccounted for.’
‘Who? Who didn’t come?’ Count Wulfsige swung around with astonishing speed. His hand curled around Goswin’s throat, tightening into a murderous grip.
‘Notker Volkeuhn’s wife,’ Goswin gasped, trying to pull free from his master’s strangling clutch. ‘He apologised, but said she was too ill to attend.’
Count Wulfsige released him and turned away. ‘The woman is of no consequence – it is her husband I want here. Notker Volkeuhn… and his child.’ He stamped down the corridor, stabbing his ivory stick at the floor as though attacking an enemy.
‘They are all in the dining hall, Your Illustrious Highness,’ Goswin said, striding after his master. ‘They have already been served.’
‘And the correct dishes have been placed before those who deserve them?’ Count Wulfsige demanded.
Goswin nodded. ‘Everything has been carried out fastidiously. Down to the exact detail you specified.’
Count Wulfsige smiled again. ‘Good. Good.’ He pointed at Goswin. ‘After I take my seat, you will leave. There is a coach waiting for you in the courtyard. Send the others away. The letter I have given you will allow you to see the grand lector.’ He laughed again, the sound causing even his major-domo to turn pale. ‘After that, there will be nothing else you need to do. The Sigmarites will attend to things.’
Master and servant continued on in silence. Count Wulfsige gazed at the ancient corridors he had known as a child, that he had grown and lived in for so many years. They were hateful to him now, as cold and deathly as a mausoleum. Yes, he had lived in this castle. He had also decayed within these walls, rotted away from the inside. He couldn’t remember the happiness. All he could remember was the sorrow. The emptiness. The thirst for revenge.
Servants wearing surcoats adorned with the von Koeterberg coat of arms opened the doors to the dining hall. Count Wulfsige stomped past them. He heard Goswin tell them to leave the doors open before the major-domo followed him into the room.
‘His Illustrious Highness, Count Wulfsige von Koeterberg,’ Goswin announced as his master walked towards his seat at the head of the table.
The dining hall was brightly lit, illuminated by massive chandeliers of crystal and silver. Candelabras glowed all along the walls, their light reflected by the brilliant polish of the oak floor. The table itself was a gigantic affair, stretching almost the entire length of the massive room. In the past it had seated a hundred guests, though now it was called upon to serve far fewer.
The guests were arrayed near Count Wulfsige’s seat at the top of the table. Plates of carved dragonwood rested before each diner, and cedar bowls filled with spicy venison soup. The goblets that brimmed with ancient wine were cut from obsidian, the cutlery at each place setting of the finest malachite. At the centre of the table, the spread of exotic vegetables and sweetmeats was such as to impress the most cultivated connoisseur. In the midst of it all was the cooked body of a cicatrix, the less noxious cousin of the feared cockatrice. The enormous fowl had been prepared by a master chef, decorated so that it was as much a thing of spectacle as cuisine.
Count Wulfsige’s glance at his guests was a cold one. A few of them sheepishly set down their spoons and knives, wondering if they should have waited for their host despite the protestations of the servants that they should begin without him.
‘Eat. Eat,’ Count Wulfsige encouraged them. ‘If you had waited for my old carcass to hobble down here, it would all have gone cold.’ He limped over to the carved seat at the head of the table. A steward drew it back for him as he sat down. He didn’t look aside when he heard the doors close, but a reptilian smile spread on his visage. Goswin was leaving on his little errand.
One of the diners had stood as Count Wulfsige joined them. He raised his goblet and turned towards the head of the table. ‘You have lavished us with a magnificent feast. Unparalleled by any in Ravensbach.’ He turned and motioned for the other guests to stand. ‘Please, join me in toasting the good health of His Illustrious Highness.’
Count Wulfsige waved everyone back into their seats. ‘You do me credit, Baron von Rodion. But I fear a toast to my health would be wasting good wine. I am old, friend Roald, and near the end of my days. You should save wishes of good health for yourselves.’
Roald slowly returned to his seat. ‘You are very gracious, Your Illustrious Highness.’ He looked aside to his wife and then back at the count. ‘Let me say that you have ever been held in the highest regard by myself and Baroness von Woernhoer. I do not think there is a finer or more noble–’
Count Wulfsige cut his speech off with a wave of his hand. ‘The von Koeterbergs are an old family,’ he said, his gaze roving across the table. ‘We were here in the terrible days when the hordes of the Dark Gods held these lands. When the mighty Stormcasts liberated this region, it was one of my ancestors who showed them the secret path into this castle so they could overwhelm the barbarians who held it. Since that time, there has always been a von Koeterberg as master of Mhurghast.’
The old man leaned back. His eyes stalked across the table, studying each face, glancing at the plates set before them. ‘When I am gone, there will be no more von Koeterbergs in Mhurghast.’
Inge Hausler spoke up, her face as beautiful as the count remembered it to be. ‘Please accept my sympathy, Your Illustrious Highness.’
The smile Count Wulfsige turned on Inge was anything but friendly. ‘You may keep your sympathy,’ he said. ‘But for you, my son Hagen would be here to continue after me.’ He savoured the look of shock and horror that gripped her face. Then he pointed at the rest of the diners. ‘Each of you had your part. The false friends who lied to my son. The sniffing jackals who thought to exploit him. All of you are to blame.’
The count stabbed his finger at the elderly scholar who sat near the end of the diners with his effete son beside him. ‘Notker Volkeuhn, the chaplain, the pious man who would instruct my son in moral rectitude and would keep his soul from straying from that which is good and just.’ As the count spoke, Notker lowered his head in shame and closed his hand around the little gold hammer that hung about his neck.
‘Nushala Iliviar,’ the count snarled, turning his attention to the person seated opposite Notker. She was tall and thin, her skin creamy and pale. Her features had a harsh, inhuman beauty to them, and her hair was like spun gold. Gold too was the flowing gown that graced her slender figure, the material itself alive with enchanted motion. The aelf’s gaze was indifferent while she listened to Count Wulfsige speak. ‘You were Hagen’s tutor, the most expensive my money could buy. You know a dozen languages, are familiar with the art and science of fair Azyr. Yet what wisdom did you teach my son? What knowledge did you fill his mind with? Your son sits next to you, Nushala. Where is mine!’
Count Wulfsige pointed again, this time at the rotund finery of a short man with a long moustache seated with his wife and two children. ‘Hartmann Senf, the friend and comrade-in-arms. What good was your friendship and camaraderie when my son needed it most? Did you keep him from a dark path, or did you encourage his folly?’
‘I will not listen to this slander,’ Roald snarled, throwing down his cutlery and rising from the table.
‘You will listen,’ the count hissed. ‘Baron Roald von Rodion. The moneylender. The usurer. Happy to loan Hagen whatever he needed. Never concerned with what he needed it for. Never wondering why he simply wouldn’t ask his father for a loan.’ A crackle of bitter mirth left the old man when he saw Roald slump back in his chair. ‘Ah, I see you do remember.’
The count swung around and pointed at Lothar Krebs. ‘The alchemist, seeking to wrest the secrets of the realms from its constituent components. But those components cost a great deal, don’t they, friend Lothar? So when you brew up something you might be able to sell, you do not scruple about who you sell it to. Hagen was only eighteen when you let him imbibe your narcotic mixture. And the more he wanted, the more it cost him. Did you even pause to consider the damage your poison was doing to him?
‘Captain Bruno Walkenhorst,’ the count snarled as he rounded on the former officer. ‘You commanded Hagen in battle and he was proud to serve under you in the Freeguild. He looked up to you. I dare say he worshipped you. And what did you do? How did you return his loyalty and friendship? You betrayed him. You took his woman from him.’
Bruno glared at the count. ‘I didn’t. You can’t take something away that someone doesn’t have to begin with.’
‘You humiliated him in a duel, sent him crawling back to Mhurghast like a whipped cur,’ Count Wulfsige growled. He swung around and thrust his finger towards Inge. ‘All for that wanton strumpet! Hagen loved you more than he loved himself. Oh, you were so beneath him in station, but it did not matter to Hagen. The only argument I ever had with him was when I spoke against you. For you he would defy his own father! That was the magnitude of his love! He would have cast aside his birthright for your sake.’ The count’s hand curled into a gnarled fist, which he shook at the shocked Inge. ‘How did you return that love? You toyed with him and then cast him aside. Betrayed him with his closest friend!’
‘I think you’re forgettin’ someone,’ a gruff voice rumbled from midway down the table. A pair of bearded duardin sat between the Krebs family and Volkeuhn’s. The older of the two, his beard almost pure white, glowered at the count. ‘Tell me what offence you imagine I’ve inflicted on you. What’s my connection to your son?’
For an answer, Count Wulfsige waved over one of his servants. He gave the steward his ivory walking stick and ordered him to take it to the duardin. There was visible irritation on the duardin’s face as he took the object. As he turned the ivory stick over in his hands, his expression changed to one of shock.
‘This has my rune on it,’ he grumbled. ‘How can this stick be bearin’ my mark?’
‘It has changed since you worked on it, Cogsmith Alrik Blackthumb,’ the count explained. ‘When it left your workshop, it was the frame of a very elegant, very powerful weapon.’
The count leaned forwards, his eyes glittering maliciously as he looked at his guests. ‘You believe Hagen died after a long illness. Yes, he was ill. Yes, it did kill him. His mind was deluded by Lothar’s concoctions and the pain of betrayal, of love rejected. So he took that thing’ – he gestured to the ivory stick – ‘and he put its barrel in his mouth. He had to use his toe to press the trigger, but when it was all finished the shot was true. There was so little left of his face… so very little.’ The old man faltered, his viciousness draining away as a haunted look filled his eyes.
‘That was twenty years ago,’ Roald argued. ‘You can’t still be…’
The baron’s words broke the melancholy that had settled upon the old man. He glowered at Roald. The smile that appeared on Count Wulfsige’s face was diabolical in its malignity. ‘You have never lost a child, have you, Roald? You have never felt the pain of that loss. The emptiness that gnaws at you, that makes every heartbeat hateful to you. You long for death, but there is something else you long for even more.
‘Revenge.’
Alarm swept around the table. ‘He’s poisoned us!’ came the cry. Some of the diners flung their dishes away and retreated from their seats. Others started to rush the count, but his servants had already closed in. Four men in the von Koeterberg livery surrounded their master with drawn swords.
‘Sit,’ the count commanded. ‘No one has been poisoned. Do you think I would wait twenty years for such a simple retribution?’ He sneered at the guests. ‘No, poison would be far too kind.’ He clenched his hand into a fist and shook it at the table. ‘I will destroy you as I have been destroyed. I will destroy you through your children. You will know the crawling horror as you watch your children die. But more than die, they will come back to you, seeking your death.’
‘The man is clearly insane,’ Lothar pronounced.
Count Wulfsige pounced on the statement. ‘Insane? Mad, am I? Mad with twenty years of hate! Mad from waiting, watching until this night. This night for my revenge.’
The old man sank back in his chair, his eyes glittering with malice. ‘Have you ever heard the legend of the Mardagg? The Skullcallers know of it, and they hold it in utter dread. It is the Executioner of Khorne, the Chooser of the Damned. The barbarians worship it out of fear, marking sacrifices for it to claim so that it will spare the rest of their tribe. Never have they told an outsider how to summon the Mardagg, never have they trusted anyone with that secret.’ A withering cachinnation racked the count’s body. ‘Until now.
‘The daemon will come. The Mardagg will possess a mortal host.’ Count Wulfsige pointed at the diners. ‘One of your children will be its host. With that body the daemon will seek the destruction of the parents. Flesh cannot sustain such a being for long, so it will possess another host once it has used up the first.’ The old man’s face contorted into a mask of utter hate. ‘On and on again the process will repeat. Blood will cry out for blood and the halls of this castle will echo with murder. Then my vengeance will be complete!’
‘The diseased imagining of a corrupt mind,’ Nushala scoffed. ‘I too have heard of this daemon, but I am not so credulous to accept that a mere human could ever master an entity of such terrifying power.’
‘No, not master it,’ Count Wulfsige said. ‘Simply give it direction to do what it would do anyway. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, but I do.’ He swept his gaze across the table and glowered at the guests. ‘Of course, a blood offering is needed to set the chain in motion.’
The count dipped his hand into his coat and drew forth a long bronze dagger. He could feel the evil that radiated from the blade. He could see from their faces that the guests could feel it too. Before anyone could react, he raked the phurba across his own throat.
Count Wulfsige slumped forwards onto the table, blood gushing from his slashed throat, steaming as it spattered across the table. The pool of gore bubbled and boiled. Soon the blood became a dark and pungent smoke that wafted up towards the chandeliers, but evaporated before reaching the lights.
The armed servants dropped their swords and backed away from their dying master. Count Wulfsige lifted his head and stared one last time at his enemies. A malevolent grin froze on his face as he dropped back onto the table.
Far off, from the temples down below in Ravensbach, bells began to ring. They were noting the setting of the sun and the advent of night, but to those inside Mhurghast they seemed to be a dirge for Count Wulfsige and the von Koeterbergs.
A dirge for the man who had damned them all with his final breath.