#56 Lost Thorns of the Rose

Ghyran was warm, lush, vibrant, indescribably verdant and Lady Beauvoir absolutely hated it. She had now travelled for so many months in search of her quarry that every part of her being was desperate to return to the grim darkness of the Realm of Death. Yes, she had tasted some new and exciting flavours on her travels; but oh how she missed the familiarity her own cellar of vintage bloods.

And yet, at last, she dared to hope that she had finally tracked down the ancient Wight King.

Before her cowered a grimy old man. He was crooked and malformed and smelled strongly of mildew and rotting meat. In a stroke of long-awaited luck, Beauvoir had overheard him regaling a group of travellers with a story which apparently named the very creature she was tracking: 'Gulaab Kaphool'.

Those travellers now lay dead at her feet, their blood still wet on her lips. 

In the dense undergrowth around their smouldering campfire she could sense a score of deathrattle skeletons, awaiting someone's command.

"You are a necromancer." It wasn't a question.

"Yes my lady," he cringed, "Viktor Bract at your service my Lady."

"At my service? I doubt that." She looked around at the travellers' camp. "Whom do you actually serve? Or is this let-me-distract-you-with-a-story-while-I-steal-your-soul routine your own enterprise?"

Bract noisily swallowed a globule of phlegm as he gestured vaguely at the dead bodies. "This is part of my - um... personal research, but we are retainers of the King of Thorns my Lady."

Lady Beauvoir hid her surprise and delight impeccably. "Really? And who is this 'King of Thorns'?"

Viktor Bract's face relaxed slightly as he lapsed into his well-practiced story-telling routine. "Long, long ago a boy was born. Even as he lay at his mother's breast, he was visited by three mages who raised their voices in unison to speak a prophecy over the manchild:

The bud shall bloom

With petals five

But petals all shall fall.

When petals reunited are

Then blooms the grave cinquefoil."

Again, Beauvoir could hardly believe her good fortune. The necromancer went on to speak of a soul torn into five parts, one of which - the King of Thorns, or 'Gulaab the Fool' - was enslaved by Nagash. It took a moment for it to sink in that she had finally succeeded; Lady Beauvoir had truly found her quarry.

"A tall tale," she sneered, covering her excitement with disdain, "and hardly worthy of the bread and meat these mortals gave you. Yet I find myself intrigued - what became of the other four fifths of Gulaab's soul?"

"Ah my Lady, that remains a great mystery!"

Not to me, she thought. "This King of Thorns. You will take me to him."

Bract hesitated for a moment, until his rheumy eyes again passed over the exsanguinated travellers around the camp fire. "Indeed my Lady. I will introduce you to the Warden."

"The what? You will introduce me to the King!"

"My humble apologies my Lady," quailed the rancid old man, "but the King himself has ever been in thrall to the Warden. It is him you must approach, but I should warn you: he is a mighty and mysterious creature, and his moods can - um... fluctuate."

Beauvoir sighed. "Very well." If the Wight King was indeed in thrall to someone else (presumably another vampire), then bringing him back to Barfunweltz could present a challenge. This was not going to be as easy as she had hoped, but after all this time she was resolved not to give up now.

Viktor Bract twitched a hand and his silent, skeletal henchmen emerged awkwardly out of the undergrowth. As he led Lady Beauvoir along the overgrown path, the deathrattle fell into a defensive formation around the haughty vampire and the cowering necromancer.

As they walked, Viktor Bract talked. Lady Beauvoir wasn't sure whether it was out of nervousness of herself or awe of his master, but he chattered incessantly about the army of the Lost Thorns and their great King who had led them in thousands of battles over the centuries. Behind all the stories lurked the shadow of this mysterious 'Warden'. Beauvoir pressed the necromancer more on his identity.

"Oh yes my Lady, the Warden has ever watched over the King of Thorns. Originally, he had him fight alongside massed ranks of blood knights, but since the Soul Wars he was changed and our brothers in arms have generally been more... monstrous."

Beauvoir grimaced. Unless she was very much mistaken (which she rarely was), she strongly suspected she knew what type of Soulblight it was that the Wight King was in thrall to - and had been for hundreds of years. It was going to take all her cunning and guile (and even more good luck) to bring the King of Thorns back to Barfunweltz.

This post marks one year since I started blogging as a way to pass the time while supervising homeschooling during Covid lockdown. It feels longer somehow, but there's plenty more to come...

#57 BATTLE VIII - IN THE ABSENCE OF LADY BEAUVOIR