Chapter Fourteen – Courting Danger

Mannfred Von Carstein, Elector Count of Sylvania was truly a thing of beauty Letta mused to herself as she stood in the great pavilion. The silk and skin structure that served her liege as a temporary court away from the gothic splendour of Drakenhof castle was teeming with the undead and a few of the living. Most of those were mere toys and sustenance, sometimes both, but there were a few necromancers dotted about the room, in the background, lurking in the corners and behind patrons and allies. Beyond the red silk walls, the mournful moans of the dead echoed, currently un-regarded by their masters.

She ignored the others that swirled about her, tense and snarling – predators confined together and only kept in check by the fear of their alpha male. She gazed upon their liege, the sheer potency of the Shyish and Dhar that infused his immortal frame was breathtaking and she shivered in pleasure as she had done so many times before, deliciously considering the possibility that she might command such a wealth of energies in the future.

Unlike so many of his kindred, he did more than merely embrace the winds of death that allowed his form to endure, in defiance of age, disease or injury, he nurtured and grew his mastery of the power. She respected that, as she recognised the iron will that ruled the collection of factious, jealous blood suckers that squabbled at his feet, often literally – as they were doing once again.

Even to those with more mundane senses, he was a tall powerfully built creature, muscles honed as much as his arcane abilities over millennia. He had in those centuries of seeking knowledge and power often taken the guise of a powerful dark prince, charming and deadly in the same moment – the seductive embodiment of forbidden pleasures and darker pacts. When he had walked the world in disguise, his malevolent beauty had entranced and ensnared not a few beautiful mortals. Yet he had now cast that mantle aside as he marched to war.

Deliberately he had allowed the magic to seep through and manifest itself more clearly in his form, choosing to inspire fear and respect rather than provoke lust in chosen mortals. His face was feral, his cheekbones as sharp as the distended fangs that he had unleashed, yet unlike many of his kind (including Letta's favourite), when he took this form he shed his hair and now his gleaming scalp writhed with magical energy.

Hanging from the side of his gilded wooden throne – a contrast to the true obsidian throne that now sat empty in Drakenhof – was his famous blade, Timor Noctis. A massive sword designed to be wielded, even by the Elector Count himself in two hands, its long hilt was wrapped in crimson and gold dragon-scale and ending in an onyx pommel stone, whose depths were for once quiescent.

He had disdained any guards as he reclined at apparent ease, behind him was draped the defiant standard of his realm, constantly shifting in an unnatural breeze. Fanning out, on a suitably subservient level were the proud and tattered banners of those noble houses that had accompanied him. Very few had dared to openly refuse his summons to war, but some had sent disposable scions or token forces in deftly calculated insults or more subtle expressions of a particular dissatisfaction or even censure for some long forgotten insult.

The argument between the two rival warlords was finally concluded as one head was wrenched from the battered body and tossed to the feet of the Count who rewarded the victor with what could have been a smile and was part recognition and part threat before his eyes swept across the gathering of the nobles that had followed him to war.

As ever his gaze did not linger on Letta, she was a talented student of the art, but not someone who he needed to take notice of – yet. She was not quite sure how she felt about that…to take her mind off the issue, she retrieved a meaty snack from her bag and chewed thoughtfully, considering the would-be Emperor on his brazen throne.

"My Dear, do you ever stop eating?"

For a long moment she ignored him, pointedly swallowed with relish and then replied, "Well My Lord, I do have to keep my strength up, we live in dangerous times….apparently." She glanced towards the two liveried servants dragging the body through the increasingly bloody mud and ornamental rug remnants and shrugged.

Viktor watched the body, his senses heightened by the bloodshed. Like most of those gathered, his form was still clad in battered and torn armour, but few who stood or knelt in the court were bothered by the stench of death, blood and sweat, most did not even notice it anymore. In truth it was the ever present stink of any army on the march but its pungency was heightened in the horde of walking death that Mannfred had led into the greater Empire.

"Not thirsty again are we My Lord? I thought you had drunk your fill not an hour ago, certainly your loyal servant looked suitably drained when I saw her staggering from your tent," she looked away with a smile, "Are you so very insatiable?"

A fang filled smile was turned her way, "Is that an offer, sweet child?"

"Ahhh, My Lord, surely not here?" she glanced about her in mock horror, "In public no less!"

He laughed and then stooped to whisper softly in her ear, ignoring the tiny stitches that now held it in place and it was her turn to smile as she enjoyed the reverberating tone and suggestion, conscious that nothing would ever happen but that they both took pleasure in the interplay.

On her other side, a muscled mass of animal fur, fangs and hair, vaguely humanoid, turned her way as well, growling lustfully at her. Viktor moved instantly between them, his expression now dangerous.

"Walk away."

The other vampire looked at him, his anger growing as Letta stepped back into view, smiling broadly and waved at him provocatively. She knew the other vampire of old, Lutz he was called and he was sometimes used by Mahjub Izz as literal muscle in exchange for mere snippets of knowledge and power. The vampire himself was brutal and powerful but normally he was kept at the borders of the court due to the suspicion that he was tainted with Strigoi blood somewhere in his ancestry. In truth, she would be quite pleased if that asset was removed from her rival's inventory.

The Von Carsteins took the purity of their bloodline very seriously both in terms of the mortals they turned and the vampires who did the turning. Whilst the mingling of blood between vampires in the height of passion was not unknown it often led to those involved (or created) being ostracised, banished or even destroyed.

Yet the war meant that the bestial vampire's talent for violence was being more appreciated. Sadly for her, before the confrontation could truly unfold, the herald's icy voice cut across the multitude gathered in the pavilion, announcing the next candidates granted an audience.

"Letta Karla Diefen, Mahjub Izz - Come forward and gratefully receive our Lords attention."

The woman's smile as her name was called shifted to an unflattering scowl as her name was joined with the other. For his part, the named man flushed in anger when his rival's title superseded his own. Both detached themselves from their associates and supporters and moved through the throng, ignoring the speculative eyes focussed now upon them.

They both made suitable obeisance as they reached the appropriate distance from the throne, Letta's curtsy low and deferential, despite the threatening creaking from her bones, her skin bag hanging pendant for a moment. Mahjub bowed deeply from the waist, bone and gold bracelets jangling as his arms snapped into place, before and behind him with a flourish. Cautiously, both held their position for the correct period before straightening and awaiting their master's words, eyes cast down respectfully as Mannfred inspected both supplicants. His heavy lidded gaze boring deep into their bodies and souls as he gazed upon them in both the material realm and through his witch sight.

Letta was a searing contrast, a whirlwind of controlled power, dazzling and enthralling to view, drawing the winds of magic to her, but like many Necromancers, the continued neglect and growing disdain for her mortal frame was evident in the mundane. She had taken some time to dress for the occasion, even wearing a fitted and intact silken gown, but its hem was now stained with blood and varied sludge. The fine lines of the dress were creased by her ever present bag, but she had not noticed and even if she had, there was little she could do about it now.

Mahjub was a little taller and retained both muscle mass and tone on his light frame, his tanned body well revealed in the blue-black robes with ancient Nehekharan picture script in red and gold crawling across the fabric. Sable hair was cropped short to his skull, the skin on his face was stretched taut and his left eye was gone, a scorched reminder merely festering in its cracked bony socket. Clashing violently across his arms was an eye catching mixture of tattoos, bracelets and torcs, several glittering with arcane power to the perceptive eyes of the vampire that commanded him.

His power was more muted, subtle and coiled but still formidable, inter-twinned Shyish and Dhar wrapped around and twisted protectively through the core of his soul. In raw power and skill there was little to choose between the two necromancers, both were promising additions to the army and burgeoning empire that Mannfred was seeking to build.

The rivalry between the two was well known to any that were paying attention to such things, and the lord of Sylvania was always interested in the schemes and squabbles of his subjects. Almost every vampire and being with any power in his realm spent considerable time plotting against his rivals, enemies and those that they proclaimed friends and allies. At times it worked well to cement his own power, reducing the chance of a rival amassing a power base to threaten him yet at others it would frustrate carefully wrought plans. Luckily, all the nobility agreed that expanding their borders (and feeding grounds) was a "good thing".

Mannfred spoke to the two students before him, but his voice resonated easily to all, mostly from practice but with a touch of magic to help.

"Letta Karla Diefen, blood of Karla and Friedhelm of that name, child of Eschen, I am proud that you have fulfilled the promise I saw in you. It is now time you take your rightful place as a Magister of your arts for you have proven your mastery in battle, in peace your artistry and in my service your loyalty."

He paused, ignoring the clenched fists of the male supplicant and swiftly he allowed his gaze to sweep across the swathe of courtiers that were gathered, gauging their interest and desires for the pair of necromancers. Some had already sought his favour to foster one or both of the pair in their care, others were equally keen to drain both dry, many vampires were loath to share any power with mortals. Mannfred had, once again, had to forcefully explain to them his need for such men and women.

Why else would he train them at his own castle? He had been truly exasperated and growing angry with such foolish and short sighted creatures that sought to give him advice. In a conscious mockery of the famed Imperial colleges of magic, the Count of Sylvania had established a formal college of necromancy at Drakenhof, whose students were under his direct protection and patronage. He was now beginning to reap the reward of this expensive and dangerous experiment, although for some it had unsettling echoes of Nagash and his spiritual descendants, the twisted and insane Necrarch's.

"As is our custom, you will join the household of one our great families, enjoy their support and protection as you grow further in knowledge and power."

Letta risking glancing up at the vampire lord, enjoying her moment in the limelight and sure of her intended patron, she was wrong…..

"I am gladdened that Lady Ariette, blood of my blood, has acquiesced to my request to take you under her wing and teach you all she knows." He locked his searing gaze with her own and she was unable to even flinch away. "Obey her words as you would my own, for this is my will and command."

He brutally broke the eye contact and languidly raised his right hand where glittered the fabled ring of his name, the talisman that protected him, even from the True Death that had claimed so many of their kind over the long millennia. Stunned, Letta's body responded in a practised action as she bent to kiss his hand and then backed slowly away, her face stricken and eyes full of confusion.

Watching the scene, Viktor was suddenly enveloped by a cloud of unsubtle perfume and a soft voice whispered to him, even as he turned to face the woman.

"Check! I do believe it is now your move, yes?"

XX

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