Even by Ungrim’s standards, Thorek Ironbrow was a conservative. He was a dwarf who held fast to the oldest of ways, and his words were heavy with the weight of uncounted centuries. He had ruled over the weapon shops of Karak Azul for as long as Ungrim had been alive, and even the sons of kings dared not enter his domains without his prior approval – almost all of the kings in the council chamber had felt the lash of Ironbrow’s tongue or the hard, calloused palm of his hand on the backs of their heads as beardlings. That was why he could get away with lecturing them now. The runelord looked about him as he went on, his hard gaze resting on each king in turn, as if they were a group of particularly dull-witted apprentices. ‘Mountains that have not erupted in millennia now vomit forth fire and smoke and death. The world shudders beneath a horrible tread, my kings, and unless we are prepared, we will be ground underfoot.’
Ungrim had heard that argument before. Every time a horde swept south, out of the Wastes, or west out of the Dark Lands, Ironbrow made some variation of it. He knocked on the table with his knuckles, interrupting the runelord’s rehearsed speech. He grinned as Ironbrow glared at him for his temerity, and asked, ‘And by prepared, you mean close the gates?’
Ironbrow hesitated. Then, solemnly, he nodded. ‘We must put our faith in strong walls and shields, rather than squandering our strength upon wayward allies.’ Another murmur arose at that. Everyone with half a brain knew what the runelord was referring to by that comment.
Thorgrim had earlier spoken of the kidnapping of the Ulthuani Everchild out from under the noses of the warriors of Karaz-a-Karak, and the subsequent battle at Nagashizzar: a battle that had failed to free her from Mannfred von Carstein’s clutches, despite the aid the High King had rendered to the elgi. Ungrim glanced at Thorgrim, to see if he’d noticed the dig. It was hard to tell, given the High King’s ever present sour expression.
Ironbrow was still talking. He gestured to King Kazador. ‘My king has already heeded my council and sealed the main gates of Karak Azul. Will you not do the same, Slayer King?’
Ungrim sucked on his teeth, stung by Ironbrow’s tone. ‘No,’ he said bluntly. He cut his eyes towards Thorgrim. ‘Not unless so commanded by the High King, I won’t.’ He swivelled his gaze back towards Ironbrow. ‘Karak Kadrin has ever been the edge of the axe, as Karaz-a-Karak is the shield. Let the world shake, and rats gnaw at our roots. We shall reap and slay and strike out as many grudges as Grimnir allows in what time we have.’
‘You would doom your people, your hold, and for what? Has your inherited dishonour driven you that mad?’ Kazador asked, heaving himself to his feet. ‘Our people stand on the precipice of destruction, and all you see is an opportunity for war.’
‘And so?’ Ungrim asked hotly. He rose to his feet and slammed his knuckles down on the table, causing it to shiver. ‘My people know war. And that is what is coming. Not some indecipherable doom, or irresistible event. No, it is war. And every warrior will be needed, every axe sharpened, every shield raised, for our enemies are coming, and our walls alone have never stopped them, as my brother-king knows to his cost.’
There was a communal intake of breath from the crowd above them as the words left Ungrim’s lips. Kazador’s eyes bulged from their sockets, and his teeth showed through his beard. Ungrim thought for a moment that the old king would launch himself across the table and seek to throttle him.
‘Enough,’ Thorgrim rumbled. ‘That grudge has been settled, and by my hand. Every king here must do as he considers best for his hold and people. But there are other grudges to be settled and the Dammaz Kron sits open and impatient. I have vowed to strike out every entry in the Great Book of Grudges, and it seems that time to do so is running thin. If the throng of Karaz-a-Karak is mustered, I must know who will muster with me. Who stands with the Pinnacle of the Mountains?’ He looked at Ungrim first.
Ungrim grinned. ‘Do you even need to ask, High King?’
Thorgrim inclined his head slightly, and looked at the others in turn. Alrik stood and nodded belligerently. Belegar too stood and said, ‘Aye, the Eight Peaks will march, to our enemies’ ruin or our own.’
Thorgrim sat back. The High King seemed tired. Ungrim did not envy him the weight of responsibility he bore. Heavy sat the crown of the High King, and it was very likely that he was now watching the sun at last set on the empire of the dwarfs. Ungrim smiled humourlessly. Even so, if they were to die, then it was best done properly.
That was the only way dwarfs did anything, after all.
Adrift on the Great Ocean, sailing due east
The great beak snapped shut inches from Eltharion’s nose, and a rumbling hiss filled the hold. The horses in the nearby stalls shifted nervously as the griffon hunched forward, its claws sinking into the wood of the deck. Eltharion reached up as the beast’s chin dropped heavily onto his shoulder and stroked the ruffled feathers that cascaded down its neck. ‘Shhh, easy, Stormwing,’ he murmured. He felt one of his mount’s heavy forepaws pat clumsily at his back, and heard its inarticulate grunt of contentment.
Around them, the ship made the usual noises of travel. Not even the graceful vessels of Lothern were free of those, though elvish craftsmanship was the finest in the world, and their ships second to none. If he listened, he could hear the waters of the Great Ocean caressing the hull, and beneath that, the melodic hum of the whales that occupied the sea. Their song was one of beauty and peace, but tinged with fear. Even the most isolated of animals could sense that the world was sick.
As he stroked the griffon’s neck and head, he looked about him. The horses who shared Stormwing’s hold belonged to the Knights of Dusk, a noble family of Tor Ethel. More accurately, the only family, noble or otherwise, of Tor Ethel, which was all but abandoned these days. It sat on the western coast of Tiranoc, and each year coastal erosion took more of that once shining city into the sea, claiming gardens, sanctuaries and palaces alike. The Knights of Dusk hailed from the ever-shrinking group of the city’s remaining inhabitants. They were valiant warriors, as were the others who had accompanied him and Eldyra on this journey.
Besides the Silver Helms of Tor Ethel, there were the Sentinels of Astaril, mistwalkers of Yvresse, in whose company he had honed his archery skills as a youth, and the Faithbearers of Athel Tamarha, a company of spearmen who had fought at his side in every campaign but one. A small enough host, but tested, and experienced. They would need to be, to survive what was coming. They were entering unknown territory. The last time he’d set foot in the lands of men, they still hadn’t quite grasped the concept that hygiene wasn’t a mortal offence. He doubted much had changed in the intervening centuries.
He didn’t hate them. He simply didn’t see a reason for their existence. They caused more problems than they solved, for all that they were barely more than chattering apes. It had been men, after all, who had allowed the goblin, Grom, to pass through their lands in order to reach Ulthuan. Teclis doted on them, in his acerbic way, something that had always puzzled Eltharion. Men were the cause of the problems facing them now. Men fed Chaos a constant stream of souls, whether they knew it or not. And if they weren’t doing that, they were turning themselves into abominations like Mannfred von Carstein. Men couldn’t leave well enough alone. Some small part of Eltharion hoped that whatever was going on would swallow mankind whole before it ended, and that the Dark Gods would choke on their grubby little souls.
As if sensing the direction his thoughts were taking, the griffon grumbled into his ear, its hot, foul breath washing over him. He pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on calming the animal. Once, when Stormwing was no more than a squalling cub, he’d have taken the beast in his arms like an infant, and carried it about until it was soothed to sleep by the rhythm of his heartbeat. Now the griffon was bigger than the largest of the horses who occupied the remainder of the hold, and a good deal more skittish about the confined space it found itself in.
‘I see Stormwing is no more fond of the sea than his master,’ a voice said. Elt
harion didn’t turn. He dug his fingers into the strange spot where feathers met fur on Stormwing’s body and gave it a good scratch. One of the griffon’s rear paws thumped the deck, and its spotted tail lashed in pleasure.
‘Come to check on your own mount, then, Eldyra?’ he asked. ‘He misses you. I can tell.’
‘I doubt that. He’s asleep, the lazy brute,’ Eldyra said, crossing to the stall where her stallion, Maladhros, stood dozing. The big, silver dappled animal was the only one who showed no concern at Stormwing’s presence, though whether that was because they had been stabled together before, or because Maladhros had fewer wits than a thick brick, Eltharion couldn’t say. The stallion was strong and fierce, and Eldyra swore that it was a canny beast as well, but Eltharion thought she vastly overestimated its problem-solving capabilities. When he’d come down into the hold, it had been eating an empty bucket.
She clucked and rubbed the stallion’s nose, stirring it to wakefulness. Eltharion watched as she fed it an apple, and it crunched contentedly. ‘He’s taking the trip well,’ he said.
‘He knows it’s important,’ she said. She stroked the horse’s mane.
‘Does he now?’ Eltharion smiled.
Eldyra looked at him. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, he does. How is Stormwing?’ she asked. She stepped across the hold towards him, light on her feet despite the pitch of the deck. She was the perfect blend of grace and lethality, much as Tyrion was, Eltharion reflected. He wondered if the latter was aware of just how much he’d shaped the princess of Tiranoc in his image, and whether he’d find that worrisome. Probably not; in Eltharion’s opinion, Tyrion didn’t worry as much as he should, at least not about the right things.
‘Nervous. He doesn’t like confined spaces. He prefers to fly,’ he said. The griffon grumbled and eyed Eldyra balefully. Stormwing didn’t care for anyone other than Eltharion getting too close. He had a tendency to snap.
‘Why not let him?’
‘There’s no guarantee he’d remember to come back, rather than fly home,’ Eltharion said, rubbing his palm over the curve of Stormwing’s beak. The creature butted his chest and made a sound halfway between a purr and a chirp. ‘He’s not very bright.’ He hesitated. ‘Then, perhaps he’s smarter than both of us.’
‘Do you truly hold so little hope?’ she asked, quietly.
He smiled thinly. ‘I am not known as “the Grim” for nothing,’ he said.
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘No, it is not.’ He looked at her. ‘There is no hope. She is as good as dead, or worse. We are not heroes… We are avengers.’
‘Tyrion doesn’t think so,’ she said.
‘Tyrion lies to himself,’ he said softly. ‘Just as he lied to himself that there would be no consequences for his indiscretion. Those lies are the source of optimism, and his downfall.’
‘You think that, and yet here you are,’ Eldyra said. She said it as if it were an accusation. And perhaps it was, he thought. He nodded agreeably.
‘I am, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why are you here?’ he asked.
‘My lord Tyrion ordered it,’ she said stiffly.
‘I was under the impression that he was your friend,’ he said. ‘Just as he is my friend.’ He tasted the word as he said it. It wasn’t one he used often, or, indeed, at all. But it seemed fitting, in reference to Tyrion. Tyrion was his friend, and that meant that there was nothing Eltharion wouldn’t do to help him. ‘And I, like you, am smart enough to know that if we were not here, he would be, and Ulthuan would suffer for it.’
‘Or at least worse than it already has,’ Eldyra said. ‘Do you think…?’
‘I do not think. I do not worry. I trust. We have our mission. Tyrion and Teclis will drive the daemonic hosts from our shores, as they did before. And we will find Aliathra, for good or ill, whether she is alive or…’ He trailed off.
‘She is alive. Of that much, I am certain, Warden of Yvresse,’ a new voice cut in. A blue-robed shape descended the steps down into the hold. Pale eyes looked about from beneath a diadem of emeralds, and a thin mouth quirked in disgust. ‘Why you two insist on spending so much time in this makeshift stable, I’ll never understand. It smells awful.’
‘It’d smell worse if someone didn’t see to the animals occasionally,’ Eltharion said, turning to face the newcomer. He cocked his elbow up on Stormwing’s flat skull. ‘And you could have waited until we came back up on deck.’
‘Probably, yes, but then I wouldn’t have been able to interject my opinions so smoothly, now would I?’ Belannaer groused. He tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s all about the seizing the moment.’
‘What is?’ Eldyra asked, smiling crookedly. She enjoyed teasing the Loremaster of Hoeth, and Eltharion couldn’t find it in his heart to blame her. Belannaer had once been the High Loremaster of Ulthuan, before ceding the title and its responsibilities to Teclis. Many, including Eltharion, thought Belannaer had been only too happy to do so, making him a rarity among the Ulthuani. In the years since, he’d found contentment amongst the tomes of yesteryear, forgoing the crudity of politics and war, for a life devoted to study and contemplation. But he’d set such prosaic workings aside when he’d learned of the Everchild’s capture. Belannaer knew, better perhaps than anyone else save Teclis, what such an event meant to the fate of Ulthuan. But though he’d shed his reclusive ways and taken up his sword once more, he was still a scholar, with a scholar’s stuffiness and a pedant’s obliviousness.
‘Everything,’ Belannaer said. He gestured airily. ‘History is made of moments and the people who seized them.’ He looked at Eltharion. ‘Aliathra has seized hers. I can hear her voice on the wind, stronger now than before, for all that she’s growing weaker. Time is running short.’
‘We can only sail as fast as the wind takes us, loremaster,’ Eltharion said. He knew what Belannaer was feeling, for he’d felt it himself. The growing impatience, the anxiety of uncertainty. There were still hundreds of miles of overland travel between them and Sylvania. They would make up time by keeping to the river, but even then, there was no telling what might arise to stymie them.
‘I know, which is why I stoked the winds with my sorcery, so that we might move faster,’ Belannaer said. Eldyra looked at Eltharion.
‘I wondered why the ship was creaking so,’ she murmured. Eltharion shushed her with a quick look and said, ‘Something is different, isn’t it?’
‘Aliathra has shown me… flashes of what awaits us,’ Belannaer said. ‘There are dark forces on the move, and this is but the smallest shred of their plan. We will need allies.’ He said the last hesitantly.
Eltharion tensed. ‘Allies,’ he repeated. ‘You mean men.’
‘And the dwarfs, if they can be convinced,’ Belannaer said.
‘No,’ Eltharion said. ‘No, the dwarfs are the reason that Aliathra was captured in the first place. I’ll not surrender her fate to their hands again.’ He felt a surge of anger at the thought of it. ‘Neither will I entrust it to men.’ He shook his head. ‘They are worse even than dwarfs. They cannot be counted on.’
‘And yet we must, if we are to have any hope of rescuing the Everchild,’ Belannaer said. ‘I’ve ordered the fleet to sail due east, for the Empire of Sigmar. They know Teclis of old, and will be open to our entreaties. We gave them aid, once upon a time, and they owe Ulthuan a debt.’
‘You ordered?’ Eltharion shook his head, astounded at Belannaer’s arrogance. ‘I lead this expedition, loremaster, not you,’ he said softly.
‘You do,’ Belannaer said. ‘And I am sure you will come to the right decision eventually.’
Eltharion glanced at Eldyra. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘No, but he’s right,’ she said.
Eltharion’s eyes narrowed. Eldyra spoke quickly, ‘Think about it, cousin… Our army is small and we will have to cross lands held by men sooner or later. Better to do it with permission, and perhaps even with allies, than to fight our way through.’
She held up a hand as he made to protest. ‘We could do it. Our army, small as it is, is better than anything they can muster. But elves will die in the doing of it. And for what – pride? Better to sacrifice pride than warriors, especially where we’re going.’
Eltharion listened silently. Some of Teclis had rubbed off on her as well, he thought. Then, given how closely the twins’ fates had been linked these last few centuries, that wasn’t surprising. Eldyra had learned the art of battle as Tyrion’s squire. But she had learned something else entirely by watching Teclis’s crooked mind at work.
Regardless, she wasn’t wrong, save about his pride. It wasn’t pride that motivated him, but caution. What profit could be gleaned from faithless allies or worse, useless ones? They would hamper the clean, quick strike, and slow them down. He was certain their host could cross quickly into Sylvania, before the men could mobilise to question them. But could they then get out again, once victory had been achieved? It would be unfortunate if they succeeded in rescuing Aliathra from one savage, only to fall prey to another.
Finally, Eltharion nodded. ‘You are right, cousin, loremaster,’ he said. ‘Better we ally ourselves with willing primitives than stand alone in defeat.’
‘Then the fleet will continue east?’ Belannaer asked.
Eltharion nodded. ‘East – it is time to see if the Empire of Sigmar remembers its debts.’
The King’s Glade, Athel Loren
Durthu, Eldest of Ancients, spoke in a voice like the rustling of branches and the cracking of bark. It filled the King’s Glade, travelling through the branches of every tree and slipped from every leaf, until the air throbbed with the sound of his voice. ‘The cycle of the world begins anew, and just as the forest once aided the folk of Ulthuan in days now slid from mortal memory, it shall do so again.’ Durthu shifted his immense weight as he spoke, and the air was rent by the squeal of twisting branches and the dull, wet crunch of popping roots. The treeman was the oldest of his kind, and his mind was like the forest itself: vast, wild and unpredictable.
The End Times | The Return of Nagash Page 15
