The End Times | The Return of Nagash

by Josh Reynolds

  Mannfred snapped his reins, causing his mount to gallop through the cavern. The drumming of its hooves blocked out Vlad’s voice. Nevertheless, he could hear the quiet conversation of his Drakenhof Templars behind him, as they urged their steeds to keep up with his. They were talking about him, he knew. Scheming most likely, but then, they were von Carsteins. None of them would dare try anything, save perhaps Markos.

  He scanned the cavern and caught sight of the latter, dispatching a squealing skaven warrior with a casually tossed sorcerous bolt. Markos was almost as good a sorcerer as Mannfred himself. He, like Mannfred, had learned much under the tutelage of the bat-faced nightmare known as Melkhior, when Vlad had employed the latter to teach them the finer arts of necromancy. Mannfred remembered the thin-limbed horror, in his stinking rags, with his fever-bright eyes as he showed them the formulas of the Corpse Geometries. There was much of W’soran, Melkhior’s primogenitor, in him, from the way he spoke, to his apparent disdain for even the most basic aspects of hygiene.

  It was from Melkhior that he had discovered the origin of the dark magics that empowered the ancient ring that Vlad wore, and it was from the old monster that he learned of how it held the secrets of the resurrection of the Undying King. Melkhior had whispered of certain rites that might stir Nagash, and of the shifting of the Corpse Geometries that had seen Nagash come back and wage an abortive campaign to reclaim his pilfered crown. Then the Night of the Restless Dead, in which Nagash’s ravening spirit had managed only a single night of terror. Even diminished and shrunken, Nagash was the sort of power that caused the world to scream in horror. But he was a power without true thought. Nagash himself, as he had been, was long gone to whatever black reward awaited such creatures. All that was left of him was something less even than Arkhan the Black – blind impulse, and the fading echo of a once mighty brain.

  Or so Melkhior had sworn. Mannfred knew better than to trust the words of any of W’soran’s brood. He had felt a great sense of relief when Melkhior’s student, Zacharias, had put paid to whatever subtle schemes his master had been weaving. Not that Zacharias was an improvement; if anything, he was just as devious and as arrogant as Melkhior, and W’soran before him. Indeed, Zacharias had openly opposed Mannfred’s schemes from the moment of Melkhior’s death, striving to unravel stratagems that had taken him centuries to forge. He could not fathom the other vampire’s intent, save that Zacharias feared what Mannfred might do once he gained the power of Nagash. Or, perhaps he feared what would happen should Mannfred fail.

  Mannfred frowned. He considered the Claw of Nagash, where it lay across his saddle. He could feel the power it held, power enough to carve out a nation, if he wished. Once, that would have been enough for him. He had vied for thrones before. But something had changed in him. A throne, a city, a province – these were no longer good enough. Even an empire was but a drop in the ocean of his ambition.

  Those ambitions were the root of every plan he had concocted since he had dragged himself from the mire of Hel Fenn, revivified by the blood of a dying necromancer. They drove him on, into the reeking tunnels, and he, in his turn, drove on the dead with the lash of his will. Vlad was right. He had discarded subtlety; there was no use for it here. The only tools of worth were the press of bodies and the savage tactics of attrition.

  In the hours that followed, Mannfred willed wave after wave of zombies into the labyrinthine network of tunnels. Through the eyes of his flesh-puppets, he mapped out the safest route for him and his Drakenhof Templars to take towards the heart of the festering pit. He lost hundreds of zombies, but gained twice their number in new recruits from among the skaven dead. Entire squealing tribes of the vermin were stifled and silenced beneath the tide of rotting meat, and then dragged upright to serve beside their slayers. It was necromancy as applied brutality, sorcery wielded like a blunt object, as Mannfred battered himself a path through the enormous burrow.

  He led his knights deeper into the tunnels, which grew grand in scale. The burrow was a tumour of stone and darkness. Foul poisons dripped from filth-encrusted stalactites, and the rough walls of rock were marked by generation upon generation of crude skaven-scrawl; the caverns were choked with ramshackle structures of warped wood and rust-riddled metal. And everywhere, the skaven. Some fled his approach, others tried to resist. Sometimes they even fell upon one another in vicious displays of compulsive betrayal that startled even Mannfred, who took advantage of such incidents with bemusement.

  Deeper and deeper he pushed his forces. He could feel the Fellblade now, like a wound in the world, pulsing, calling to the claw it had hacked from Nagash’s wrist. It called to him, and Mannfred went gladly, driven by the devils of his ambition.

  The Fellblade would be his, and with it, the power of Nagash.

  La Maisontaal Abbey, Bretonnia

  ‘It’s a fairly innocuous sort of place,’ Erikan Crowfiend murmured. He leaned over his horse’s neck and ran his fingers through the matted mane of the ghoul crouched beside him. The rest of the pack swirled about him, yapping and snarling like dogs on the scent. There were hundreds of them, drawn from all over Bretonnia to the meadows of Quenelles by the scent of death. The other vampires seemed perturbed by the presence of so many flesh-eaters, especially Anark von Carstein, who glared at the Crowfiend with barely repressed fury.

  ‘It is nothing more than a slightly fancy tomb,’ Kemmler said. The ghouls gambolling about the legs of Erikan’s steed avoided the Lichemaster and Krell, who stood just behind him, his Great Axe in his hands.

  ‘A tomb whose inhabitants are barred to us, thanks to Bretonnian witchery,’ Arkhan said. He stood on the back of his chariot and looked at his commanders, examining each one in turn. Then, he turned his attentions back to the object of their discussion.

  La Maisontaal Abbey sat on the slopes of the Grey Mountains, its walls the same hue as the tumble-down stones of the cliffs around it. Its walls were half finished, but it was an imposing structure nonetheless, built to protect its inhabitants from any who might wish them harm. It had been built in the early years of Gilles Le Breton’s first reign, its construction funded by a mysterious nobleman from the east, who had claimed that the abbey was the repayment of a debt owed. Arkhan, who had once lost his head to the sword of the nobleman in question, suspected that there was more truth to that tale than not.

  In the fading, grey miasma of the day, the abbey was a flickering nest of fireflies as torches, lanterns and bonfires were lit. He wondered if the inhabitants thought that firelight would be enough to keep back the host he had arrayed on the plains before La Maisontaal. ‘What do your spies tell you, Crowfiend?’ he asked, after a moment.

  The vampire glanced down at one of the ghouls, who gave a warble and licked broken fangs in the parody of smile. The Crowfiend looked at Arkhan. ‘Much meat,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘Asking them to count is useless. Past one, it goes “many”, “much” and “most”. That’s as accurate as they get.’ He straightened in his saddle. ‘They’re keeping close to the walls and the torches, however. That much they could say. Plenty of weak points, jammed with frail, trembling meat, ready to be torn and squeezed dry of life.’ The Crowfiend smiled crookedly. ‘A better sort of battlefield than Couronne, I will say.’

  ‘If you must,’ Arkhan said. He looked at Anark. ‘You, vampire. Mannfred spoke of your military experience. Analyse and explain,’ he said.

  The vampire grunted and shook himself. ‘Traditional Bretonnian tactics. A shieldwall of peasantry in front of artillery, knights on the flanks to crush the attack once it becomes hung up on the fodder.’ Anark lifted himself slightly in his saddle, and his brutal features slackened into something approaching consideration. ‘Trebuchets and archers. The bonfires mean fire-arrows,’ he added, his lip curling away from a fang.

  ‘What is fire to the dead?’ Kemmler asked, running his fingers through his tangled beard. ‘Let our army carry an inferno into the heart of their army, if that is the fate they choose.’

  Arkhan
ignored the necromancer. He let his gaze drift across the ragged ranks of his army. The vast majority of it was composed of the graveborn victims of war and plague. He disliked relying on such chattel – zombies were little more than ambulatory shields for better, more reliable troops. Unfortunately, he had precious few of the latter.

  The Silent Legion stood ready for battle, clad in ancient armour and bearing weapons not seen since the height of the Nehekhara. He had seen to their resurrection from their essential salts upon his arrival on the fields before La Maisontaal Abbey, and Nagash’s nekric guard stood ready to wage war on the living once more.

  Arrayed about the Silent Legion were the warbands Arkhan and Kemmler had dragged from their slumber in the Vaults. Composed of wights and skeletons, the warbands were possessed of a savage bloodlust second only to Krell’s, and without the sorcerous chains that compelled them to obey Arkhan, they would have already begun the attack.

  Beyond them, and scattered before and around the host were the ghoul packs that had followed them from the borderlands and into the hills. A harsh winter and a bloody spring had added to their numbers, as villages throughout southern Bretonnia became little more than haunts for newly christened cannibal clans. Such pathetic beasts were drawn to the stench of necromancy like iron filings to a lodestone. Like the zombies, they were of little practical use, but Arkhan was confident that they could readily take blows meant for more valuable troops as easily as any staggering corpse.

  And last – the Drakenhof Templars. The armoured vampires were eager for war, none more so than the brute Mannfred had named Grand Master. Anark met his gaze and looked away quickly. Was he nervous, Arkhan wondered, or bored? Neither would surprise him. That Anark intended treachery was almost certain. The creature was barely competent, save in military matters, and openly defied Arkhan at every opportunity, eliciting chortles from his fellow leeches. All save the Crowfiend, whom he seemed to despise even more than Arkhan.

  Arkhan dismissed the thought. He had no time to worry about traitors. He looked up at the night sky, and for a moment, immense, terrible shapes seemed to claw down towards him, like hungry birds. The cat on his shoulder hissed softly. He’d almost forgotten that the animal was there, so quiet had it become since they’d arrived. He stroked its greying flesh gently.

  No time, he thought. There was no room for error now, not with the delays and losses they’d suffered. The beastman attack they’d fought off some days before had taught him that. Though they had driven the creatures off, the damage had been done. The unassailable horde he had assembled had dwindled to its current state. It was still an ocean of corpses, but he was forced to see to their control himself, along with Kemmler.

  His options had been forcibly limited. There was no time for grand strategy now, only brute speed. ‘So be it,’ Arkhan rasped. He swung his staff out and pointed it at Krell. ‘Krell will take the fore. He will lead the Silent Legion, and the tribes of the dead into the centre of the enemy line. They shall be the head of my spear and the stumbling dead shall be the haft, driven forward by Kemmler and me.’

  ‘That is exactly what they are counting on,’ Anark protested. ‘Even a dried up old thing like you should have the wit to see that. The knights will fold into your flanks like the jaws of a trap!’

  Arkhan looked at the vampire. ‘That is what you are for, von Carstein. Besides, it would be rude of us to ignore such a heartfelt invitation, would it not?’

  Kemmler cackled wildly. ‘Oh, there’s hope for you yet, liche! Come, hurry! I have waited centuries to tear this rotting heap of stone apart, and I can wait no longer.’ He gestured sharply, and Krell broke into a trot. As the wight moved, the Silent Legion fell into step with him. The skeletal warbands joined them, rasping battle-cries issuing from the long-withered throats of their chieftains.

  Arkhan stepped down from his chariot and made to join Kemmler, where the latter waited amidst a knot of zombie knights, still clad in bloodstained armour and clutching broken weapons. He paused as the Crowfiend interposed his steed. Arkhan looked up at him.

  ‘A word of advice,’ the vampire said, not looking at him. ‘Kemmler stinks of ambition.’

  ‘As does your companion Anark,’ Arkhan said.

  ‘Not my companion,’ the Crowfiend said. The vampire looked at him. ‘The Drakenhof Templars were ordered to escort you to La Maisontaal Abbey. And that is what we shall do.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  The Crowfiend kicked his horse into motion. He galloped away, followed by his ghouls. Arkhan watched him go. Then he joined Kemmler.

  ‘What did the leech want?’ the old man grunted.

  ‘Merely to pass on the compliments of Mannfred von Carstein,’ Arkhan said. The dead twitched into motion, lurching forwards. Arkhan and Kemmler moved with them, lending sorcerous speed to the slower corpses.

  ‘Ha! That’s a poisoned chalice if there ever was one,’ Kemmler spat. He peered after the Crowfiend, eyes narrowed. ‘I remember that one. He served in Mallobaude’s army. He followed that fool Obald around. Fussed over the old pig-farmer like a nursemaid,’ he sneered. He smiled nastily. ‘If he’s here, the Bone-Father must have finally died.’

  ‘You sound pleased,’ Arkhan said.

  ‘Merely satisfied, I assure you,’ Kemmler said, and tittered. ‘Obald was a fool. Just like the idiot Ogiers, or that black-toothed sneak, Fidduci.’ He glanced at Arkhan, his eyes sly. ‘They were but pale imitations of their betters. Useless chattel, fit only to be used and discarded.’ He made a fist. ‘Power belongs only to those strong enough to wield it. It belongs to those who can survive its use, and those who can take it for themselves. I’m a survivor.’ He licked his lips. ‘Pity Nagash wasn’t, otherwise we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we?’

  Arkhan said nothing. Kemmler laughed and turned his attentions back to the dead. The vampire had been right – Kemmler was up to something. He couldn’t help but to boast. He resolved to keep an eye on the old man, even as the night sky above was suddenly lit up by a rain of fire.

  ‘Arrows,’ he said, raising his staff. A quickly conjured wind plucked away those missiles that drew too close to him and Kemmler. But even as Arkhan readied himself to deal similarly with the next volley, he saw that they were not the target.

  The forward elements of the undead host had crossed no more than half the field before the Bretonnian bombardment began. A second volley of flaming arrows pierced the darkness and tore into the ranks of skeletons and wights. Again and again, the Bretonnian archers fired. Only scant seconds passed between each volley, testament to the skill of the longbowmen. Peasants though they were, Arkhan was forced to admit that their skills were on par with the archers of Lybaras.

  With a flick of his fingers, he willed those of his minions who possessed them to raise their shields. Nonetheless many were still set alight by glancing or lucky shots, and the shields were of little help against the larger fireballs launched by the massed trebuchets. As the great war engines found their range, more and more impacts occurred, tearing great ragged holes in the undead ranks.

  But the undead marched on, driven forwards relentlessly by the combined wills of Arkhan and Kemmler. Dark magic flowed from the fingers of both necromancer and liche, rousing the fallen dead to continue the march, no matter how badly damaged they were. There were few in the world more attuned to the winds of death than he and his troublesome comrade, Arkhan knew. Dieter Helsnicht, perhaps or Zacharias the Ever-Living, but no others possessed the mastery of broken bone and torn flesh that he and Kemmler did.

  The dead fell around him and rose again; shattered skeletons swirled and danced back into motion, to rejoin the unwavering advance. The attrition caused by the bombardment slackened, drew to a crawl and then ceased. Arkhan spat black syllables into the greasy air, and every iota of concentration he possessed was bent to thrusting his warhost forward, as if it were a single weapon, and his the hand that wielded it.

  It would have been easier with the others – the battle-l
ine more fluid, the tactics less primitive. But Arkhan was forced to admit that it would not have been nearly as satisfying. It had been decades since he had dirtied his hands with war in this fashion. He had stayed on the sidelines of Mallobaude’s rebellion, a fact he regretted, if only for the squandered opportunities.

  His attention was drawn by screams. Krell had reached the enemy. With a roar audible only to sorcerers and lunatics, Krell unleashed the Silent Legion upon the Bretonnian lines.

  The killing began.

  THIRTEEN

  Mordkin Lair, the Border Princes

  ‘The dead-things… followed you,’ Warlord Feskit hissed. He was old, for a skaven, and his fur was the colour of ash. He tapped the hilt of the wide, jagged-bladed cleaver that was stabbed point first into the bone dais supporting his throne. The latter was a trophy taken from a fallen dwarf hold in years past, and it overflowed with pillows and cushions made from the hair and beards of men, elves, dwarfs and unlucky skaven. Feskit himself wore a necklace of orc tusks, goblin noses and human ears, all of which he’d pilfered from the various battles he claimed credit for. ‘You ran, and they followed.’ Every word was enunciated slowly, drawn out like the flick of a torturer’s knife across cringing flesh.

  ‘No-no, Snikrat the Magni– Snikrat the Loyal came to warn you, mighty Feskit,’ Snikrat chittered. He knelt before the throne, his loyal Bonehides arrayed behind him – far behind him – and gestured towards Feskit imploringly. ‘They seek to invade our lair, oh perspicacious one, by which I mean our tunnels, the very heart of our fortress, this place here,’ he continued, sweeping his arms out. ‘That they followed me is only incidental, by which I mean unrelated, to my own headlong plunge to assure myself of your wellbeing, because you are my warlord and I am your loyal champion.’

  In truth, Snikrat had no idea whether or not the dead had followed him. It was certainly possible, but he suspected otherwise, given his cunning and the stealthy nature of his retreat across the plains, back to the mountains. He had seen other clans attempt to match claw and blade with the undead, and he had, briefly, considered lending aid. But it was imperative that he warn Feskit about the enemy; and if that enemy was destroyed before he got back… Well, the credit would be ripe for the claiming, wouldn’t it?