Read 00.1 - Death's Cold Kiss Online

Authors: Steven Savile - (ebook by Undead)

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00.1 - Death's Cold Kiss (4 page)

BOOK: 00.1 - Death's Cold Kiss
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“Yes.”

The fear seemed to leech out of Guttman, the puzzle of bones
collapsing in on themselves as his body slouched against the cold crypt wall.

“Thank you.”

“It will hurt, and there will be no remains for loved ones to
come cry over, you understand? It can be no other way. The curse is in you,
whether you killed these women or not.”

“I killed them,” Guttman said forcefully.

“I doubt it,” Gundram Metzger said, drawing the silver dagger
from his boot. “Does this scare you, priest? Does it make your skin itch and
crawl?”

Guttman stared at the blade as it shone in the candlelight.
He nodded.

“Make your peace with Sigmar,” Eberl Ziegler said from behind
Metzger. He turned his back on the murder.

A litany of prayers for forgiveness and for the safe passage
of his soul tripped over Victor Guttman’s lips, not stopping even for a moment
as Metzger rammed the silver knife home, between third and forth rib, into the
old man’s heart. His eyes flared open, the truth suddenly blazing in his mind.
His screams were pitiful as he succumbed to death’s embrace. He bled, pure dark
blood that seeped out of the gaping wound in his chest and pooled on the floor
around him.

Metzger stayed with the old priest as he died, a pitiful old
man in chains.

He hung there, limbs slack, body slumped awkwardly, head
lolling down over his cadaverous ribs, where the knife protruded from his chest
cavity.

“It’s over,” Ziegler said, laying a hand on his friend’s
shoulder. “Come, let’s leave this place. Bringing death to a temple leaves me
cold.”

“In a moment my friend. Go to the priests, tell them the deed
is done, and fetch the paraffin oil from the cart. This place needs cleansing of
the stench.”

“But—”

“No buts, old friend. The place must be purged. The priests
can find more walls to praise their god. But not here. Now leave me for a moment
with the dead, would you? I need to pay my respects to a brave old fool.”

He sat alone for an unknowable time, the candle burning low
in his hand, unmoving, waiting, alone with the dead priest.

The pungent reek of paraffin drifted down from above. It was
a sickening, stifling smell. Disembodied voices argued, Ziegler’s the loudest as
he continued to douse the temple in oil. The place would burn.

Victor Guttman’s eyes flared open in the dying light and his
hand flew to the silver blade still embedded in his heart. He screamed as he
yanked it out and sent the knife skittering across the crypt floor. The flesh
around the wound was seared black.

“I tasted his blood,” Victor Guttman rasped, his head jerking
up as he strained against his chains, all trace of the man gone. “I want more!”

Guttman twisted and jerked, tugging at the chains that bound
him, but there was no escape.

“No,” Metzger said softly. “I told you I was here to kill
you, consider this my promise delivered.” With that he stood, collected his
silver knife and slipped it into the boot sheath, the gesture itself a mocking
bow to the beast chained to the cold stone wall.

He walked slowly up the stairs, the creature raging in the
darkness he left behind.

Ziegler was waiting at the crypt’s entrance, his face grim.
He held a bottle in his hand, a rag stuffed into its mouth. He passed it to
Metzger who lit the end with the last of his candle’s dwindling flame.

Together they stood at the huge wooden door, the cocktail of
lamp oil and fire burning in Metzger’s hand. He tossed it deep into the body of
the temple where the glass shattered off the statue of Sigmar. Flames licked at
the stonework, tongues of blue heat lashing out to consume the wooden seats.
Metzger and Ziegler backed out from the intense heat as the conflagration took
hold and consumed the temple.

He turned to the younger priest, Messner, who had begged his
help.

“The beast is dead.”

“But…”

“There are no buts, the beast’s evil cannot survive the fire.
It is done. Deliver payment to Herr Hollenfeuer’s wine cellar.”

“How can we pay? We have nothing left. You’ve destroyed
everything we ever had!”

Metzger shook his head sadly. “No, young sir, you did that. I
am merely the tool you chose for its destruction. Do not blame the sword for the
soldier’s death, blame the man wielding it.”

 

High above the blaze, three men stood watching the towering
inferno with perverse delight.

Vlad von Carstein, the vampire count of Sylvania, watched the
flames intently. Beside him, Herman Posner turned to his man, Sebastian Aigner:
“Go out and feed. Make sure the fools down there know that they killed an
innocent man. I want the knowledge to tear them apart.”

Aigner nodded. “It will be as you wish.”

“Poor, stupid, cattle,” Posner said, a slow smile spreading
across his face. “This place promises a lot of sport, my lord.”

Von Carstein said nothing, content to watch the Sigmarite
temple turn to ashes and smoke.

 

 

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