The End Times: The Return of Nagash

Hark at him, the supercilious little weasel, Vlad’s voice murmured in Mannfred’s ear, as if he were right over his shoulder. Familiar bit of rhetoric, though, you must admit. It wasn’t so long ago that you were framing similar arguments, right about the time my ring went missing, eh, boy?

‘Shut up,’ Mannfred hissed. Vlad laughed. ‘Shut up!’ Mannfred howled, and flung himself at Markos. Their blades crashed together with a sound like a wailing wind, and sparks slid from their edges as they scraped against one another, separated and came together again. Markos laughed tauntingly and pressed Mannfred back.

‘I’ll be silent the day I lose my head, cousin,’ he sneered. ‘I was of Vlad’s get, the same as you. My blood runs as pure as yours, and flows with the same power!’

‘Your blood,’ Mannfred spat. He caught a blow on the length of his blade and rolled into it, driving his shoulder into Markos’s chest who staggered back. ‘Your blood is gutter-froth, compared to mine. I was born in a palace, cousin. I was born the son of kings, and Vlad did not make me the creature I am. He merely honed me, the way that blade you boast of was honed.’

Vlad’s laughter faded in Mannfred’s ear drowned out by the sound of his own blood thundering in his veins, as he harried Markos back, wielding his sword as if it were a feather. His rage lent him strength, as it always had, and his arrogance as well.

He was not meant to fall here. He was meant for greater things. Better things. He had no illusions about the kind of man he was. He had sacrificed more on the altar of ambition than a guttersnipe like Markos could ever guess, all to reach this moment, this crossroads. He had been denied a throne once, in the dim, fell reaches of the past. And the world owed him a debt for that insult.

Markos’s confidence began to crumble as they traded blows. He had squandered the advantage of surprise in order to grandstand. That was the perennial flaw in Vlad’s blood, the urge to monologue, to make the enemy recognise your superiority, before the first blow had fallen. Mannfred fell victim to it himself, but he at least came by it honestly. Markos had been the son of a vintner, and not even a wealthy one.

‘You think a sword, or a bit of knowledge, makes you special, Markos? You are not,’ Mannfred said, sliding around a blow and catching Markos in the belly with a shallow slash. Armour peeled back like flesh as the blade danced across Markos’s torso. ‘You are no more special than Hans or Pieter or Fritz, or poor, sad Constantin, buried in his books. Just another funeral pyre to light the way of your betters.’ He attacked Markos again and again as he spoke, striking him with all of the speed and strength he possessed. Blood poured down Markos’s arms and legs, and his armour fell to tatters. Efficiently, ruthlessly, Mannfred cut ligaments and tendons, the way a butcher would ready an animal for sale.

Markos stumbled and sank to one knee, bracing himself with his blade. He coughed blood, and his free hand was pressed to his belly. His blood pooled about him, and the greedy earth drank it up thirstily. His lips began to move, and Mannfred felt the winds of magic stir. With a single word, he cut Markos off from them. He saw the other vampire’s eyes widen. A pall of resignation crept over Markos’s narrow features as he realised what had happened. ‘I waited too long,’ he said.

Mannfred nodded and said, ‘The approach of death lends a certain clarity.’ He caught Markos’s chin with the flat of his blade and lifted his head. ‘You went after me with a blade for the same reason Tomas did, all those months ago. You thought I was a better sorcerer than a swordsman.’

‘No, I thought you were mad. I see no evidence to the contrary,’ Markos coughed. ‘You will destroy us – all that Vlad built, and for what?’

‘For me,’ Mannfred said. ‘Always, for me. This world is mine. It did not belong to Vlad and it does not belong to Nagash or the Dark Gods. It was promised to me in my cradle, and I will have what I am owed.’ He lifted his blade in both hands. ‘Close your eyes, cousin. No man should have to see his body after his head has left his shoulders.’

Markos continued to stare at him. Mannfred shrugged and let the blade fall. Markos’s head came away, and his body slumped. Do you feel better now? Konrad always felt a bit better after a good bloodletting, Vlad hissed. Mannfred looked down, and saw something that might have been Vlad’s face – or perhaps a skull – reflected in the blood spreading away from Markos’s body.