Chapter one: Rise of the Dead

Part one

"Lord Morkhur," said the thrall, a powerfully-built warrior in gleaming steel plate, "we must find shelter. Daybreak is only hours away."

Varakash Morkhur glanced at the thrall. "Daybreak, like fate, is not fixed, Reinholdt. It can be changed, delayed, even halted altogether."

Reinholdt met the Vampire Lord's gaze for a second, and then turned away with a nod. "Yes, Lord. I will seek out the others." Reinholdt left, walking fluidly despite his armour.

Varakash placed a hand on his sword, a rusty, battered length of steel with a bent cross guard. He had once carried a magnificent silvered longsword at his waist, but those days were long gone. Now he was but a shadow, a wraith, insubstatial in the great tragedy of life.

He stood atop a rocky outcrop, staring into the roiling blackness of the thick clouds. The lives of mortals appeared as incomprehensible to him as the darkest depths of the clouds. The Slayer troubled him particularly.

Until now, Varakash had thought it impossible to find a mortal unafraid of death. That he would find one here, in the World's Edge Mountains, was a likely indicator of their rarity. It seemed suitably fitting, thought Varakash, that this individual would be a Dwarf. Their tenacity and stubbornness were infamous, as was their honour. This combination was almost ideal for evading the shadow of death that had cast its pall over the World.

Varakash turned, dismissing the thought. Almost year ago, barely twenty miles from this spot, he had fought the Slayer. In a month, he would do so once more. For now, though, he had to reach shelter before the sun's light became too strong for even his dark powers to conceal.

He stepped down from the outcrop, sending his mind down, under the layers upon layers of dirt and stone, deep into the earth, feeling for the dead. His pale lips twisted into a small smile. The dead lay thickly here, victims of countless battles, Orcs, Goblins, Dwarves and Skaven, heaped atop one another over the years. If the Dwarf proved less than honourable, there would be no shortage of bodies.

A faint whisper of leather against rock, the slightest disturbance of the crisp night air, each undetectable to human senses, alerted Varakash to the thrall's return. Reinholdt stepped from the shadows under a rocky ledge.

"Lord Morkhur, the others are returning. They will be here soon," said Reinholdt, making a slight bow. Such had never been the custom in Varakash's time, but he did not discourage the habit. The path of the Blood Dragon was a harsh one, and discipline came in varying forms.

"Very well, Reinholdt. Assemble the others and create a shelter."

Reinholdt bowed again. "Yes, Lord Morkhur," he said, and turned sharply on his heel. His boots made a soft whisper-click on the rock as he left to inform the other thralls.

Varakash turned to look once more into the clouds. He had called the towering formations, but he did not control them. So it was with everything. Staring into the clouds, waiting for his thralls to arrive, he went back, back into the tumult of his memories, thousands of years of blood and death.

Part 2

The City of Lahmia, four and a half thousand years ago…

"What is wrong with our Lord?" asked Varakash quietly.

The man opposite him, a tall, powerful man holding a two-handed sword in a guard stance, frowned. "Who knows? He hasn't been out of his quarters for days."

Varakash drew his own weapon, a notched broadsword borrowed from the armoury. He settled into a defensive stance, waiting for the other man to move first. "I can't think what started it, either. One day he was fine, the next he was… well, like this. He won't eat or drink, and he allows no-one near him except for the Queen."

The other man grimaced. "What does the Queen hope to do for our Lord? He needs a healer, not royal scrutiny."

"He and the Queen have been friends since childhood. It does not surprise me that she is the only one he will see. It is also rumoured," he continued, "that she is a powerful adept of the magical arts."

The other man snorted. "Pah. Rumours only. The Queen of Lahmia is no witch or sorcerer. They stay were they belong; in Nehekara. We have no need of them here."

"Walach, you should be more tolerant. Sorcerers have their uses."

The other man, Walach, laughed. "Yes Varakash, they do. Targets."

Varakash attacked in a blur of motion, catching Walach off-guard and slicing a fresh cut across his chest. Varakash retreated, putting his weight onto his back foot. Walach gritted his teeth at the wound, and tightened his stance.

"It is you who is the target, Walach," Varakash taunted.

Walach's grimace twitched. "That was a dishonourable blow, Varakash. I was not prepared."

Varakash shrugged. "That, my friend, is your problem, not mine."

Walach did not reply, but instead stepped forwards, swinging a heavy blow for Varakash's stomach. Varakash stepped into the strike, sliding Walach's large blade along his own smaller one until the two were face to face.

Walach pushed and stepped back, breaking the lock. He lunged, but checked it at the last moment, swinging in low instead. Varakash only just managed to block the attack, and took a hasty step backwards. Walach followed up immediately with a series of powerful slashes, forcing Varakash back even more.

Varakash blocked a vicious horizontal slash at his neck, and moved forwards with it, twisting to bring his sword to bear. Unable to manoeuvre his larger blade, Walach tried to retreat, but Varakash followed him, striking out with a triplet of blows that Walach barely avoided.

Walach dived to the side, rolling as he landed and coming up in a guard stance, one knee on the floor. Varakash followed, lunging in with a low thrust at Walach's stomach. Walach smashed Varakash's sword to the side with a heavy blow and stood, bringing his sword up with him in a deadly slash.

Varakash threw himself desperately backwards, landing in a clumsy roll. He came up, guard raised, and found Walach standing in front of him. The point of Walach's greatsword was inches from Varakash's throat.

"I win again," said Walach. "You need more practise."

Varaksh sheathed his sword. "That was a good fight; especially that little trick you pulled at the end."

"Trick?" said Walach. "It was no trick. That was pure skill."

Varakash snorted. "Right…"

Walach threw his sword into a corner, and Varakash winced as it clanged to the floor. "You could at least put it back," he said reproachfully.

"Varakash, that's the cleaner's job. Do you really think that Captains of the Queen's Guard are expected to clean the practise rooms like common servants?"

"The rack is right by the door," protested Varakash. "It's hardly any effort. This is where you fall down, Walach. Honour and skill is fine, but the discipline extends to everything, not just combat."

"Maybe so," said Walach, "but I'll just stick to beating you every time we fight."

Part 3

The World's Edge Mountains, present day…

"We are ready, Lord Morkhur."

Varakash turned. Reinholdt was standing behind him. "Very well."

He stepped into the centre of the trail. His thralls were assembled around the edges of the wide path, ten pale sentinels wrapped in cloaks the colour of dried blood that flickered in the harsh wind.

He swept his eyes slowly over them. Each had been with him for over a thousand years, powerful vampires in their own right, sired from his ancient blood, and Varakash had trained them rigorously in the disciplines of combat.

Varakash spoke, his voice soft, yet cutting through the low howl of the wind. "My Accursed Lords, our destination is near. The Silver Pinnacle lies less than a hundred miles away. Soon, we shall enter the Halls of the Night, and dine with our Queen. Our journey is nearly at its close."

Reinholdt stepped from behind Varakash, and addressed the Accursed Lords. "Urgency is not as vital as it once was, my brethren. We no longer have need to travel under this constant veil of darkness that our Lord has summoned. There is time to rest, to recuperate from the rigours of travel. A shelter shall be created." He turned to face Varakash. "My Lord, do you wish to lead?"

Varakash nodded, and walked past Reinholdt. "My Thralls, a shelter shall be created like no natural formation could mirror. It shall be a shelter of the dead, and it shall be formed from the dead." He raised his arms, and his long, white hair flew out behind him at the movement. "Release your power, my Thralls. Seek out the dead within these ancient mountains."

He felt the Vampires extend their magical abilities as one, drawing deep of the billowing winds of magic. He felt the metallic tang within his mind as their power snaked through the rocks and earth, coiling around the long-dead bodies that lay, decomposing, beneath the surface.

A hiss escaped Varakash's lips as he flexed his own abilities, releasing his power down, into the ground, feeling the multitudinous dead that lay, buried by time and the weather, below the rocks. "Now, my Thralls, raise the dead. All of them."

As he spoke, Varakash sent his power coursing through the dead, invading their bones and flesh, animating them with dark power. He drew them to the surface, his power cracking the rock around them. Around him, his Thralls did the same, each summoning as many as they could upward, out of the rock.

He gave one last push of ethereal strength, and a decayed, gaunt, hand burst from a widening crack in the rock. The zombie clawed its way out of the ground, followed by a dozen others, each emerging from a different crack. They were pushed out of the way by more zombies emerging from the same cracks.

The zombies summoned by his Thralls surfaced, surrounding those that Varakash had called, a few at first, and then more, until the trail was crowded. Skeletons appeared behind the zombies, older corpses further decomposed. Dirt fell from aged, cracking bones to lie thick upon the ground.

Varakash stopped summoning, and turned his power fully onto the creatures he had called. Creaks and groans filled the sharp mountain air as the dead shuffled to line the edges of the trail, forming a wall across the path twenty meters either side of Varakash. More followed, until the wall was ten thick, bodies pressed so close together there were no gaps.

His Thralls ceased summoning, and directed their minions to follow Varakash's. The dead clambered atop one another, forming an arching wall. The wall stretched high into the air, curving inwards until it seemed that it must fall. Zombies formed pillars around the centre of the wall, supporting the flaking corpses. The last few zombies, Varakash's remaining creatures, clambered over the outside of the wall, lying flat over the top and sealing the shelter.

Varakash released his hold upon the clouds, and the sun's light broke through, drawing groans from the corpses. The Vampires withdrew their powers. The corpses fell limp, supported by each other. Silence filled the stale air within the shelter.

"Now we sleep," Varakash said, softly, his voice echoing strangely around the corpse-shelter.

His Vampires lay in the dirt, settling into the limp sleep of the dead. Stillness stole across their features. They made a circle around him, guarding him even in their sleep. Varakash lay down in the centre of the shelter, and blackness overcame him as his eyes closed and he finally let himself succumb to the darkness that waited at his heart.