A Bonestrewn Path 5
Outside the Collapsed Tomb of Krell, Northern Tilean Mountains
2336
Krell…Krell!
Oh, how glorious it was to raise such a champion, such a servant of near unparalleled might and story!
It was worth it, well worth it indeed. Despite the curse levied upon him by that accursed Liche who so falsely named itself the Eternal, despite the fact that the great majority of the tomb had been collapsed and desecrated by the slavering fools of Chaos and the zealous idiocies of Verena and Morr both, it was all very much worth it. His legion had grown further, his magics mending snapped bone and necrotic flesh to restore what paltry losses that had been taken. Even better, the former living who had dared to touch that which was not meant for them had been raised to further increase those under his command. Well.
Most of them.
Frustrating. Infuriating. Befuddling, yes, quite so, for was he not the bearer and master of three separate Books of Nagash, and many great tomes besides? A near unparalleled master of necromancy? Not yet untouchable, not yet able to consider himself untouchable by foes, admittedly. The fact that he was only now just beginning to fully restore himself from the withering curse levied upon him put paid to that, certainly. But that he could not raise the High Priest of Morr and High Priestess of Verena that had been present was most vexing. The rank stench of their oh so holy Gods protected those corpses, consecrated them in death, but only so much. Only so far. He would not be denied in any desire he wished, and especially not in this one.
Ever day, he worked his great power over those two corpses, and every day he etched away at the protections that were levied upon their bodies for the works that their souls had managed in the service of their chosen deities. Dhar was a great and powerful thing. It did not simply destroy, it dissolved. It eroded. He was guarded from the worst of its effects thanks to his knowledge and his grasping of Shyish as a shield, but he was not unaware of how his magics and studies had altered him. He could track an ever-increasing passage of time between when his heart needed to beat, and though he could still find pleasure and relief in the consumption of food and drink, he needed it ever so slightly less every day. Despite his frame being at best considered wiry and willowy, there was unnatural strength there. He had survived grievous wounds with flesh and bones that were sturdier through the steady presence and infusion of necromantic energies.
Still.
He was not immortal, not yet. He did not yet have all the Books, all the power he needed. He would get it, yes indeed! But he would have to be careful. Krell was a wondrous boon, a mighty one, a wellspring of necromantic power and incredible bulwark of protection both. In his studies, he had seen mentions before of Wight Kings that were blessed by Dark Magic to be raised without the need of any living necromancer or vampire. The greatest and most powerful of the Wight Kings raised by those ancient Necrachs and master necromancers in the defense of Sylvania could not match the sheer presence in darkness that Krell possessed, even diminished by the lack of his panoply and weapon as he was. And hadn't that been a despicable shock to have! To learn from the fleshless lips of the wight that it had been slaves of Chaos who had stolen such things, stealing away with that which rightfully belonged to him and his servant! It did not matter that said panoply had once been wielded in the name of Chaos, it had served under Nagash, and now, it should have served under him!
He did not know the one who had done the deed, but if given the time, Heinrich knew he would one day track them down and destroy the one who had done so if they were not already lost in the endless power plays and rivalries endemic to those who swore to the Dark Gods. And besides, if that was so, he would not do so and needlessly waste the boon that had been born to him by locating and reviving Krell! There remained of course great strength and power in the Wight King, but for the moment it was nevertheless most distressing and frustrating to have him as naught by a skeleton. He was more than that, so much more! And yet, all the treasures that remained to Heinrich were not enough to garb him as befitted his stature. A cobbled together gathering from the far lesser wights that Heinrich had claimed for himself admittedly shrouded the naked bones, and a pair of huge two-handed blades were placed into the hands of Krell who could wield both as if they were knives, but it wasn't quite right.
But then, as he camped out at the collapsed Tomb of Krell as the only living human within miles around, his scattered mind which had only just begun to wrest a more total control of itself, came to a single conclusion. A difficult one, yes, but one that he found himself more and more sure of as he ruminated on it with the gleaming green glow of Morrslieb shining down onto him and his forces. He could not sleep, he had not sleep in far too long, not being as weakened as he was. While he was fighting off the curse, he was not yet able to fully rid himself of it. And that was simply a state of affairs that he refused to allow to continue any longer than was absolutely necessary.
By morning he made to move. It was just frustrating that the engorged size of his legion was enough that it made travel through the mountains at the moment quite difficult indeed. Reaching the tomb had been one thing, especially with that damned curse trying its level best to kill him despite it being weeks and months now since he had defeated Arnaud, but he had done it. Charting a new journey, even with the strangely restorative effects of studying his mobile library stored within the carefully crafted carrying chamber within crab's shell, swiftly proved to be more annoying than he would have liked. Truly, he did not know what it was that had the dwarfs so riled up as they were, but it was enough that their many relentless patrols more than made up for the strange lack of greenskins throughout the Vaults and Black Mountains. So often they had to travel at night through the Border Princes, through stretches of territory only technically claimed by petty so-called lords that they could not hope to administrate.
Nevertheless, he persevered.
There was nothing that he could not do if he strove hard enough, he knew that for certain. Even if he, loathe as he was to do it, was forced to abandon a vast amount of his forces simply to be able to return to the World's Edge Mountains proper to return to his tower. Instead, he reframed it to himself as if he were one of the get of the so-called Arch-Commodore, burying a great treasure to return to later. If ever he was in dire need of troops, he would have a ready made force of considerable might that he could raise whenever he wished. Assuming, of course, that no one found the mass grave he had the legion dig for itself to slumber within. Not that he left it without defenses of course. The very thought of an interloper daring to interfere with his legion in dormancy enraged him, and so utilizing the Books of Nagash cast a terrible spell of wrath to bring woe upon any and all who would disturb his legion.
After that, it was merely a matter of carefully returning to Necriturm, some months set aside for study.
He knew what he had to do, it was only a matter of finding the right place to do it. He had harvested much power from the fonts of Dark Magic that were drawn to Mourkain, but given the riling up of the greenskins in the Bonelands and the difficulties of traveling past the dwarfs again, it would likely not be worth it. Not nearly enough time had passed for enough energies to be drawn there. It was, he knew, likely that there were places of power that he could seek out within the confines of the Empire, but it would be difficult so long as it was under the leadership of the Pious. No, he would have to wait until time and age took their natural course upon those unblessed by mastery of necromancy, perhaps. There was Bretonnia, of course, but that would again require either passage through the Empire or the mountains of the dwarfs, or perhaps a more circuitous naval path? Also possible. He had heard some good things about Mousillon after all.
But no.
No, it was thoughts of Mourkain which had inspired him. Or perhaps the demandable and feral Ghoul King that had been there. So boastful and proud, refusing to even name itself anything but the title it gave him. He knew much of the vampires, now, much more than he had before thanks to the various tomes of Mannfred that were now but a part of his ever-growing library. He knew of the Strigoi, especially. And by learning of them, and their history, he had learned of another place. One that he could reach without the damned patrols of the dwarfs in the mountains and the unblinking and bloodshot eyes of the Empire within its own lands, or the potential dangers of the Cult of Morr in its homeland of Tilea, or fortunetelling of the Bretonnians. He was not nearly as familiar with the latter, but given his current accursed state, he could not take any more chances than needed!
As for Estalia?
There might have been places of worth there, but why bother when there was one place he
knew would surely have power laid down into its bones?
It would take Krell, of course, to help protect him, but there were corpses aplenty for him to raise up and bring with him.
And then, and
then, he would be restored!
============================================================
Fortress of Vorag Ruins, The Dark Lands
2336 IC
The Dark Lands had truly lived up to their name.
As had the Plain of Bones.
He had been right. More than right. Great and dreadful power clung to this place, and yet he had heeded the warnings scrawled by Mannfred well. Especially once he had seen the warnings left in the stone and burnt earth all around. For all that this place was a once-sacred ground of death for the dragons to lay themselves to rest, there was a malevolent vitality that existed here. He could feel it, in fact, as he traveled forth through the Dark Lands with his legion huddled close around him. A presence which was altogether both distant and far too close for his liking. He disliked the comparisons his mind made, he disliked them very much! The taste of the hot, scalding wind in his lungs, the crunch of the lifeless soil beneath his boots, it felt like in a strange way similar to the island that Arnaud had made his bastion. So too, however, did it feel like the reality of the world itself was being bent, as if the fabric that made it up was not being torn apart so much as it was being stressed. Pushed. Pulled. Altogether too much like back when Castle Drakenhof had fallen. When the slaves of Chaos had managed to summon forth a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch.
Most disturbingly, whatever presence it was that had at least some of its attentions upon the Plain of Bones?
Felt stronger than that daemon whose strength was still far greater than Heinrich had gathered for himself.
It was only the fact that it seemed to regard him with a bare mote of its attentions that allowed him to determinedly keep going on until he had reached his destination. It was necessary, he knew it was, if he wished to restore his mind from its fractured state, and restore his body as well. But it wouldn't be well worth it if whatever entity it was actually decided to pay attention to him! For now, he was little more than a scuttling insect, for the most part beneath it's notice. He knew, on a deep, animalistic, primal level, that he would have no chance to survive Krell and three Books of Nagash or no if the entity decided to take a more active interest in what he was doing. He prayed to no Gods, and had not for quite some time, but this was the closest he had ever felt tempted to do so.
Of the tremendous mundane riches present, he dared not even divert from his path to pick through, no matter that even a fraction of it would more than refill all that he had paid to Captain Serena of Sartosa to learn a modicum of her kind's secrets.
Best to come and do what he came for and then begone, yes indeed!
Thankfully the presence seemed weaker once he reached the ruins of the citadel that Vorag Bloodytooth had built for himself. That was one of its greatest saving graces, though even that was outweighed by the great reserve of Dark Magic which had pooled and collected there. There were whole hosts of wailing spirits that swiftly revealed themselves, chained to this place by their once-devotion to the slain Strigoi who had built this place. How many ghouls had followed him here, eager to serve, believing in some deluded dream of a reborn Strygos, only to die? Many, so very many, their devotion chaining them as much as their despair as they died and their precious little dream had been guttered out beneath the stamping boots of ever more greenskins. Wailing, gnashing their teeth, hungering for flesh in undeath as they had in half-life.
He did not ignore them, though he knew some might have been tempted to.
No, he paid attention to them very much.
After all, he needed them, and so bound every single host of spirits from their mightiest of champions and lowest of dregs. He dragged them all underneath his unbreaking will and burning spirit and brilliant mind, and set about preparing for the ritual. It was one that he had invented for himself, customized really, from other such suggestions and notations of things. He would not be the first to consume Dark Magic in significant quantities from one locus or another, nor would he be the first to draw upon and consume the energies that suffused spirits and souls. But this was his ritual, and his alone. His legion was set forth in defensive posture, just in case, for he had seen signs that there might yet still be ghouls and other creatures skulking about in the Plain of Bones. Furthermore, he was not so blind as many fools were, and knew precisely why some of the protrusions of smoke and ash which erupted from the Dark Lands were somewhat more uniform than others. The fallen fortress was far enough from those foreboding towers marked by an infernal bull's head, but that they were still there was not lost upon him. Though Mannfred had never actually made dealings with them, he had made note of those who had, and of what those exchanges entailed.
But first? A ritual undertaking of great import to himself!
The acts undertaken within the ruined Fortress of Vorag Bloodytooth would surely be considered monstrous, blasphemous, and damning by any of the civilized races of the world. Not all of the ingredients and reagents that he utilized were dead, and not all of them were simple animals. But he had done worse things, and would do worse yet. Underneath the open, if blackened skies, of the Dark Lands through a shattered roof of the fortress, the light of Morrslieb shined down as he had prepared for. Dark Magic swelled, bloomed really, and then was drawn inward from across the fortress and even beyond its confines as if in a great and greedy inhale. The screaming spirit hosts and ghostly essences of all those who had died in the fortress and many who had died around it for any number of reason across a great many years were drawn inward as well. Not to be dominated or commanded for conquest, no.
But to be
consumed.
When Heinrich Kemmler emerged from that place many hours later, there was no sign of the curse that had afflicted him for so many months. His eyes burned with balefire, his gaze narrow and focused with dark intent for the rest of the world. The dark aura that surrounded him had grown in magnitude and depth, for he was more than simply restored by his efforts but grown in power once more. Even then, he quailed only ever so slightly as he began properly scouring the ruins of the fortress for scrolls, tomes, and knowledge as was his custom in any place that had ever been a bastion for necromancy and undeath. For it was during that period of weeks that he remained there that he felt that same overbearing, dare he say it seemingly half-divine presence which was at least tangentially present in some fashion or another in the Plain of Bones appeared to turn its gaze.
It was only for an instant.
But despite his newfound strength and power, Heinrich shrank within the confines of the fortress until that gaze turned away once more. And he retained that cautiousness for the rest of his time there until he moved on. Could he have ventured back amongst the greater Plain rather than skirting its edges as he had to reach the fortress? Certainly, it was technically possible. But then a great many things were technically possible. And on that day, and in that instance, Heinrich did no such thing. In fact, he did not venture west at all, he and his legion of undead and the Wight King Krell. He regained his confidence as he traveled, of all things, northeast. Especially once he found himself assaulted by a number of raiding greenskins, hardy and tough enough to strike down a goodly portion of his minions.
Unlike essentially every other combat encounter in his life leading up to that point, however, he did not kill them all and raise their worthiest corpses to serve him.
In fact, on his orders and careful commands, he barely killed any of the greenskins at all.
He took them captive, instead, and dragged them along with him towards his destination.
He would need a great many living slaves to sell, after all, if he intended to bargain so that he could re-equip Krell as was befitting the Wight King's station as his servant...
