Earlier this week, we brought you a first look at Morrvahl Olbrecht, one of the characters from the forthcoming Cursed City novel based on the new Warhammer Quest game. Now you can see him in action in a short story written especially for Warhammer Community by the novel’s author, C L Werner. Read on to venture into the heart of Ulfenkarn and discover what makes this Death-obsessed wizard tick.
Nightguard
A Cursed City short story by C L Werner
Morrvahl Olbrecht's eyes glittered from the shadows. His henchmen crept ahead of him through the decayed streets of Ulfenkarn. He needed a bold breed to range the city centre and bolder hearts to do so at night when the dark things that infested the ruins were abroad. The howls and cries of hunting beasts rang out almost continuously in the distance but never far enough away to be comfortable. When an especially fierce gale whipped across Banshee's Bay and coated Ulfenkarn in a chill mist, the shrieks of wandering gheists and the roars of prowling Vargskyr might become slightly subdued, but there was no delusion that the creatures were out there, searching for the foolish and unwary to slake their undead hunger.
The wizard stroked the long tuft of black beard that sprouted from his chin. He was neither foolish nor unwary. There was still much to learn about the ghastly curse that had tightened around Ulfenkarn, but he'd done his research before travelling to the city. His arcane sight enabled him to visualize the frayed wisps of magic that swirled through the ruins and the terrible energies exuded by the Shyish Nadir that, every day, drew just that little bit nearer to Ulfenkarn. Morrvahl trembled as he conceived the magnitude of power that must have caused the realm's energies to shift from the fringes of Shyish to its centre. But it did solidify his belief that if civilization were to thrive in this realm, its dread power had to be harnessed rather than shunned. This was the precept of all who practised Amethyst magic.
The three men who'd been engaged by Morrvahl for several weeks now were slinking cautiously past a gibbet hanging from the balcony of what might have been a guildmaster's residence in better days but was now a crumbled ruin. He watched with grim humour when Bozidar folded his hands together and made the sign of Nagash, as though the Lord of Undeath could be appeased by such superstition. Bozidar was the oldest of the three, blind in one eye from the claws of a blood-bat, most of one foot torn away by a ghoul. He was more desperate than the others for the pat Morrvahl provided, trying to support several unsavoury habits acquired when he'd been a skilled harpooner on a whaling ship. He lacked the self-reflection to appreciate that his own vices were what brought about his downfall long before the city was laid low.
Yes, Morrvahl reflected, bold was the wrong word by which to describe his henchmen. Desperate was much better. Florian and Kanimir had that same hungry recklessness that Bozidar displayed. They were younger and more callous than the harpooner, barely even glancing at the bloodless corpse locked in the gibbet. As long as they didn't suffer, they cared little about what happened to someone else. An attitude that was all too common amongst the wretches who existed in the slums on the periphery of Ulfenkarn. The only part of the city where the living still outnumbered the undead.
'We should be getting close to the old Van Alten menagerie,' Bozidar told Morrvahl. 'There won't be any beasts to scavenge,' he added. 'Whatever didn't escape on its own will have been picked clean by... something by now.'
Morrvahl frowned at Bozidar's lack of imagination. 'I'm not after pelts or tusks. The carcass of a deepmare is in one of those cages, or at least was. Wherever a deepmare dies, the ground becomes altered, and from its soil, the wormrose grows.' He let his hand tap the heft of his scythe-like staff, its surface covered by winding thorns. 'Such flowers were used to construct Gravebloom,' he tapped the staff again. 'If I would create another like it, I'll need more wormroses.'
Bozidar gave the staff a frightened look. He'd seen the wizard channel his spells through it before, seen those thorns uncurl to snag an unwary man and syphon his vitality into Morrvahl. It was good to see some fear in Bozidar's eyes. So long as he was afraid, he'd do what he was told.
'How do you know the flowers are there?' Florian demanded. The young thug wasn't nearly as intimidated as the harpooner. The same held for Kanimir. Greedy and stupid was a good combination to shorten a life.
'You forget I have eyes other than yours to find what I want in the ruins.' Morrvahl patted the rat perched on his shoulder. 'Such things aren't able to collect what they find. That's why I need you.'
The explanation settled their questions for now. Even if they were still curious, the crumbling wall that encircled the abandoned menagerie was just ahead. His henchmen became wary as they approached it. After so many years of neglect, an odour of exotic beasts lingered in the air. Morrvahl smirked at their fright. They weren't nearly frightened enough.
'This way,' he directed the men to a hole in the wall. Morrvahl guided them past empty cages with broken bars. Sometimes a strange bone or a bit of scaly hide remained to give some clue as to what had once been kept there. The wormroses were all that interested him now. He could not repress a deep chuckle when at last he spotted the old deepmare cage, a tangle of leprous flowers and crimson thorns growing from behind its bars.'Let's get this over with,' Kanimir said, clearly discomfited by Morrvahl's humour. The men started forwards, but Morrvahl gestured for them to stay put.
'Not yet,' he said. 'We must wait until they are in full bloom. An hour, perhaps two.' Unhappy with his decision but still obeying it, they drew back.
Time crawled by while the men watched the wormroses. Morrvahl was more interested in what he could hear. Soon enough, the sound he was waiting for reached him—the thud of heavy footsteps marching through the menagerie. A few seconds later, his henchmen heard it too. 'Something's coming,' Morrvahl hissed. 'Quickly. Hide yourselves there.' He gestured with Gravebloom at the collapsed remains of a fountain. The urgency in his voice sent the men scrambling. They did not pause to wonder why he didn't take cover alongside them, stepping instead behind the tangle of wormroses to watch events unfold.
The footfall drew nearer. Soon, a vast figure came lumbering out of the darkness. Twice as tall as a man, its shoulders as broad as a wagon, the thing carried with it a necrotic stench. It was an ogor — or, at least, it had been when it was alive. Now its flesh was rotten and torn, revealing yellowed bones beneath. The clothes it wore were tattered and frayed, its armour foul with rusty neglect. The brute carried a huge iron club in one of its immense fists. The other held a spider-silk bag, its finery an alarming contrast to the otherwise monstrous appearance.
This ogor was a Kosargi — in life, the devoted minion of the vampire Radukar, who now ruled over Ulfenkarn. Death had transformed the thing into a Nightguard, and it had been sent here on a specific errand. The same Morrvahl had told his henchmen about. It was here to gather wormroses.
The ogor marched towards the cage, but before it could get too close to Morrvahl, the wizard invoked the spell he'd been preparing. A nimbus of blue light erupted around the fountain and exposed the men hiding there. The Nightguard's ghastly eyes narrowed with belligerence. Tossing aside the bag, it raised its club and charged towards the fountain.
Florian was struck down instantly, his bones snapping like twigs beneath the impact of the club. Kanimir fared only slightly better, managing to draw his sword and hack at the monster's arm. Though he cut a section of decayed flesh from the Nightguard, the undead was oblivious to the hurt. A sideways swat from its bludgeon stove in the man's ribs and threw him into the air to slam against the bars of another cage. His mangled body clung there, plastered to the cage by its own gore.
Bozidar raised his harpoon and nerved himself to use the relic from his whaling days against the ogor. Morrvahl exerted some of his arcane power, and a spectral light surrounded the head of the weapon. Bozidar had seen this magic before and, evidently, took courage in the thought that the wizard's magic was helping him. Shouting his defiance, he lunged at the Nightguard.
The enchanted harpoon punctured the ogor's bloated gut and plunged upwards beneath its ribs. Bozidar wrenched it free, spattering the ground with shreds of flesh and splintered bone. No blood streamed from the wound, but the decayed organs inside spilt out in a grisly display. The Nightguard, however, was as immune to this hurt as it had been to Kanimir's blow. It lurched after Bozidar and brought its club slamming down. Only narrowly did the harpooner avoid the murderous strike.
Morrvahl stepped out from behind the wormroses and lifted Gravebloom. The scythe blazed with spectral energy as he channelled his magic through it. He saw the hope that filled Bozidar's face when the man glimpsed him weaving another spell.
That hope died fast. A writhing miasma of ghastly energy erupted around both man and ogor, searing and clawing at them in a tempest of spectral rage. Bozidar fell, his life force shrivelled inside him. The Nightguard staggered, the club dropping from its massive fists as its supernatural strength was drained away. Instinctively, the brute turned towards Morrvahl. It took a few stumbling steps towards the wizard, but the soulstorm he'd set upon it would not be denied. Before the ogor could close with his foe, the last of the necromantic power sustaining it was sucked out. The monster crashed to the ground, its body rapidly putrefying.
Morrvahl hastened to the fallen Nightguard. A swing of Gravebloom's blade opened its necrotic chest. He reached in and ripped out the creature's heart, stuffing it in the same spider-silk bag the ogor had brought with it. The undead heart would be useful in his researches into the power of the Shyish Nadir.
The wizard looked over at Bozidar. He smiled as he stroked his beard. His late henchmen would have been shocked to know it was the Nightguard, not the wormroses their patron had been after this night. The charmed vermin Morrvahl used to spy for him had noted that the ogor came every third night to collect flowers for Radukar's Thirsting Court. The men had been the bait to keep the monster busy while he worked his magic. It was callous, perhaps, to use them in such a manner. But, after all, they were already plotting to dispose of their patron once they figured out a way to steal his treasure. Morrvahl considered that he'd merely taken preventative action and one that made good use of their disposal.
The distant howls were not so distant now. Flocks of blood-bats circled overhead, drawn by the sanguinary smell of battle. Morrvahl secured his prize and hurried from the menagerie to return to his lair in the slums.
Even a wizard was unwise to test providence too much in a place like Ulfenkarn.
Both the Warhammer Quest: Cursed City game and novel are coming your way soon. You can get a good look at the contents of the boxed set in February’s Online Preview round-up. If you grab the hardback or special edition of the novel, you’ll be able to play as Morrvahl Olbrecht. He’s every bit as self-serving and delightfully amoral in the game as he is in this story and the novel itself. To be among the first to know when you can order both, sign up to receive the regular Games Workshop newsletter.