The End Times | The Lord of the End Times

by Josh Reynolds

  He spurred his horse into a canter and the Companions followed suit, falling into position behind him, arranging themselves by instinct without need for his command. The horses began to pick up speed as they drew closer to the main thrust of the battle. His blood sang in his veins as the canter flowed smoothly into a gallop. It had been too long since the Companions of Quenelles had ridden out and faced the enemy head on. There had been too much skulking behind walls or in glades; such was not the proper way of it, and he relished the chance to show the haughty inhabitants of Athel Loren how a true son of Bretonnia fought.

  Elves turned as the thunder of hooves filled the glade. They had knights of their own, but their steeds moved with the grace and silence of a morning mist. The warhorses of Bretonnia on the other hand shook the earth and sky with their passing. They were not graceful or silent. They were a force of destruction, a mailed fist thudding home into the belly of the enemy. They were the pride of Bretonnia, and the sound of their hooves was the roar of a doomed people, proclaiming that they would not go meekly into the dark.

  Jerrod hunched forwards in his saddle as the elven lines parted smoothly before them, as he’d hoped they would. And then the knights of Bretonnia smashed home in a rumble of hooves and a splintering of lances, driving into the ill-disciplined ranks of the beastherds with a sound like an avalanche. Those creatures unlucky enough to be in the front seemed to simply evaporate, torn apart or ground under hooves at the moment of impact. Those behind were dragged down seconds later, or else speared on the ends of lances. Those beasts closest to Jerrod were knocked aside, sent sprawling or trampled by his stallion as he hacked at the enemy. The knights pressed on, their formation spreading like a fist opening up. Behind them, the elves reformed their lines.

  Jerrod laid about him until his arm ached and his heart shuddered in his chest. The beasts began to fall back, but not all at once, and not as he’d hoped. They were too disorganised for that, he realised. One herd cared little for what befell the next, and whatever fury drove them had yet to relinquish its hold on their stunted brains. Cursing, he made to signal for withdrawal. They could fall back, and charge again.

  His horse reared as a number of ungors thrust spears at him. One glanced off his thigh, and another slashed through the strap of his saddle. Before he could stop himself, he was sliding ignominiously off his mount. He crashed hard to the ground, and was forced to roll aside to avoid being trampled by his own horse. Spears dug for his vitals and he flailed desperately, chopping them aside. Hairy hands grabbed for him, and cruel skinning knives or cut-down sword blades crashed against his armour as the creatures swarmed through the forest of stamping hooves and falling bodies.

  A strong grip fixed itself on the back of his tabard, and he found himself dragged upright. An arm clad in black armour extended past him, clutching a long blade. An ungor spitted itself on that sword, and its malformed body withered and shrank within moments. The blade pulsed red for a moment and then returned to its original hue as its wielder ripped it free of the husk. Jerrod looked up into the smiling features of Vlad von Carstein.

  ‘I thought you might require assistance,’ the vampire said, as Jerrod parried an axe and opened its wielder’s belly. ‘I was nearby, and saw no reason not to lend it. You are from Quenelles, are you not? I thought I recognised your heraldry.’

  ‘I am,’ Jerrod said stiffly. He took a two-handed grip on his sword. He’d lost his shield in the fall, and his hip and shoulder ached. But the pain could wait; as long as he could move, however stiffly, he could fight. Vlad took up a position beside him.

  ‘Ah, Quenelles… such a lovely land. I whiled away many a night there in the company of fine ladies. And the dumplings, ah…’ Vlad kissed his fingertips in a gesture of appreciation. He beheaded a beastman with a casual swing of his blade. ‘I taught young Tancred the proper way to hold a sword; this was the first Tancred, of course. Long dead now, poor fellow. Ran afoul of some detestable necromancer, I’m given to understand.’

  Jerrod fought in silence. The vampire moved too quickly for his eye to follow. Vlad chopped through the neck of a beast and whirled to face Jerrod. ‘You’re the latest to bear the dukedom, I’m told. I too know the pain of being the last ruler of a fallen province.’

  ‘Quenelles still stands,’ Jerrod said.

  ‘Of course it does, of course,’ Vlad said. ‘How could it not? But its people face much difficulty in the days to come, my dear duke. Have you considered the possibility of an alliance, for the days ahead?’ He ducked beneath the wild swing of a club, and sent a beastman sprawling with an almost playful slap.

  ‘With you?’

  ‘Who better? We are both men of royal blood, are we not? And in the years to come, both the Empire and Bretonnia will need each other – humanity must stand together, Jerrod.’

  ‘Humanity?’ Jerrod blurted, as a beastman lunged for him. He stepped aside and brought his blade down on the creature’s back. He heard the tramp of feet, and saw that the elves were moving forwards, spears levelled. They were taking advantage of the momentary lull the Bretonnian charge had caused, and were now moving to take back the ground they had lost. Jerrod raised his sword, signalling for his knights to withdraw.

  ‘I was as human as you, once, and unlike some, I have never forgotten it,’ Vlad said smoothly. He stepped back as the elves marched past them. ‘Too, I am an elector of the Empire, and as such view it as my duty to put forth the idea of alliance, come our eventual victory.’

  ‘You are so confident in our survival, then?’ Jerrod said. His stallion trotted towards him, its flanks heaving, its limbs striped with blood. He stooped to check the animal, relieved that it had survived. Vlad watched him for a moment. He reached out, as if to stroke the animal’s nose, but the horse shied away. Vlad let his hand drop, a tiny frown creasing his features.

  ‘Of course,’ the vampire said. ‘As the Emperor said, we fight for the future. To countenance defeat is as good as accepting it. And I have come too far, and accomplished too much, to accept the ruin of it all.’ He looked at Jerrod. ‘The world stands, Duke of Quenelles.’ He put his hand on Jerrod’s shoulder.

  ‘And I would see that it do so for many years yet to come.’

  Gotri Hammerson clashed his hammer and axe together, summoning fire and heat. Beastmen fell, consumed and turning to ash even as they charged towards the Zhufbarak line. The runes of fire dimmed as he lowered his weapons. The dwarfs had taken up the flank, without asking permission. The elves had, in a rare display of sense, left them to it without protest. Now guns and good Black Water steel threw back the Children of Chaos again and again.

  The beasts poured out of the trees in a disorganised mass. The giant, gangly shapes of ghorgons and cygors roared and smashed aside ancient oaks as they lumbered after their smaller cousins, and knots of bellowing minotaurs carved a path through their own kind to get to the dwarf lines. All of them were thrown back, again and again.

  ‘Ha! We’re hammering them just like the Ironfist did at Hunger Wood, Master Hammerson,’ one of his Anvil Guard barked, his broad face streaked with powder burns and blood. ‘They’ll remember the Zhufbarak, sure as sure.’ He swung his axe and beheaded an ungor as it scrabbled ineffectually at his shield.

  ‘Aye, and if you don’t pay attention, Ulgo, they’ll be the only ones to do so,’ Hammerson snarled. He smashed his hammer down, shattering a crude blade as it sought his gut, and gave its wielder an axe in the skull by way of reply. As he wrenched his weapon free, he raised his voice. ‘I want a steady rate of fire. I want them pummelled into a greasy patch on the topsoil, lads, and an extra tankard of Bugman’s best to whoever brings down that Grimnir-be-damned ghorgon over there.’ The rhythmic snarl of gunfire answered him as the lines revolved, fresh Thunderers stepping forwards to take the places of those who had just fired. The Zhufbarak were a millstone, grinding over the enemy. They had plenty of powder and shot, and a sea of targets. Some
beastmen inevitably made it through the fusillade, however, and when that happened, it was time for the rest of the throng to earn their ale.

  The ground trembled. He craned his neck and saw Jerrod and his knights smash into the enemy centre like a hammer striking an anvil, and couldn’t restrain a smile. ‘Good lad,’ he grunted. The Bretonnians fought like it was what they were bred for, and they hit almost as hard as a proper cannonade.

  Something flashed at the corner of his eye, and he turned. His smile faded. Gelt stood at the heart of the battle-line, standing head and shoulders over the two dwarfs set to guard him – they were members of Hammerson’s own Anvil Guard, clad in gromril armour and bearing heavy shields marked with runes of resistance and shielding. Stromni and Gorgi, good lads, he thought. Hard lads, like ambulatory boulders with as much brains between them, but once they’d set their feet and locked shields, nothing short of death would move them. Gelt was safe with them.

  Not that he needs much in the way of protection, Hammerson thought, as a wave of shimmering light erupted from Gelt’s hand and turned a number of beastmen to solid gold statues. Around Gelt, runes glowed white-hot, and the guns of the Thunderers seemed impossibly accurate. Axes hewed without going dull, and hammers broke through even the toughest armour and splintered the thickest bones.

  A flash of runes caught Hammerson’s eye. They lined the edge of a ragged cloak, which swirled about a figure who stood where the fighting was thickest. The dwarf was old, older even than Hammerson himself, to judge by the icy whiteness of his plaited beard. His features were hidden beneath the hood of his cloak, and he bore no clan markings on his armour. The axe in his hands hummed with barely contained power as it lopped off a beastman’s head. The mysterious dwarf spun to smash a lunging beastman from the air, and his eyes caught Hammerson’s as he did so.

  For a moment, the din of battle receded, and Hammerson heard only the sounds of the Black Water, and the rhythmic crash of the great forges of Zhufbar. He heard the rolling work-songs of his clan, and smelt the forge-smoke. He saw the shimmer of a thousand clan standards gleaming in the sun, and the glint of rune-weapons raised in defence of ancient oaths and old friends. All of this and more he saw in the eyes of the white-bearded dwarf, and a name came unbidden to his lips.

  ‘Eyes forward, Master Dwarf,’ a smooth voice purred. Hammerson whirled, the name slipping from his mind as he came face to face with a bulky beastman. Its teeth were clenched and its eyes rolled wildly, but it had been stopped from reaching him by a quintet of pale fingers which were sunk knuckle-deep into the meat of its back, just between its shoulders. Vlad von Carstein smiled in a neighbourly fashion and then, with a wink, ripped a section of the creature’s spine out. It toppled forwards with a single moaning bleat, and Hammerson instinctively crushed its skull with his boot.

  The vampire bounced the chunk of bone on his palm for a moment before pitching it over his shoulder. ‘I would have thought a warrior such as yourself would know better than to become distracted in battle, Master Hammerson,’ he said.

  ‘And I’d have thought you’d have the sense not to save a fellow who means you ill, vampire,’ Hammerson grunted. Ulgo had noticed the vampire at last, and the Anvil Guard raised his axe threateningly. Hammerson glared at him until he lowered it. Aye, and we’ll be having a chat later, lad, about why it was the vampire who saved me and not you, eh? he thought sourly.

  ‘Still, and after I prevented that beast from braining you?’

  ‘Who asked you to? I owe you nothing,’ Hammerson said. He looked around, trying to spot the strange, white-bearded dwarf, but the old one had vanished into the eddies of battle. Hammerson shook his head, trying to banish the unease he suddenly felt.

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t do it for you, eh?’ Vlad said. He stepped over the creature and smoothly took up position beside Hammerson in the shield-wall. The closest dwarfs looked askance at the vampire, and more than one gun-barrel drifted towards him. Hammerson gestured sharply. No sense starting a second fight when they were already in the middle of one. He signalled for those closest to fall back a step.

  ‘Then why did you do it?’ Hammerson clashed his weapons together again. Fire roared out, earning them a moment of respite. He looked at the vampire. ‘And why aren’t you with your master?’

  ‘Which one?’ Vlad asked. ‘I am as much a son of the Empire as I am a child of death, Master Hammerson. And it is in my capacity as elector that I–’

  ‘Who says you’re an elector?’ Hammerson snapped. ‘Last I heard, electors carried runefangs – good dwarf weapons, those – and not whatever that monstrosity is.’ He gestured towards the blade in von Carstein’s hand.

  Vlad smirked. ‘I am an elector because the Emperor says I am. And that means that we are allies, bound by old and sturdy oaths.’

  Hammerson said nothing. Through the smoke, he saw Gelt slam the end of his staff down. The ground squirmed as great thorn-vines, composed of precious metals, rose from the earth and ensnared beastmen.

  ‘He is quite talented, for a mortal,’ Vlad said softly. ‘He served me for a time, did you know that? And now he is redeemed and host to powers greater even than ours, runesmith.’

  Hammerson hadn’t known, and the thought didn’t please him. Old doubts about Gelt, ones he’d thought he’d put aside, came back stronger than before. He looked at Vlad. ‘What do you mean?’ he growled.

  ‘Things change, dwarf,’ Vlad said. ‘The world we pry from the jaws of destruction will not be the same as the one we remember. And old enemies might even be new friends, come that happy day.’

  ‘Speak plainly, leech,’ Hammerson spat.

  Vlad sniffed. ‘Fine. The Emperor is but a man. He will die, in time. Perhaps even in this war. As sole remaining elector, I will take his place. I would ensure that the ancient oaths between the Empire of man and the empire of the dwarfs are upheld, despite old grudges.’

  Hammerson stared at him. Then he laughed. Great whoops of amusement tore their way from him, and he bent forwards, gasping with breath. Vlad stared at him in consternation. Ulgo and the others joined in, guffawing. The vampire turned, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Oh, if that isn’t the funniest thing I’ve heard in days,’ Hammerson wheezed. He grinned at Vlad. ‘And you accused me of paying too much attention to what might be. Ha! Trust a manling to start portioning out the stew before the pot’s even warm. Even the dead ones, it seems.’ The runesmith shook his head. ‘Aye, vampire, we’ll honour the old oaths, come what may. We’ll defend the empire from whatever seeks to harm it.’ He met Vlad’s gaze and poked him in the chest with a finger. ‘Be it living, or dead. Remember that, blood-drinker.’ He turned away. ‘Now be off with you. This is a time for fighting, not for talking. We have a battle-line to maintain, and I’ll not have you flitting about, distracting my lads.’

  Hammerson didn’t bother to watch the vampire depart. He smiled grimly. One battle at a time, Gotri, he thought. One battle at a time.

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ Lileath said. She whipped her staff about, crushing skulls and splintering bones with a strength far beyond what her slight frame seemed capable of. Teclis stood at her back, his hands extended and the air sizzling with his magics. ‘Every moment we stand undecided, is another moment lost,’ she continued. Her staff shot forwards, puncturing the muzzle of a snarling gor in a spray of blood and broken fangs.

  ‘I agree, but there is nothing to be done, my lady,’ Teclis said. ‘The others will not be swayed by pretty words or promises – especially not from me. Not now. My crimes are too numerous, my betrayals too fresh.’ His sword hummed out, drawing blood and howls of agony from the enemy. He set his staff and lightning crackled from the tip, arcing out to smash into the ranks of beastmen. Contorted bodies were flung high into the air, to land smoking on the churned earth.

  ‘Then you should have hidden your crimes better,’ she snapped. Teclis almost snapped off a retort, but held hi
s tongue. Though she had given the last of her power to slow the blight of Chaos, Lileath was still one of the ancient gods of elvenkind. And she was still the closest thing he had to a guide on the path he now trod.

  In fact, it had been Lileath who had first set him upon that path. It was her staff he wielded, and her strength which had flowed through it, once, into him. As a goddess, prophecy had been amongst her gifts, and she had foreseen the End Times, and perceived the shape of their coming, long before his birth. It was she who had warned him of Aenarion’s curse, and how it would twist Tyrion and doom their people. It was she who had convinced him of Malekith’s legitimacy, and the need for the Incarnates. And it was she who had shown him how to bring Tyrion back from death, and what sacrifices would be required.

  It had all been Lileath, and he had performed every task to her expectation save one – he had not been able to control the winds of magic. The shattering of the vortex had failed, and now the eighth wind was lost, somewhere in the east. If he strained his senses, he could feel it, just barely. It had found a host, he knew, though what sort of host he couldn’t say. What he did know was that the Incarnate of Beasts was steadily moving west, pulled by the same sorcerous signal which had drawn the other Incarnates. But the host, whoever or whatever it was, would not reach them in time. Not unless they went out to meet it.

  Then, united, the Incarnates could throw back Chaos once and for all. Or so Lileath had assured him. Even now, however, he wasn’t sure. He watched her as they fought, studying her. Her determination was inhuman, greater than any save perhaps Nagash’s, but was it truly bent in service to his cause? Was she truly fighting for the elves, or was there some other game being played? Some deeper purpose that the once-goddess had not seen fit to share with her servant.