‘And you know what they are?’ Arkhan asked.
‘I have known what they are for the better part of a year. My spies within Heldenhame tell me that the city’s western wall was badly damaged last year, during a greenskin attack. Leitdorf has spared no expense in conducting repairs, but such a thing cannot be rushed, especially when you have naught but frail men as your labourers. It will be easy to breach, with the proper application of force.’ Before Arkhan could speak, Mannfred held up a hand. ‘However, the garrison of that wall has been reinforced with cannons, fresh from the forges of Nuln, thus rendering any assault there costly.’
‘You have a plan,’ Arkhan said. It wasn’t a question.
Mannfred chuckled. ‘I have many plans. The western wall is the obvious point of assault. But to strike there is predictable, and sure to be more arduous than we would like. However, the appearance of predictability is as valuable as its absence, if properly employed. We must take the oblique approach to this.’ He stretched out a hand, and curled his fingers. ‘With one hand, we shall show them what they expect.’ He raised his other hand. ‘And with the other, we shall crack their walls.’
‘Your confidence is inspiring,’ Arkhan said.
‘And your mockery is forgivable, this time,’ Mannfred said, with a mildness he didn’t feel. ‘You were right before. We need each other, liche. We are surrounded by enemies, and time, as you said, is not on our side. So let us cease wasting it. We will march north, now. And we will rip the last piece of the puzzle from the guts of Heldenhame.’
He turned and set one foot on the battlement. He flung back the edges of his cloak, raised his hands and began to speak. Overhead, the clouds swirled as Mannfred cast his voice and his will to the winds. He called out to every creature, dead, alive or otherwise that owed him allegiance. In his mind’s eye, he saw bat-winged monstrosities flop from dank caves and ghoul packs emerge from their burrows. He felt his mind touch the ephemeral consciousness of every chill-hearted spirit within his demesne, and rouse them to abandon their haunts and hurtle through the black sky towards Sternieste.
Before the ancient bells of Sternieste struck midnight, he knew that a mighty army would be assembled before the walls of the castle. And when it marched north, the world would tremble.
Amused by Mannfred’s display of unbridled sorcerous dominion, Arkhan watched in silence as the vampire called his forces to war. He let his mind drift as Mannfred lashed the world with his will. He had more pressing concerns than Mannfred’s petulance.
He had brooded on Kemmler’s betrayal and what it meant since the obliteration of La Maisontaal Abbey. He had suspected Kemmler’s treachery, but not the reasons behind it. Nagash’s hold on the necromancer had not been as certain as Arkhan had thought, and that disturbed him. Kemmler’s taunts haunted him.
That the Dark Gods would intervene so directly in order to prevent Nagash’s resurrection seemed unbelievable. But he knew what he had felt and seen. And it hadn’t merely been Kemmler. His return to Sylvania and Castle Sternieste had seen him lead what remained of his forces through the Great Forest. After departing Beechervast, Arkhan had taken the Lieske Road, and it seemed as if every Chaos-touched creature in those woods had been drawn to him, like moths to a flame. Howling, malformed monsters had pounced from the shadows, or swooped through the branches above. Chimeras and jabberslythes and worse things had thrown themselves into battle.
There had also been the beast-herds. Frothing, goat-headed beastmen had launched ambush after ambush, culminating in a final, bloody affray during a storm that Arkhan suspected was of no natural origin. During that battle, he had again seen the winged beast that he had first spotted in Quenelles. Clad in ragged robes, it had bellowed in a crude tongue as it tried to stem the inevitable retreat of the beastmen, once their courage had been broken by Arkhan’s spellcraft and the ferocity of the Drakenhof Templars, led by Erikan Crowfiend.
Arkhan had recognised his winged foe, in that moment before it too had fled. Like Mannfred, he had his spies and for years he had gathered information about the powers that might place themselves in his path. The thing called Malagor was a true servant of the Dark Gods, in the same way that he served Nagash. Its presence would have spoken volumes as to their intentions, if he did not already suspect their meddling.
With betrayal, and obstacles, however, came clarity. Misfortune had dogged his trail for months prior to coming to Sylvania. And not only his. Every being, however removed or reluctant, who might serve Nagash had seemingly been marked for death by the Chaos gods. When he had first begun to groom Mallobaude for his task, even providing for the would-be king to receive the blood-kiss of vampirism from an old, long-established Bretonnian line of the creatures, his stronghold of Mousillon had been beset by a horde of daemons. Though the creatures had gone on to assail the realm at large, Arkhan’s plans had nonetheless been interrupted. When he had arrived in Sylvania, he had learned that Mannfred had suffered similar attacks.
His study of the mystical wall of faith forged by Balthasar Gelt had also led him to wonder just how the wizard had come by the knowledge he’d used to forge the cage that now encompassed Sylvania. Brilliant as the Supreme Patriarch was, at least as far as mortals went, Arkhan couldn’t help but question the timing.
Sylvania had been a thorn in the Empire’s flank for centuries. Why suddenly move to contain it now? Unless, perhaps, Gelt was also an agent of the Dark Gods, in some capacity. Not an active, aware one of course, otherwise he could not have so effectively shackled the power of Sigmar. But he could easily be a pawn of other powers.
Had Kemmler been telling the truth – were the gods of Chaos so frightened of Nagash’s return that they were actively attempting to prevent it? Was Nagash truly so powerful that he incited such terror in entities as vast and as unknowable as the Dark Gods? And if so, what was Arkhan truly bringing back into the world? Was it the Nagash he remembered, the petty, spiteful, stubborn Undying King, who had killed his own people because they refused to bow… Or was it something even worse?
Arkhan looked down at his hands. They had been free of flesh for more years than he could count. He had sacrificed his mortality, his flesh and his hope on the altar of Nagash’s ambition. If it came down to it, he knew that he would sacrifice all that remained. He had no choice in the matter.
Or did he?
Elize von Carstein traced the rough bark of the dead tree with her fingers. The garden was empty, save for a few carrion birds perched here and there on the battlements. The castle itself was a hive of activity, as it had been since von Dohl’s failed assault a week earlier. The self-proclaimed Crimson Lord had ridden right up to the gates and demanded that Elize turn Sternieste and all of its treasures over to him.
Von Dohl had been accompanied by Cicatrix of Wolf Crag, and the heir of Melkhior, Zacharias. The Necrarch, in particular, had seemed unusually intent on getting into Sternieste’s vaults. When Elize had denied them entry, von Dohl had been beside himself with rage. The battle that followed had been brief but brutal.
Long-dead warriors had clashed amidst the barrow-fields as the Drakenhof Templars held their lord’s fortress against his enemies. She had duelled with Cicatrix atop the gatehouse, trading sword blows with the other woman. Von Dohl had ever let his harlot fight his battles for him, and he had only retreated when Elize had struck her shrieking head from her shoulders. What was left of Cicatrix still decorated one of the stakes mounted on the gatehouse battlements, and had greeted the master of Sternieste when he returned.
Arkhan the Black had returned a few days after the battle, and Mannfred not long before him. Their confrontation had been brief, and from what her spies claimed, heated, but now the great bells were tolling and the forces loyal to Mannfred were gathering. The time had come to take Heldenhame, and the murky air of the castle was tense with anticipation.
She heard Erikan Crowfiend enter the garden behind her. She knew it was him by the sound of his footsteps and the scent of him, sweet like overr
ipe flowers or spoiling meat. She recalled that she had once tried to teach him how to use perfumes to mask his predator’s scent, but he had never taken to it. ‘Markos,’ he asked, simply. His voice tugged at her. It was not a purr or growl, but placid like the burr of treacherous waters.
‘Dead,’ she said. ‘Just like Anark.’ She dug her claws into the bark. Impossibly, the tree had begun to flower. Its skeletal branches were covered in putrid blossoms, which stank of rotting meat. She turned away from it, and fixed Erikan with her gaze. ‘Why didn’t you help him?’ she demanded.
‘And how would I have helped Markos? I wasn’t with him.’
‘Don’t play the fool,’ she snapped. ‘I meant Anark. Why didn’t you help him?’
‘Why should I have? He was attacking our ally – the very ally we were sent to protect, in fact,’ Erikan said. ‘He’s lucky I didn’t kill him myself.’
Elize snarled. ‘Are you truly so foolish? Do you understand what you’ve done? The liche is dangerous!’ She took a step towards him, her hands curling into fists. ‘What could possess you not to seize that opportunity?’
‘I did,’ he said, flatly.
‘Then why is he still here?’
Erikan smiled. ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’
Elize stared at him. For the first time in a long time, she was uncertain. She had thought that Erikan would have seized his moment and struck Arkhan down, as Anark kept him occupied. Surely, she’d thought, he would see what was so clear to her – if Nagash returned, they were doomed. Perhaps not immediately, but soon enough. She knew enough about the Undying King to know what it was he wanted, and how badly that would end for her kind. When the last mortal had died, what would they feed on?
Mannfred had likely never even considered that, she knew. He thought he could control the force he sought to unleash. But Arkhan knew better, and that made him more dangerous. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded. ‘Speak sense!’
‘Nagash must rise,’ Erikan said. ‘And I intend to see that he does. If that means I must keep the liche in one piece, so be it.’
Elize shook her head. ‘Are you mad?’
He was silent for a time. She wanted to grab him, and shake him, to force him to speak. But something in his gaze held her in place. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. ‘I think I have been. But I’m sane now.’ He reached for her, and she jerked back. He let his hand fall. ‘For the first time, in a long time, I see things as they are, rather than how I wish them to be.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Can’t you feel it, Elize? Can’t you smell it on the air?’ He looked at her. ‘Then, maybe it’s only obvious to someone who was raised by the eaters of the dead.’
‘What are you talking about?’ she growled, shaking her head. A lock of red hair fell into her face and she blew it aside impatiently.
‘The world is already dead,’ Erikan said. He stepped forwards swiftly, before she could avoid him, and he took hold of her. She considered smashing him to the ground, but stayed her hand, though she couldn’t say why. ‘All of our struggles, all of our games, have come to nothing. Whatever purpose you conceived for me the day you bestowed your blood-kiss upon me will never be fulfilled. The petty schemes of Mannfred, von Dohl and even Neferata in her high tomb are done, though they may deny it.’ He pulled her close, so close, as he had done so many times before he had gone, before he had left her. ‘The world is dead,’ he repeated. ‘Let Nagash have it, if he would.’
She stared at him. She tried to find some sign in his face of the young man she had turned so long ago, thinking to make him a king in his land the way Mannfred had made himself king in Sylvania. What had happened to him, she wondered, in all their years apart? What had made him this way? She reached up and stroked his cheek. ‘Why did you leave?’ she asked softly. ‘Oh my sweet cannibal prince, why did you leave me?’
He looked down at her, his face twisting into an expression of uncertainty. ‘I… wanted to be free,’ he croaked, with what sounded like great effort. Then, ‘I want to be free.’
She grimaced. Her lips peeled back from her fangs and her claws dug into his cheek, drawing blood. He staggered back, a hand clapped to his face. She lunged forward with a serpent’s grace and struck him. He tumbled onto his backside, his eyes wide with surprise and shock. ‘Freedom,’ she spat. ‘Freedom to – what? – slide into oblivion? That isn’t freedom, fool. That is surrender.’
He made to scramble to his feet, and she kicked him onto his back and pinned him in place with her foot on his throat. She glared down at him, her fingers dark with his blood. ‘If I had known that you would give up so easily, I would never have bothered with you in the first place,’ she hissed. ‘Fine, fool. Have your freedom, and enjoy it while it lasts.’
‘I–’ he began. She silenced him with an imperious gesture.
‘Since you feel so strongly about it, you will stay here and guard Sternieste. I will lead our brethren to war in your place, Crowfiend,’ she spat. Then Elize left him there, staring after her. There was an army to ready for the march, and the castellan of Sternieste had much to do. As she stalked through the corridors, snarling orders to scurrying ghouls and lounging vampires, her mind pulsed with dark purpose.
The world was hers, and she would not surrender it – or anything of hers – without a fight.
Nagash would not rise. Not if she could help it.
TWENTY
Heldenhame Keep, Talabecland
Hans Leitdorf, Grand Master of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood, tossed the scroll aside with a weary curse, and rubbed his aching eyes. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be,’ he said.
‘None of us are, old fellow,’ Thyrus Gormann said, emptying a decanter into his cup. ‘What was that one – bill of sale? An invoice for lumber, perhaps? Or something more interesting.’ Gormann spoke teasingly. He was the only man who could get away with poking Leitdorf, and he indulged every opportunity to do so. He glanced towards the frost-rimed window. The sun was rising. It had been a long night, and they were almost out of ale. Still, it was nearly time for breakfast, a thought that cheered him considerably.
‘Elves, actually,’ Leitdorf said, leaning back in his chair. He and Gormann were in his office in the high tower of Heldenhame Keep. The office had a certain rustic charm, which spoke more to its owner’s disregard for the subtleties of interior decoration than any longing for simpler surroundings. Gormann took a swallow of wine and gazed at the other man with keen eyes. The Patriarch of the Bright College was, despite his bluff exterior, a man of quick wit and political acumen. It was something he shared in common with Leitdorf, who was more a political animal than he let on.
Gormann grunted. ‘Elves… in Altdorf?’ he guessed. ‘Ulthuani, I’m guessing.’
‘Yes. They’ve come to petition Karl Franz for aid, apparently.’ Leitdorf said. He rubbed his face. ‘Fill me a cup, would you?’
Gormann did so. ‘Well, they picked the right time, didn’t they?’ he asked, as he handed the cup to Leitdorf. ‘It’s not like we have a war to fight, after all.’
‘I don’t think they particularly care about our little disagreements with our northerly neighbours,’ Leitdorf said. He emptied half the cup and set it aside. ‘Karl Franz is keeping them at a distance, for the moment. He placated them by sending a rider to Karak Kadrin – I’m guessing to see if the dwarfs were interested in taking them off his hands.’
‘Ha! That I’d like to see,’ Gormann laughed. He tugged on his beard. ‘Old Ironfist is no friend to the elves, nor in truth to us. We’re allies of convenience, nothing more.’ He cocked his head. ‘Did your spies happen to mention what it is they want?’
Leitdorf gave Gormann a hard stare. ‘I don’t employ spies, Thyrus.’
‘My mistake. Did your… friends happen to say what the elves wanted?’
Leitdorf made a face. ‘No. Nor do I particularly care. We have enough troubles of our own.’ He swept a heavy, scarred hand out to indicate the stack of reports scattered across his des
k. ‘Reports from the Border Princes, Bretonnia, Tilea… It’s all going to pot.’
‘When isn’t it?’ Gormann asked.
‘This isn’t a joke, Thyrus,’ Leitdorf growled. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear von Carstein had escaped Sylvania somehow.’
Gormann’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile. ‘No such luck, I’m afraid. Gelt’s wall of faith still holds.’
Leitdorf sighed. ‘Admit it, Thyrus. That was the whole reason you came to visit Heldenhame, wasn’t it? To examine Gelt’s thrice-cursed enchantment.’ He shook his head. ‘I know what goes on behind the doors of your colleges. They’re worse snake pits than the Imperial court.’
‘Well, I admit, it wasn’t for your company, splendid as it is, Hans,’ Gormann said, opening a second decanter. He gave the liquid within a sniff and filled his cup. ‘Gelt’s a funny one – always has been. Powerful, but dodgy. Even Karl Franz, Sigmar bless and keep him, doesn’t like the scrawny alchemist much.’
‘Which was it that saw him usurp your position as Grand Patriarch? The power or the dodginess?’ Leitdorf asked. He held up a hand as Gormann made to reply. ‘I know, I know – it wasn’t a usurpation. It was a transition. That’s what wizards call it, isn’t it?’
‘He beat me fair and square, Hans. Truth to tell, I was getting tired of the job anyway. There’s precious little fun in it. The uptight little alchemist is welcome to it.’ Gormann took a drink. His duel with Gelt was the stuff of legend, though not for the reasons he’d wish. Gelt had been more cunning than he’d expected, though he’d heard plenty of stories about the younger man’s little tricks – turning lead to gold and the like. When the dust had cleared, he’d been out of the job, and the Gold Order had outstripped the Bright Order in prominence.
The End Times | The Return of Nagash Page 30
