‘And why isn’t he?’
‘In the end, he remained true to himself. He was a man, Unsworn, not a monster.’ Archaon turned back to the coruscating darkness of the globe. ‘But I shed my humanity long ago. I cannot escape what is inside me, nor would I wish to. I have been in darkness for so long, that I fear I would find the light blinding.’ He stared up at the globe, as if seeking something within its glistening depths.
‘I am a monster and I have set the world aflame, so that I might watch it burn.’
EIGHT
The King’s Glade, Athel Loren
It had been a week since the arrival of the dead on the border of Athel Loren, and what some were calling the Council of Incarnates had gathered in the King’s Glade to at last discuss the ramifications of that arrival. The week had been one fraught with whispered discussions and late-night visitations as the influential vied against one another in preliminary debate. Too, it had taken a week to debate the truth behind Nagash’s offer of parley. Some had sworn it was only a trick, meant to allow the Great Necromancer access to the Oak of Ages. Others had believed that Nagash himself was fleeing certain destruction and looking for protectors, rather than allies.
For his part, Duke Jerrod of Quenelles suspected that either possibility was likely, or that some other, even more subtle scheme was at work. He had argued fiercely against even allowing the creature into the forest, but, as was becoming clear to him, his voice counted for little in the debate. So, instead, he stood in silence beside Gotri Hammerson and Wendel Volker, and watched as those whose voices did count argued over the fate of the world, and of Nagash himself.
The council was an uneasy affair. Trust was not in ready supply amongst the powers gathered beneath the green boughs of the glade. There was discord amongst the elven Incarnates, though Jerrod couldn’t say where it originated from. Too, none of the elves trusted Gelt or the Emperor, and Gelt, for his part, kept a wary eye on Malekith. The Emperor, as ever, moved amongst all of them, trying to reach an accord.
It wasn’t simply the Incarnates who bickered, either. The elves were divided amongst themselves, united only in their disregard for the dwarfs and men who now shared the forest with them. The dwarfs were uncertain and tense in the trees, and Jerrod had no doubt that the strangeness of Athel Loren grated on them as much as it did his own people.
‘Foolishness,’ Hammerson muttered. He tugged on his beard. ‘Look at it – standing there as if it has a right to exist. Fouling the air with its grave stink. Surrounded by flying books. Can’t trust a book that flies, manling.’ He gestured towards Nagash, who stood in the centre of the glade accompanied by his mortarchs, Mannfred von Carstein and Arkhan the Black. They stood within a ring of spears, surrounded by the Eternity King’s personal guard. Malekith’s Eternity Guard were amongst the finest warriors left to the elven race. They counted former members of the Black Guard, the Phoenix Guard and the Wildwood Rangers among them, and had faced daemons and beastmen alike in defence of their liege-lord. Despite the fierce pedigree of those guarding them, Nagash and his mortarchs didn’t seem particularly intimidated.
Nagash was terrifying, even to one who had tasted the waters of the Grail. He was a hole in the world, an absence of life, heat and light. He radiated a cold unlike any that Jerrod had ever felt. It was the cold of the grave, and of hopelessness. Even here, in the heart of the forest, spirits whined and moaned as they swirled about the Undying King, caught in the maelstrom of his presence. Everywhere he walked, the grass died beneath his feet, trees withered, and the dead stirred.
‘Is there any sort of book you do trust, Gotri?’ Volker replied. The white-haired knight leaned against a tree, a jug of something strong and dwarfish dangling from one hand. Jerrod wondered where he’d got it. The dwarfs were stingy with their reserves of alcohol, especially given the fact that it was likely the last such in the world. Then, perhaps they’d thought it wiser to give Volker what he wanted without too much fuss.
Jerrod studied the knight. Sometimes, in the right light, Volker’s eyes flashed yellow, and his face took on a feral cast. Mostly, it happened when Teclis was nearby. It was as if whatever force rode Volker were stalking the elf mage. Though, after the first incident, it seemed disinclined to attack. And thank the Lady for that, he thought. He’d heard the men of the Empire muttering the name ‘Ulric’ whenever they thought Volker was out of earshot, and wondered if the gods were truly gone, or merely biding their time.
Even as he thought it, his eyes swept the glade, taking in the faces of those who might as well be gods. The Incarnates were gathered together on the dais which held the thrones of the Eternity King and the Everqueen. They were speaking in hushed voices, intently and at times angrily. Of them all, only Balthasar Gelt paid any attention to Nagash. Though he could not make out the man’s face behind his gilded mask, Jerrod knew that the wizard was glaring at the Undying King. Gelt’s hatred for the creature had been plainly evident from the moment Mannfred von Carstein had brought word of Nagash’s offer.
The Incarnates were not alone in the glade. Besides Jerrod, Hammerson and Volker, there were elves of every description, huddled in scattered groups, or standing alone, like Teclis, who watched Nagash like a hawk. Jerrod’s eyes were drawn past Teclis, however, to the pale, radiant figure of the elf woman called Lileath, who stood nearby. It was not the first time he had found his attentions fixed on her. She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty which caught him. Instead, it was the vague, nagging sense that he knew her. That he’d always known her, somehow. Where she had come from, or who she represented, was a mystery. The elves seemed to defer to her, though she was no Incarnate.
‘Stop staring at that elgi witch, lad. She’ll have your soul out of your body like that,’ Hammerson grunted, snapping his fingers for emphasis. Jerrod looked down at the runesmith.
‘You know who she is, then?’
‘Don’t have to. She’s an elf. Only two types of elves, manling… the ones that’ll gut you, and the ones that will steal your soul before they do the gutting.’ Hammerson crossed his arms. ‘Heed me well, you stay away from that one.’
‘Are we allowed to associate with any of them, then?’ Jerrod asked, with as much innocence as he could muster. Volker snorted, stifling a laugh with the mouth of his jug. Hammerson glared first at the other man, and then at Jerrod.
‘This is no laughing matter, manling. We’re in their realm, and make no mistake – we’re not guests. We might not be prisoners either, but that’s only because they’re more worried about him.’ He pointed at Nagash.
Jerrod was about to reply when a hush fell over the glade, stifling each and every murmured conversation. Malekith rose from his throne of tangled roots, stone and metal, and said, ‘Enough.’ The word hung in the air like the snarl of an animal. ‘Our path is obvious. We have the beast caged… Why not simply dispense with him once and for all? Let us scour this abomination from the face of the world, while we have the chance.’
He looked about him, as if seeking support from the other elven Incarnates. Caradryan remained silent, which didn’t surprise Jerrod in the least. The silence of Alarielle and Tyrion, however, did. Only Gelt spoke up.
‘I agree,’ Gelt said. ‘Nagash is as much a danger to us as the Dark Gods themselves, and he will turn on us in a heartbeat, if it suits him.’
‘You’re one to talk, sorcerer,’ Mannfred said. Gelt flinched. The vampire smiled, and made to continue. He fell silent, however, as he glanced at Nagash, who had not moved, and did not seem inclined to do so.
Jerrod tensed, and his hand dropped to his sword. Nagash had said nothing, but Mannfred had obviously heard him nonetheless. The creature seemed disinterested in the debate, as if he were above the petty concerns of the living. Part of Jerrod longed to confront the beast – here was the living embodiment of the corruption which had so devastated his homeland, and he was barred from drawing his sword against it.
‘And if we destroy him, what then?’ Karl Franz said. His voice carried easily through the glade. ‘The foundations of the world crumble beneath us as we argue. We have no time for this. He is here, and his might, joined with ours, might yet win us the world.’
‘Oh, well said, well said,’ Mannfred crowed, clapping briskly.
Teclis spoke up. ‘He is right, Malekith. It was only thanks to Nagash’s theft of the Wind of Death that I was able to imbue you all with the powers you now wield. Though I wish it were otherwise, his presence is as necessary now as it was then. He is the Incarnate of Death, for better or worse. His destruction would serve only to weaken us,’ he said. He looked at Nagash and met the Great Necromancer’s cold, flickering gaze without flinching. ‘And he knows, whether he admits it or not, that treachery will avail him nothing, save that he meets his ending sooner rather than later. Is that not so, O Undying King?’
Nagash said nothing. He merely stared at Teclis. Malekith, however, was in no mood for silence. ‘Oh yes, and you would know all about treachery, wouldn’t you, schemer? More even than myself, I think, and I am no novice in that regard.’ Malekith laughed harshly. ‘I never imagined to find myself here, the lone voice of reason in a world gone mad. The beast must die. This I command.’ He sliced his hand through the air.
‘Are you deaf as well as spiteful?’ Teclis spat. ‘Did you not hear me?’
‘I heard,’ Malekith said. ‘I heard what you didn’t say, as well. We need only the Incarnate of Death, not Nagash. The solution seems obvious to me.’ He looked at Nagash. ‘We slay him, and bind Shyish to another… Someone more trustworthy.’
‘More tractable, you mean,’ the Emperor said.
‘And what if I do? Better a weapon under our control than a maddened beast which might turn on us at any given moment,’ Malekith said. He looked at Teclis. ‘Tear Shyish from him, wizard. We shall bestow it on another, of our choosing.’
‘Aye, that’s the way,’ Hammerson muttered, nodding slowly. Jerrod looked down at the dwarf. Hammerson met his questioning gaze. ‘My folk have grudges aplenty against the liche-lord. The spirits of our ancestors will know peace, once that skull of his is pounded into dust.’ He blinked. ‘Though, come to think of it, Malekith has just as many.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘Isn’t that always the way? The wolf-rat or the squig, which is worse? Both want to gnaw on your beard, so which do you kill first?’
‘Squig,’ Volker said, absently, as he stared at Nagash.
Hammerson and Jerrod looked at him. Volker shook himself and returned their look. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘Why the squig?’ Hammerson said.
‘Bigger mouth, obviously.’ Volker gestured to his face. ‘Fit more of the – ah – the beard in, as it were.’
Hammerson was silent for a moment. Then his broad face split in a grin. ‘Ha! I do like you, for all that you smell like a wolf den in winter, manling.’ He gave Volker a friendly slap on the arm, almost knocking him from his feet. Jerrod shook his head and turned back to the debate.
Teclis stood between Malekith and Nagash. The elf looked tired. His robes were torn and faded, and his face was white with exhaustion. Jerrod felt a moment of pity – they were all worn down by constant battle, but something in Teclis’s face told him that the elf’s battles had started much, much earlier than their own, and that even here, he found no respite.
‘There is no being in existence capable of containing so much death magic, who would not be as dangerous as Nagash,’ Teclis said. He leaned against his staff. ‘Human, elf or dwarf… it matters not. Shyish would change them, and for the worse, into something other. Also, like calls to like.’ He looked at each of the Incarnates in turn. ‘In each of you, there was something – some kinship – with the wind which chose you as its host. Like calls to like.’ He glanced at Nagash. ‘Nagash is the first, and the greatest necromancer the world has seen. Master of an undying empire, and ruler over the dead.’ He glanced at Malekith. ‘And all because your followers had the bad luck to wash up on the shores of Nehekhara so many centuries ago,’ he added, waspishly.
‘Necromancy can be taught,’ Gelt said.
‘And if it’s the symbolism of the thing, we have plenty of dead empires about… including Bretonnia,’ Malekith added. He gestured to Jerrod. ‘Why, we even have the de facto ruler of that dead land here among us.’
‘What?’ Jerrod said. ‘What are you saying?’
‘You are a duke, are you not?’ Malekith said. ‘The only one amongst your barbaric conclave of horsemen, if I’m not mistaken. Your claim is superior.’
‘Bretonnia is not dead,’ Jerrod said. He looked around, seeking support. He found only speculation and calculation, in equal measure. ‘My people still live. Else what is this for?’ he asked, helplessly. Helplessness turned into anger, as Malekith gave a harsh caw of laughter.
‘Hope is the weapon of the enemy, human,’ the Eternity King said. ‘Your land is ashes, as is mine, as is everyone’s. A haunt for daemons and worse things. The quicker you accept it, the more useful you’ll be.’ His eyes glittered within the depths of his mask.
Jerrod’s hand fell to his sword hilt. He heard Hammerson say something, but he ignored the dwarf’s warning rumble. Malekith had said nothing that Jerrod himself had not thought a thousand times since the fall of Averheim. But to think it, to fear it, was one thing. To say it aloud – to make sport of it – was another. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and strike. Hammerson was right: Malekith was as much a monster as Nagash. The world would be better off without him.
Cool fingers dropped over his hand before he could draw his blade. He whirled. Lileath released his hand and stepped back. ‘No,’ she said, softly. ‘If you do, you will be slain in the attempt. And then where will your people be, Jerrod of Quenelles? Would you abandon your duties so casually? Is your honour so frail as to be torn by the words of such a spiteful creature?’
‘You forget yourself, woman,’ Malekith said. ‘I am king.’
Lileath looked past Jerrod. ‘It is you who forget yourself. King you might be, but I am Lileath of the Moon, and Ladrielle of the Veil, and it is by my will that you have survived to take your place on that throne. My power may have dwindled to but a spark, but I am still here. And I know you, Malekith. Deceiver and hero, arrogant and wise. The best and worst of your folk, housed in iron and forged in flame. You are as dangerous as the Sword of Khaine itself. But I was there when that sword was nothing more than a lump of metal, and I was there too when you were torn squalling from your mother’s womb.’
She extended her staff and used it to gently push Jerrod back as she stepped forwards. ‘If you do not put aside your differences, if you do not unite, then this world will be consumed. There is no time to pass petty judgements, or to exclaim in horror at the choices you have made, or the allies who offer their fellowship. The world is ending. The End Times are here. And if you would not be swept away like spent ashes from a cold hearth, you will heed me.’
Jerrod stared at her, wondering why her names struck such a chord in him. Who are you? he thought. He saw that Mannfred too seemed to recognise Lileath. The vampire’s eyes met his, and the creature smirked, as if he and Jerrod shared some awful secret. Jerrod turned away with a shudder. Hammerson, in a rare display, patted his arm.
‘He was lying, lad. That’s what the elgi do,’ the runesmith said. The words were scant comfort. Jerrod shook his head.
‘No, Gotri. I don’t think he was.’
Hammerson looked up at the knight, and felt a tug o
f sympathy. Despite what he’d said, he knew that what Malekith had said was more than likely the truth. Or some version of it, at least. From his expression, Jerrod felt the same.
It was no easy thing to lose kin or a home. To see all that was familiar torn away in an instant and reduced to ash. Hammerson glanced up at Volker, and saw a similar expression on the other man’s face. Aye, the humans were now getting a taste of the bitter brew that his folk had been drinking for centuries. And the elves as well, come to that, though Hammerson felt less sympathy for them. They’d brought it on themselves, after all. The humans, though… Hammerson sighed. Humans had many, many flaws, as any dwarf could tell you. But they didn’t deserve the ruination that had befallen them.
Then, who does? he thought. He looked at Mannfred. Except maybe that one. The vampire had a smug expression on his face, as if he were enjoying the bickering that surrounded him. Hammerson frowned.
He had been at Nachthafen the day that Konrad von Carstein had slaughtered the Zhufbarak. He’d been but a beardling, apprenticed to a runesmith, but he still had the scars from when Konrad and his accursed Blood Knights had attacked their position, overrunning it in moments. He remembered the king’s fall, his throat torn open by the creature calling itself Walach Harkon, and he remembered the surging tide of corpses.
Mannfred was cut from the same grave shroud as Konrad. He’d waged war on Zhufbar as well, when he’d come to power, and many a dwarf had perished at his hands. If grudges had physical weight then Athel Loren would have long since sunk deep into the earth, between Malekith, Nagash and Mannfred.
No dwarf would ally himself with such creatures, even in the face of destruction. That, in the end, was the difference between his folk and the humans and elves. For a dwarf, better destruction than compromise, better death than surrender. If the thing must be done, let it be done well, he thought. It was an old proverb, but one every dwarf knew, in one form or another. All things should be approached as a craftsman approached his trade. To compromise was to weaken the integrity of that work. To allow flaws, to invite disaster.
The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 18
