The End Times | The Return of Nagash

by Josh Reynolds

  Mannfred looked down and then up, letting the rain wash the blood from his face. And for a moment, just a moment, between the shadows and the rain, Erikan thought he saw something terrible looming over Mannfred, shaking in silent glee.

  SEVEN

  Heldenhame Keep, Talabecland

  The empty bottle shattered as it struck the wall. Wendel Volker scrambled to his feet and darted out of the commandant’s grimy office. Otto Kross stormed after him, as quickly as a man on the wrong end of a three-day drunk could manage. Kross was bald, with a thick beard and sideburns, which hid his heavy jowls, and a neck that was more an unsightly outgrowth of shoulder than anything else.

  ‘I told you that I’d have you, popinjay, if you countermanded me again. Those men deserved a lashing! Their hides were mine,’ Kross bellowed as he lunged, red-faced, after Volker, fists windmilling.

  ‘I didn’t countermand anything,’ Volker yelped, scooting across the courtyard on his backside, trying to get enough room between himself and his commandant so that he could get to his feet without receiving a faceful of Kross’s scarred knuckles. ‘I simply placed them on punishment detail. How was I to know you meant they needed a flogging?’

  That was a lie, of course. He had known, and hadn’t approved. Punishment was all well and good when the men in question had committed an actual infraction or crime. But flogging was a step too far, especially when their only real crime had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d placed them on night soil duty, reckoning that would keep them out of Kross’s sight until he’d sobered up and forgotten why he wanted them punished in the first place. Unfortunately, someone had spilled the beans. The next thing Volker knew, he was dodging bottles and Kross’s fists.

  ‘I’ll stop your squawking, popinjay,’ Kross snarled. He lurched drunkenly for Volker, tripped over his own foot, and fell face-first to the ground. Volker took the opportunity to get to his feet and made to flee, until he noted the gathering crowd of men. It looked as if every trooper assigned to the Heldenhame garrison was piling into the wide, long courtyard that linked the Rostmeyer and Sigmundas bastions.

  It wasn’t surprising. The past few weeks had seen a steady increase in tensions among the men. There was something growing in Sylvania, behind those blasted walls; they could all feel it. Not to mention the reports coming from the north. For every ten men who’d marched for the Kislev border, only seven reached their destination, thanks to beastmen, greenskins and plague. The fighting along the border had spilled into Ostermark and Talabecland, and the armies of those provinces were hard-pressed to hold the tide back.

  Many men wanted to travel north, to fight the enemy. Others wanted to stay put, out of the way, safe behind Heldenhame’s walls. Luckily for the latter, Leitdorf was obsessed with keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Sylvania. Or, as some lackwits whispered, he just wanted to stay good and close to the centre of the Empire, in order to take advantage of what many were coming to see as the inevitable conclusion of recent events.

  Sometimes, Volker thought that was why Thyrus Gormann had come. It would be difficult for Leitdorf to get up to any mischief with the Patriarch of the Bright College looking over his shoulder.

  Volker heard a voice growl, ‘Two bits on the commandant.’ He looked over and saw the scowling features of Captain Deinroth. Kross’s second-in-command had never warmed to Volker. He shared his commandant’s opinion, and indeed that of most of the other captains, that Volker was a man who had bought his rank with gold, rather than blood, and was thus no sort of man at all. Which was a bit unfair, Volker thought; it had been his father’s gold after all, not his.

  Deinroth, he thought, was the likely instigator of the current situation. In his years as Kross’s second-in-command, Deinroth had learned well the art of winding his belligerent superior up and setting him loose like a demigryph in a glassblower’s shop. He’d been poking and prodding at Kross to lay in to Volker for weeks now, and it looked as if he’d finally got his wish.

  ‘Three on the popinjay,’ a second voice cut through the rising tumult like the peal of a hammer on an anvil. Men fell silent as a robed figure strode to the front of the growing crowd. Stern-featured and grizzled by decades of service on the Sylvanian frontier, Father Janos Odkrier was a welcome enough face. Odkrier wasn’t quite a friend, but he was as close as Volker had in Heldenhame.

  Odkrier winked at Volker. Around him, money changed hands and men shouted out bets. Kross staggered to his feet, face flushed, teeth bared. He swayed slightly, but didn’t fall. He raised his fists. ‘I’ll wipe that smirk off your chinless face, Volker,’ he spat.

  ‘There’s no need for this, commandant,’ Volker said hurriedly. A brawl wasn’t quite as bad as a duel, but the knights frowned on it regardless. Especially in times like these, with northmen howling south in ever-increasing numbers, green comets raining down out of the sky, and a great bloody wall of bone towering over Sylvania’s borders. The whole world was coming undone around them. ‘If Leitdorf finds out, we’ll both get our necks stretched,’ he said. He cut a glance towards Deinroth, who was smirking in his usual unpleasant fashion, and wondered if that was what Kross’s right hand man wanted. ‘You know how he feels about his officers brawling in front of the rank and file.’

  Kross smiled maliciously. ‘Leitdorf isn’t here, popinjay.’ He shuffled forward and threw a blow that would have broken Volker’s jaw, had it connected. Volker slid aside, the way his swordmaster had taught him, and drove his fist into Kross’s side. The big man spun, quicker than Volker had expected, and caught him a stinging blow on the cheek. Volker fell back onto his rear, and only just managed to bob aside as Kross’s iron-shod boot slammed down where he’d been sitting.

  Volker’s hand flew to his sword. As much as the thought turned his stomach, he knew that he could draw it and have it through Kross’s fat gut in a wink and a nod. He was a better swordsman than any of those present. Indeed, he fancied he could even match one of Leitdorf’s armoured thugs in a fair bout. But killing a superior officer was even worse than getting into a round of fisticuffs with one. Leitdorf already despised him; Volker had spent the months since his arrival avoiding the Grand Master of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood at every opportunity. Sigmar alone knew what Leitdorf would do to him if he pinked Kross even slightly. He pulled his hand away as Kross gave a bull bellow and charged towards him.

  He caught Volker and swept him up in a bear hug. Volker groaned as he felt his ribs flex. Fat as he was, Kross was still strong enough to knock a dray horse off its hooves with a punch. The commandant’s alcoholic breath washed over his face, and Volker was suddenly reminded that he had been headed to the tavern, before Kross had called him in. The crowd was cheering and catcalling in equal measure, their faces a blur as Kross spun him about. Volker slithered an arm free and poked Kross in the eye with his thumb. Kross roared and released him. The commandant stumbled back, clawing at his face. He belched curses and snatched his dagger from his belt. Volker backed away, hands raised. Kross staggered after him, blade raised.

  Then came the sharp, savage sound of a cane striking something metal and all the cheering ceased. Both Volker and Kross turned as a lean, broad-shouldered figure stumped through the crowd. The newcomer leaned on a cane, and was dressed in the heavy furs and coarse jerkin that all of the members of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood wore when not in armour. His face bore the sort of scars that came from getting pulled off a horse and into a knot of orcs and summarily trodden on. His name was Rudolph Weskar, and he was the closest thing to the word of Sigmar made flesh this side of Leitdorf in Heldenhame.

  All of the fire went out of Kross, and he hastily put away his blade. Volker swallowed as the limping man approached them. Deinroth and the other captains were already melting away with the crowd. ‘Brawling without prior permission is a pillory offence, gentlemen,’ Weskar said, leaning on his cane. His hard, dull eyes pinned Kross. ‘Commandant Kross, I can smell the reek of alcohol on you from here. Do not make me regret
recommending you to the Grand Master for promotion, Otto. Go sober up, and keep that potato peeler you call a knife in its sheath from now on.’

  Kross hesitated. He glared at Volker one last time, then nodded tersely and slunk away. Volker didn’t watch him go. He kept his eyes on Weskar. He licked his lips, suddenly dying for a drink. Weskar stumped towards him. ‘Wendel, Wendel, Wendel. You disappoint me, Wendel. When I heard what was going on, I was hoping you might finally spit that hog, and thus deliver yourself to the hangman, freeing me to promote a more congenial pair to your positions. Instead, here we are.’ He came close to Volker, and the latter tensed. A discreet cough caused Weskar to glance around. Father Odkrier alone had remained where he was, when Weskar’s arrival had caused everyone else to scatter. The old Sigmarite wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.

  Weskar turned back to Volker. ‘Why?’ he asked simply.

  Volker swallowed. He knew what Weskar was asking. ‘Kross was drunk, and bullying an innkeeper. When the man refused him further service, he tried to gut him. The lads intervened. Kross was still drunk when he ordered that they be flogged for laying hands on a superior officer. I thought if I could keep them out of sight until he sobered up…’ He trailed off. Weskar grunted.

  ‘That he might regret it, and not punish them further,’ he said. ‘You know a little something about the regrets overindulgence brings, I think, eh, Wendel?’ He leaned forwards again, like a hound on the scent. ‘You’re dying for a drink now, I’d wager.’ Volker didn’t answer. Weskar twitched a hand. ‘Go,’ he said.

  Volker hurried past him, his hands trembling. Odkrier caught him around the shoulders and shoved a flask into his hands as they left Weskar standing there, staring after them. ‘Drink up, my boy. I’d say you’ve earned it.’

  Karaz-a-Karak, Worlds Edge Mountains

  Ungrim Ironfist sat on his stone bench and listened to the basso rumble of dwarf disagreement as the Kingsmeet entered its fifth hour. King Kazador of Karak Azul pounded upon the stone table with a heavy fist, and King Alrik of Karak Hirn crossed his brawny arms and scowled at his fellow monarch. Belegar of Karak Eight Peaks sat hunched and silent in his seat, looking at no one, his face sagging with the weight of constant worry. And glaring at them all, from the far end of the table, sat the High King, Thorgrim Grudgebearer.

  As Kingsmeets went, this one wasn’t as bad as Ungrim had begun to fear, on his journey to Karaz-a-Karak. He’d learned that the occurrences in Sylvania were already well known, at least by Thorgrim, and that the von Carstein was one of the problems under discussion. One of many problems, in fact. The reports he’d received had only been the tip of the proverbial anvil, and the world seemed to be intent on coming apart at the seams, all at once.

  Ungrim didn’t find that as distressing as the others. Indeed, it filled him with a bitter enthusiasm. He had long been torn between two fates – that of king, and that of a Slayer. To prioritise the one over the other was impossible, and as the centuries progressed, he had begun to feel as if he, like his father before him, would die still cloaked in dishonour, and that his son, Garagrim, would be forced to tread the same line. Ungrim closed his eyes for a moment, as the old pain resurfaced. Every time he thought it buried and gone, it clawed its way back to the forefront of his mind. Garagrim was dead now, and free of the shame that still held Ungrim. He had died as a warrior, and as a Slayer, though he’d had no dishonour of his own to expunge. He’d thought his blood could buy his father’s freedom, but such things were not proper.

  Garagrim had meant well, but he had been a foolish boy, with a beardling’s bravado and his mother’s stubbornness. At the thought of the latter, he felt a pang. He missed his wife’s quiet counsel. His queen had a mind second to none, and a clarity of thought that cut through even the most rancorous preconceptions. It was she who should be sitting here. He had no mind for politics, and no patience for querulous oldbeards like Kazador.

  Ungrim contented himself with examining the table. It had been carved long before the Time of Woes, and a map of the ancient dwarf empire at its height sprawled across its surface. Holds that had not existed for untold centuries were still marked there, as if to deny their destruction, as if to shout, ‘What has been still is and will always be’ into the void. Then, that was the way of his people. Like mountains in the stream of time, they sat immoveable and intractable, but worn down bit by bit, over the span of aeons.

  He sighed and looked about the chamber, scanning the gathered faces that watched from the ascending rows of benches that surrounded the table and its occupants. Courtiers, thanes, advisors, second cousins twice removed of the aforementioned thanes, and anyone who could get past the chamber wardens was watching. Politics was a spectator sport among the dawi. Like as not, someone was collecting bets on when the first punch would be thrown, or the first head-butt delivered.

  ‘The Underway swarms with ratkin and grobi,’ Kazador said, drawing Ungrim’s attention as he cut the air with his hand. ‘But they do not attack. Something is afoot. Something is growing in the deep darkness, something foul, that threatens to drown us all when it finally surges to the surface.’

  ‘Or maybe they’re simply warring with one another as they are wont to do,’ Alrik said. He looked at Thorgrim. ‘Their numbers swell and their filthy warrens abut one another in most places. They seek the same holes, and like the vermin they are, they fight over them. If they have gone quiet, it is because they are busy doing our work for us!’

  ‘Then explain the new access tunnels my miners have found,’ Kazador snarled, slapping the table. ‘Explain the skaven-sign splashed on the walls of the lower levels. Explain the sounds echoing up from the far depths – not of battle, but of industry.’

  Alrik settled back in his seat, silent and frowning. For several moments, no one said anything. Then, Thorgrim spoke. ‘I too have heard these reports, and more besides. I have seen the glowering skies and heard the growl of the stones. Beasts stir in mountain caves, and our northern kin, in their strongholds in the mountains of Norsca, send word of daemons scouring the lands, and of the mobilisation of the barbarians who worship the Dark Gods.’ He looked around. ‘But these are not new tidings. These are merely old tidings on a new day. Our people are still strong. Our enemies still break themselves on our walls and are swept away by our throngs. Did not the Ironfist shatter such a horde in years past? Did he not take the head and pelt of the Gorewolf?’

  Ungrim grimaced. In truth, he hadn’t taken the Chaos warlord’s head. The Gorewolf had been killed by the renegade Gotrek Gurnisson. In doing so, Gurnisson had saved Ungrim’s life, which only added to the Slayer King’s already weighty grudge against the other Slayer. Years later, when Gurnisson had returned to Karak Kadrin on the trail of a dragon, Ungrim had considered clapping him and his pet poet in irons and dumping them somewhere unpleasant, to repay the indignity. He had restrained himself then, as before. Gurnisson wore chains of destiny that not even a king could shatter, more was the pity.

  ‘Horde after horde has poured into these mountains and we have shattered them all, be they northmen, orcs or ogres,’ Thorgrim went on. ‘To seal our gates is to admit defeat before we have even seen the enemy.’ He sat back on his seat and looked around. ‘I see by your faces that some of you agree, and others do not. Belegar, speak…’ He motioned to the king of the Eight Peaks, who looked up, startled. Ungrim realised that he’d been lost in his own gloomy thoughts. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I have little to add, High King,’ he said. ‘Siege is not new for those of us who make our home in the Eight Peaks. We war with grobi and ratkin both, and they war with one another when we retreat to lick our wounds and entomb our dead. In truth, these tidings mean little to me. I know my enemies, and I fight them daily. I fight them in the tunnels and on the peaks, and what does it matter if the sky above is blue, red or green, when a skaven is looking to gut you with a rusty blade? What does it matter if the earth shakes, when your halls are swarmed by goblins? What do the affairs of the far no
rthern holds matter, when your own is swamped by enemies?’

  He held up his hands. ‘I have only two hands, brother-kings. I have only a third of a hold – aye, a great hold, and greater still when I have wiped it clean of the remaining filth that infests it, but still… only a third.’ He looked squarely at Thorgrim. ‘For my part, I am here because I owe you a debt, High King. You helped to defend my meagre holdings against the orcs, when the beast known as Gorfang came knocking at my gates. For your part, I suspect that I am here out of courtesy only, though you would shave your beard before you admitted it, I wager. I am here, because you are worried – all of you.’ He turned, taking in the whole of the table. ‘We are small for a grand council. Where are the others? Where are the kings of Zhufbar and Karak Izor? Where is the king of Kraka Drak or the lord of Barak Varr?’ He sat back and shook his head. ‘They did not – or could not come. They are worried. More worried than ever before. The sky weeps and the world heaves, and our enemies have gone silent. They are right to be worried.’

  ‘Well said, brother,’ Kazador grunted. He looked at Thorgrim. ‘Alrik might be blind, but you are not, Grudgebearer. And if you will not heed me, you might heed another.’ He gestured. From out of the throng of watching advisors and hangers-on stepped a thick-set figure who all immediately recognised. A rush of whispers and mutters swept about the chamber as Thorek Ironbrow, Runelord of Karak Azul, stepped forward, one hand resting on the anvil-shaped head of his rune hammer, Klad Brakak, which was thrust through his belt.

  ‘Karag Haraz, Karag Dron and Karag Orrud all belch smoke into the sky, High King,’ Ironbrow said portentously. He gestured in a southerly direction with one gnarled hand. The runelord’s hide looked like leather, and was puckered by burns and pale scars.