The End Times | The Return of Nagash

by Josh Reynolds

  Mannfred bent low over his steed’s neck as he began the long trek back to the surface. He had his prize, and there was much work yet to be done.

  Nagash would rise, and Mannfred would rule.

  La Maisontaal Abbey, Bretonnia

  ‘Kemmler!’

  The aged necromancer turned as Arkhan’s challenge echoed through the darkened crypt that lay in the bowels of the abbey. The bodies of the brothers of La Maisontaal lay about him on the floor, slain when they’d made one last desperate attempt to defend the malevolent artefact long ago given into their care. Arkhan paid no heed to the crumpled corpses as he stepped into the chamber.

  Kemmler smiled and lifted the Great Staff of Nagash, Alakanash, in triumph. ‘Too late, puppet. Too late,’ he said. ‘I’ve found it, and I have claimed it.’

  ‘If I am a puppet, I am not alone in that,’ Arkhan rasped. He had foreseen Kemmler’s betrayal. Subtlety had never been the Lichemaster’s strong suit. But he had never expected the old fiend to possess enough courage to take up Nagash’s staff for his own. He could practically hear the shard of Nagash in the staff writhing in animal fury, and Kemmler’s knuckles were white as he tightened his grip on his prize.

  ‘Indeed. I have been a puppet for more years than I care to remember, liche,’ Kemmler said. ‘Not as long as you, but long enough to know that I do not wish to end up like you – a hollow, thin thing of ashes and scraps, haunting its own bones. Nagash is as much a vampire as the von Carsteins. He feasts on us, taking and taking, until there’s nothing left. And then he drags us up to take yet more. Creatures like you and Krell might have no will of your own left, but Heinrich Kemmler is no dead thing’s slave.’ He circled the sarcophagus slowly, leaning on Nagash’s staff. Even now, he was playing the tired old man, though Arkhan could see the power flowing through his withered frame, and the invisible daemons that capered about him like eager children. ‘I am the master here. Not you. And certainly not Nagash. He might have his hooks in you and in the fanged fop, Mannfred, but the Lichemaster is no dogsbody. I have found new patrons.’

  ‘New masters, you mean,’ Arkhan said.

  ‘Partners,’ Kemmler said, flashing rotten teeth in an expression that was as much grimace as grin. It was a lie, and a vainglorious one, and Kemmler knew it. ‘They recognise my power, liche. They see me for what I am, what I have always been, and they shower me with their gifts where Nagash would grind me under.’ He smiled in a sickly fashion. ‘And oh, they hate him. They hate him more than any creature that has yet walked this world. They hate him for his hubris, and they hate him for what he would do to this world.’

  ‘They hate him. And they fear him,’ Arkhan said. ‘Otherwise, this conversation would not be taking place. They fear him, and you fear him. The Dark Gods are mice, scrabbling in the holes of time, and Nagash is the cat who will drive them out.’ As he moved forwards, his thoughts reached out to the freshly slain bodies of the monks, and they began to twitch and scrabble at the floor. If he was quick, he might be able to overwhelm Kemmler before he became attuned to the power contained within the staff.

  ‘Not without this he won’t,’ Kemmler said. He lifted the staff and brought it down, so that the butt struck the floor. The stones hummed with a black note as mortar and dust cascaded down. Several of the bodies flopped back into motionlessness. ‘Answer me honestly, Arkhan… Do you truly want him back?’

  Arkhan stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question,’ Kemmler said. ‘Do you want him back? Have you ever questioned that desire? Are you even capable of doing so?’ He shook his head. ‘What am I saying? Of course you aren’t.’

  Arkhan said nothing. Kemmler’s words echoed through him. That was the question, wasn’t it? He had never truly considered it before. He wanted to throw the Lichemaster’s assertions back into his face, but he couldn’t. The cat dug its claws into his shoulder. It seemed to weigh more than it had, as if death had lent it mass.

  Before he could muster a reply, the beast yowled and sprang across the distance between Arkhan and Kemmler, raking the latter’s wizened face. The necromancer screamed and batted the animal aside with the staff. The cat’s body struck the wall and fell in a tangle of broken bones and rotting flesh, but it had accomplished its goal. Arkhan threw aside his staff and lunged with all the speed his long-dead frame could muster. Skeletal palms struck the staff in Kemmler’s hands and, for a moment, liche and Lichemaster stood frozen. Living eyes met dead ones, and a moment of understanding passed between them.

  Arkhan understood Kemmler’s rage, his fear and his obsession. But he could not forgive it. Once, maybe. But not now. For now, Arkhan understood what was truly at stake. There were only two paths available to the world as it stood here in this moment – one led to madness and the destruction of the natural order, as the world was remade by the Dark Gods in their image; the other led to a cessation of everything before those horrific changes could be wrought. Had he not already had his destiny chosen for him, Arkhan knew which he would have preferred. At least Nagash might let him rest, eventually.

  ‘You have always been a selfish, short-sighted creature, Heinrich,’ Arkhan rasped. Kemmler grimaced and began to mouth a spell, but Arkhan swung him about and smashed him back against the sarcophagus that had contained the staff. ‘Driven by petty desires, unable to see the bigger picture even when it is laid out before you. The Great Work must be completed, and no turncoat beggar with delusions of grandeur will stop it. Nagash must rise, and if you must fall to serve that end, so be it. You call yourself the Lichemaster… Well then, prove it.’

  Kemmler howled and the raw stuff of magic erupted from him, cascading over Arkhan, searing his bones and blackening his robes. But the liche refused to release his grasp on the staff. His will smashed against Kemmler’s, probing for some weakness. The old man’s will was like unto a thing of iron, forged by adversity and rooted in spite, but Arkhan’s was stronger yet. He had conquered death more than once, clawing his way back to the world of the living again and again. ‘Prove it,’ he said again, dragging Kemmler towards him. ‘Prove your boasts, old man. Show me the fiend who almost cracked the spine of the world at the Battle of Ten Thousand Skulls.’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Kemmler screeched. He shoved Arkhan back, and they strained against one another, the staff caught between them. ‘I’ll not be your slave! I am Kemmler – I have broken cities and empires. I have slain armies,’ he shrilled. ‘And I will kill you, once and for all!’

  Spell clashed against spell and magic inundated the chamber, splashing across the stones like blood. Arkhan could feel it building, growing in strength as the magic fed on itself and its surroundings. There were too many dangerous artefacts here, and they all resonated with the power that poured from him and Kemmler, even while the staff did.

  The chamber around them began to shake. There was a thunderous crash as the windows upstairs succumbed to the growing pressure and exploded outwards. Green fire licked out from between the stones, rippling around them as they struggled. A tornado of wild magic swirled, and La Maisontaal Abbey shuddered like a dying man. One of the holiest sites in Bretonnia was being ripped apart from the inside out, but Arkhan spared no thought for such trivialities. It was all he could do to maintain his grip on the staff. Kemmler shrieked and cursed as magical flames caressed his flesh, billowing up around him and from within him as his new gods filled him with their power. Arkhan held on grimly, ignoring the sorceries that tore at him.

  Kemmler’s flesh bulged and split like a blooming flower, and shapes squirmed in the dark within the raw redness of him. They were strange, terrible shapes that cursed and railed as they lashed Arkhan with fires of many hues and sweetly scented lightning. Kemmler’s eyes protruded, and the determination in them faded, swallowed by fire and intent. The skull-headed staff, which had been screaming the entire while, fell silent as it exploded into fragments. Caskets exploded out of the crypts around them, wreathed in fire. Arkhan felt ethereal talons tear at him
and hideous voices wailed in his head, but he ignored them all, concentrating on the staff and his enemy. Kemmler’s eyes widened still further, as if he’d seen something over Arkhan’s shoulder, but Arkhan ignored the sudden babble of his voice.

  And then, it was done. There was a roar, as of ocean waves smashing across rocks, and a great, sudden motion as if all of the earth had been thrown into the sky; a fire without heat filled Arkhan’s vision. He heard Kemmler wail, and it was a sound full of horror and hopelessness and frustration. Then he was on one knee, leaning against Alakanash, amidst the crater that had once been the vaults of La Maisontaal Abbey.

  Arkhan chuckled grimly and rose to his full height. Ash drifted off his ravaged robes. He heard the thunder of voices and the blare of horns, and knew that what was left of the Bretonnian army was retreating.

  He looked around, searching for the cat. There was nothing left of the beast, save a pile of ash and, rising above it, an enormous shadow, which had been burned into the ravaged stones. There was something unpleasantly familiar about that shadow, and Arkhan felt a pang of unease. Then, with a skill born of long experience, he brushed the feeling aside.

  Nagash would rise.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Black Mountains, the Border Princes

  Mannfred coughed and rolled over onto his back, smoke rising from where the sorcerous blast had caught him. His fur cloak was burning and his armour was scorched. He knew by the taste of the magic who had attacked him, and he cursed himself. He had expected it to come sooner, and he had become distracted by the thrum of power that emanated from the Claw and the Fellblade. The hum of the ancient sorceries had lulled him, and now he was paying the price. His attacker strode towards him, casting aside his cloak of elegant haughtiness.

  ‘I expect Anark has made his move by now, the sullen fool. He won’t succeed, you know. And Erikan won’t help him. The Crowfiend knows better than to get between creatures like you and the liche,’ Markos said, stopping a short distance from Mannfred.

  ‘A wisdom that you do not seem to share, cousin,’ Mannfred said, as he rose to his feet. He cast a glance at the Fellblade where it lay, considering. Then, with a grunt, he turned away from it. He didn’t need it.

  ‘The Crowfiend knows his limits, as do I. Mine simply… extend a bit further than his,’ Markos said, gesturing lazily.

  ‘Have you chosen a side then, Markos? Picked a new master, perhaps?’ Mannfred asked. He considered a spell, and then discarded the idea. Markos was not his equal, but there were certain traditions to be honoured. Markos had made his challenge, and the battle would be settled in the proper way – blade to blade.

  ‘Hardly,’ Markos said. ‘If Anark fails, then I will see to the liche, never fear. Your rival will not long outlive you, Lord Mannfred.’

  ‘My heart swells,’ Mannfred said. ‘You cannot win, Markos.’

  ‘No? I rather fancy my chances.’ He drew his sword. ‘I had this forged for me, by a certain swordsmith in Nippon.’ He smiled. ‘You call yourself a god, cousin.’ Markos extended his sword. ‘In Nippon, they say that if you meet a god, if he is real, he will be cut by this steel,’ Markos said. ‘It is the finest, sharpest steel that can be made in this world. A man can be cut by it and not know for several hours, such is its keenness.’ He smiled and spun the blade. ‘Don’t worry, cousin. I’ll make sure you know when it’s time to die.’

  Markos moved forward smoothly, with a grace and poise that Mannfred couldn’t help but grudgingly admire. He’d learned more than sorcery in his time in Cathay and Nippon, it seemed. His first slash came so quickly that it had opened up Mannfred’s cheek before he saw it coming. Mannfred scrambled to his feet, the taste of his own blood on his lips. He drew his blade, blocking a second blow.

  ‘You choose the most inopportune times to exert yourself, cousin,’ Mannfred hissed as he and Markos circled one another. The other Templars were staying out of it, Mannfred noted. Vampires respected little, save for the sanctity of the challenge. ‘We are on the cusp of ultimate victory, and you seek to rock the boat now?’

  ‘You are on the cusp of ultimate victory, and so, yes, now seems like a good time,’ Markos said. ‘I’ve read the same tomes, cousin. I’ve read the scrolls and the grimoires, and what you’re planning is madness. You can’t control what you intend to unleash, and I’ll not be the slave of some long-dead necromancer, first of his kind or otherwise.’ He fell into a defensive stance, blade angled parallel to his body. ‘You would damn us, and the world that is ours by right of blood, to servitude at the feet of a dusty god. For the good of all of us, in the name of Vlad von Carstein, I will gladly, and cheerfully, strike off your head.’

  Hark at him, the supercilious little weasel, Vlad’s voice murmured in Mannfred’s ear, as if he were right over his shoulder. Familiar bit of rhetoric, though, you must admit. It wasn’t so long ago that you were framing similar arguments, right about the time my ring went missing, eh, boy?

  ‘Shut up,’ Mannfred hissed. Vlad laughed. ‘Shut up!’ Mannfred howled, and flung himself at Markos. Their blades crashed together with a sound like a wailing wind, and sparks slid from their edges as they scraped against one another, separated and came together again. Markos laughed tauntingly and pressed Mannfred back.

  ‘I’ll be silent the day I lose my head, cousin,’ he sneered. ‘I was of Vlad’s get, the same as you. My blood runs as pure as yours, and flows with the same power!’

  ‘Your blood,’ Mannfred spat. He caught a blow on the length of his blade and rolled into it, driving his shoulder into Markos’s chest who staggered back. ‘Your blood is gutter-froth, compared to mine. I was born in a palace, cousin. I was born the son of kings, and Vlad did not make me the creature I am. He merely honed me, the way that blade you boast of was honed.’

  Vlad’s laughter faded in Mannfred’s ear drowned out by the sound of his own blood thundering in his veins, as he harried Markos back, wielding his sword as if it were a feather. His rage lent him strength, as it always had, and his arrogance as well.

  He was not meant to fall here. He was meant for greater things. Better things. He had no illusions about the kind of man he was. He had sacrificed more on the altar of ambition than a guttersnipe like Markos could ever guess, all to reach this moment, this crossroads. He had been denied a throne once, in the dim, fell reaches of the past. And the world owed him a debt for that insult.

  Markos’s confidence began to crumble as they traded blows. He had squandered the advantage of surprise in order to grandstand. That was the perennial flaw in Vlad’s blood, the urge to monologue, to make the enemy recognise your superiority, before the first blow had fallen. Mannfred fell victim to it himself, but he at least came by it honestly. Markos had been the son of a vintner, and not even a wealthy one.

  ‘You think a sword, or a bit of knowledge, makes you special, Markos? You are not,’ Mannfred said, sliding around a blow and catching Markos in the belly with a shallow slash. Armour peeled back like flesh as the blade danced across Markos’s torso. ‘You are no more special than Hans or Pieter or Fritz, or poor, sad Constantin, buried in his books. Just another funeral pyre to light the way of your betters.’ He attacked Markos again and again as he spoke, striking him with all of the speed and strength he possessed. Blood poured down Markos’s arms and legs, and his armour fell to tatters. Efficiently, ruthlessly, Mannfred cut ligaments and tendons, the way a butcher would ready an animal for sale.

  Markos stumbled and sank to one knee, bracing himself with his blade. He coughed blood, and his free hand was pressed to his belly. His blood pooled about him, and the greedy earth drank it up thirstily. His lips began to move, and Mannfred felt the winds of magic stir. With a single word, he cut Markos off from them. He saw the other vampire’s eyes widen. A pall of resignation crept over Markos’s narrow features as he realised what had happened. ‘I waited too long,’ he said.

  Mannfred nodded and said, ‘The approach of death lends a certain clarity.’ He caught Markos’s chin wit
h the flat of his blade and lifted his head. ‘You went after me with a blade for the same reason Tomas did, all those months ago. You thought I was a better sorcerer than a swordsman.’

  ‘No, I thought you were mad. I see no evidence to the contrary,’ Markos coughed. ‘You will destroy us – all that Vlad built, and for what?’

  ‘For me,’ Mannfred said. ‘Always, for me. This world is mine. It did not belong to Vlad and it does not belong to Nagash or the Dark Gods. It was promised to me in my cradle, and I will have what I am owed.’ He lifted his blade in both hands. ‘Close your eyes, cousin. No man should have to see his body after his head has left his shoulders.’

  Markos continued to stare at him. Mannfred shrugged and let the blade fall. Markos’s head came away, and his body slumped. Do you feel better now? Konrad always felt a bit better after a good bloodletting, Vlad hissed. Mannfred looked down, and saw something that might have been Vlad’s face – or perhaps a skull – reflected in the blood spreading away from Markos’s body.

  He didn’t reply to the taunting voice. He had given in to that urge entirely too often, of late. It was stress and nothing more. The ghost of his fears and worries. Vlad’s spirit was gone from this world.

  True enough, though you especially should know that beings like ourselves do not go gently into the darkness. You came back, after all, Vlad murmured. Mannfred could almost see him, circling, hands clasped behind his back, speaking the way a master speaks to a pupil. Then, perhaps I am not Vlad at all, and perhaps you did not come back all on your own, hmm?

  Mannfred cleaned his blade on his cloak and sheathed it. The presence continued to speak, as if it took his silence for an invitation. He wondered, briefly, if there might have been some truth to Markos’s words. Was he going mad?