The End Times | The Lord of the End Times

by Josh Reynolds

  With a howl, Be’lakor finally tore the sword free of his back and flung it aside. But before he could move to finish its incapacitated wielder off, he was distracted by an ear-splitting roar that shook the trees to their roots. Large talons slammed into the daemon prince and knocked him sprawling.

  The black dragon landed in the middle of the glade, giving vent to a second roar, louder than the first. Jerrod saw Malekith perched on the beast’s back, sword in hand and a shroud of shadows curling about his lean frame. Be’lakor scrambled to his feet with a snarl and whirled as if to flee, but a thunder of hooves made him hesitate. A figure glowing as brightly as the sun hurtled into the glade and cut off the daemon’s path of retreat.

  Jerrod stared as Tyrion urged his horse up. The light which poured from the elf-prince incinerated the shadows which made up Be’lakor’s form. The daemon prince reeled, and his body shrank and twisted, losing mass. Be’lakor lunged away from the newcomers and dived towards the welcoming shadows beneath the trees.

  Malekith gave a sharp, mocking laugh and gestured. The shadows about Be’lakor seemed to twitch and stretch, and the daemon prince snarled as he was dragged backwards. He fell, clawing at the ground for purchase, but to no avail. Even as he struggled, chains woven from light snagged him by his limbs and wings and horns, imprisoning him. The daemon was like a child before the power of the Incarnates, and soon, Be’lakor, who had thought to seize a goddess, had himself been made a prisoner.

  Jerrod saw Lileath running towards him, and he wanted to speak, but no words came. Darkness crowded at the edge of his vision, and he fell back into oblivion, accompanied only by the frustrated shrieks of the First Damned.

  TWELVE

  King’s Glade, Athel Loren

  Gotri Hammerson chewed on his cold pipe and stared into the dark. The sounds of celebration had died away quickly after Jerrod had entered the vast glade where the Bretonnians and the other refugees from Averheim had made camp. Now, there was no noise at all, as people retired to their cold meals or ragged tents and the glade fell into darkness. But it was no darker than a mineshaft, and so Hammerson sat and thought.

  The duke had survived, but only thanks to the efforts of Athel Loren’s healers. Even so, he was crippled, missing a leg and an eye. And all to save an elf woman who was not what she seemed. Hammerson sighed and adjusted his posture. He’d waited to welcome the lad back with the rest, after hearing of his heroism. But Jerrod had been in no mood for celebration or exultation. He had taken his men and retreated to the far edge of the glade, away from the other refugees and the Zhufbarak. Now the great camp was quiet, and Hammerson sat in the dark, wondering what had happened.

  It was the elf’s doing, he knew that much. Whatever else, he knew he’d been right to warn Jerrod away from her at the start. You couldn’t trust elves, especially ones who claimed to have been goddesses. He tugged on his beard, wondering what he should do, or if he should do anything at all. Was there even anything he could do?

  His hand fell to his hammer as he smelt warm metal and forge-smoke. He didn’t look around as someone eased out of the dark to sink down beside him. ‘The manling will live, then?’ a rough voice asked. It was a voice such as the mountains might have spoken with.

  ‘He will,’ Hammerson said, after a moment.

  ‘That is good.’ There was a flash of heat, as a pipe was lit. ‘They’re fragile, humans.’

  ‘But brave.’

  ‘Aye, they are that. Too brave. Too rash.’ Hammerson’s companion puffed quietly on his pipe for a moment before continuing. ‘Then, maybe these are the days for the foolhardy among us. The days of sealed holds are done. There will be no barred gates strong enough to resist what is coming, I fear.’

  Hammerson turned to look at the white-bearded dwarf. Even now, a hood obscured his features, and he had his great, single-bladed rune-axe balanced on his knees. ‘Is this to be it, then? Is there no hope, old one? Are our people to vanish into the hungry dark, unmourned and unremembered?’

  ‘Aye,’ the old dwarf said, softly. Then, he smiled and reached out to clap a heavy hand on Hammerson’s shoulder. ‘But we’ll not go alone, lad.’ He heaved himself to his feet, axe in hand. ‘We’ll march proudly into the dark, son of the Black Water, axes sharp and shields raised. We’ll make the enemy pay for every inch of ground, and water the roots of the world to come with their blood, young Hammerson. That I swear.’

  And then he was gone, as if he’d never been. Hammerson did not look for him. Grombrindal went where he wished, and no dwarf, daemon or god could hinder or follow him if he did not wish it.

  ‘Who was he?’ a voice asked.

  ‘Who was who, manling?’ Hammerson turned. ‘I was wondering where you were. Not in a celebratory mood?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as such,’ Wendel Volker said. ‘I think they’re planning to leave.’

  Hammerson looked at the man. ‘And why would you think that?’

  ‘I heard Jerrod say as much, when I was eavesdropping,’ Volker said. He held up a small cask as Hammerson glared at him. The little barrel was some unlucky dwarf’s personal supply of drink, designed to hang from his belt or the inside of his shield. ‘I didn’t mean to. I was just going to get this,’ Volker said, shaking the cask.

  Hammerson’s glare intensified. ‘Is that one of ours?’

  Volker popped the plug on the cask and took a swig. He smacked his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said, handing it to Hammerson. ‘I got it off poor old Gorazin, after that last fight with the beastmen. He wanted me to have it.’ The dwarf shook his head and accepted the cask. He took a long pull and handed it back.

  The liquid burned going down. ‘Gorazin knew his Bugman’s, I’ll say that for him,’ he muttered. ‘Not done, giving an ancestral cask on to a manling, though. Remind me to admonish him, when we get to the halls of the ancestors.’

  ‘How am I going to do that? Seeing as I’m not a dwarf, I doubt I’ll be going to those particular halls, lovely as they sound.’ Volker took another swig.

  ‘You’ve drunk enough Bugman’s over the past few weeks to be a dwarf. I think the gods will overlook your abnormal height,’ Hammerson said. He stuffed his pipe back into his armour and added, ‘Did you come out here just to get a drink, or did you have something to say?’

  ‘The council requires your presence. Or so the wizard says,’ Volker said, stuffing the plug back into place. He belched and rose to his feet. ‘Gelt convinced the rest of them that the daemon should be interrogated. The wizard thinks knowing what Archaon’s up to might help the council come to some sort of decision. They’re about to question the beast. Gelt thought you’d like to be there for it.’

  ‘Aye, that I would,’ Hammerson said. He rose to his feet and gestured. ‘Lead on.’

  When they reached the King’s Glade, Be’lakor had already been brought before the council. The daemon prince had traded his chains of light for shackles of silver and starlight, and he looked the worse for wear, surrounded by the levelled halberds of Malekith’s Black Guard. Be’lakor knelt at the centre of the ring of heavily armoured elves, his body shrunken and battered. His wings had been clipped and broken, and one horn had been smashed. The elves had not been gentle on their captive.

  Not that I blame them, Hammerson thought as he and Volker joined the Emperor and Gelt. The dwarfs too had their stories of the Shadow-in-the-Earth, and his fell deeds were carved into the record of grudges for many a clan and hold. It was said that Be’lakor had been responsible for the destruction of Karak Zhul, among other crimes.

  Malekith reclined on his throne, Alarielle beside him. Tyrion stood to the left of them, and Caradryan to the right. Teclis and Lileath stood at the foot of the dais. The latter looked hale and healthy for a woman almost stolen away by a daemon, Hammerson thought. Then, maybe the gods of the elgi were made of sterner stuff than gossamer and moonbeams. Nagash, as ever, stood away from the rest, accompanied only by
Arkhan the Black and Vlad.

  ‘I heard the other vampire escaped,’ Hammerson murmured, looking at Gelt. ‘Slipped clean away in all the confusion.’

  ‘He can’t have got far,’ the Emperor said. ‘Athel Loren is a trap from which there is no escape, I’m told.’

  Gelt shook his head. ‘You don’t know Mannfred. He’s escaped, otherwise Vlad wouldn’t be here,’ he said, nodding towards the vampire. ‘If Mannfred were still loose in this forest, Vlad would be on his trail. That he’s here instead…’ He shrugged.

  ‘What’s one more monster loose in the world, eh?’ Hammerson said. He fell silent as Malekith rose from his throne.

  The Eternity King looked down at Be’lakor. ‘Well, beast. What have you to say for yourself? I would have thought that you’d have learned your lesson when you came for the Oak of Ages and we sent you scuttling off back into the dark.’

  Be’lakor looked up, eyes smouldering with hatred. ‘Did you ever learn from your many, many attempts to conquer Ulthuan, Witch-King?’ Be’lakor looked at Teclis. ‘Or did you have to wait for someone to do it for you?’ The daemon prince laughed.

  ‘At least I accomplished it in the end,’ Malekith said. ‘You, unfortunately, have been descending ever further into cosmic irrelevance with each passing century. Look at you – you’re barely a ghost now. Just a flickering blotch at the corner of my vision, a whisper easily ignored.’

  Be’lakor looked at the halberds pointed at him. ‘You do not seem to be ignoring me.’

  ‘No,’ Alarielle said. She did not rise, but her voice commanded immediate attention. ‘You have made that impossible, beast. You must be dealt with.’

  ‘And yet here I kneel,’ Be’lakor growled.

  ‘Destruction is far too merciful for a creature like you,’ Malekith said. He glanced at Lileath as he spoke. ‘Besides, who knows how long you’ve been flitting about, listening to our councils? Why send you back to the Realm of Chaos, where your dark spirit would merely inform your masters of what you’ve learned?’ Malekith gestured derisively. ‘No, I think we can do better than that.’

  Be’lakor laughed. ‘I do not fear you.’

  ‘THEN YOU ARE A FOOL,’ Nagash said. ‘LONG HAVE I BEEN CURIOUS AS TO THE DURABILITY OF CORPOREAL MANIFESTATIONS SUCH AS YOURSELF. HOW MUCH IS FLESH AND HOW MUCH IS THOUGHT? I SHALL DISCOVER THE ANSWER AT MY LEISURE. AND YOU? YOU WILL HOWL.’

  Be’lakor stared at the liche, as if trying to gauge the truth of his words. Then he laughed. The sound was a bitter one, full of malice but also resignation. It was the laugh of a master who had met his match. ‘I know you, Nagash of Khemri. I saw you place yourself on your father’s throne, blood still wet on your hands. And I know that you will do as you say, and worse besides.’ He looked at Malekith. ‘What must I offer, to escape the tender mercies of the Lord of the Charnel Ground?’

  Gelt stepped up. ‘Information, daemon. We wish to know why the Everchosen sits in Middenheim, and allows beasts to lay siege to this place. Why has he not come himself?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re just not that important,’ Be’lakor said. Malekith gestured, and the shadow-stuff which made up Be’lakor’s form writhed for a moment. The daemon shrieked and shuddered. Malekith lowered his hand, and Be’lakor sagged, panting. The daemon prince laughed weakly. ‘It is the truth,’ he hissed. He looked at Gelt. ‘Three times, I have sought to pre-empt the Everchosen’s successes with my own, and three times I have failed. But there will not be a fourth. So I will speak. I will tell you all that I know.’

  He shoved himself to his feet. The Black Guard stepped back as one at Malekith’s gesture, giving the creature room. Be’lakor looked around. ‘Archaon has no reason to come to Athel Loren, for he already has what he desires – what the gods themselves desire. You think them directionless. You think them to be mad, idiot intelligences, but they are anything but. There is purpose in the random, and direction in the storm. The destruction of your petty Empire was never the goal,’ he said, leering at the Emperor. The latter didn’t so much as bat an eye, and Hammerson felt his respect for the human grow.

  ‘The gods care little for the slaughter of nations, or the deaths of kingdoms. Oh, they dine well on the souls offered up so, but Middenheim is the true prize. Middenheim, and what lies beneath it,’ Be’lakor continued. His eyes strayed to Volker and the daemon twitched back. Volker shuddered and made a low sound in his throat, but the Emperor placed a hand on his shoulder, calming him. Be’lakor blinked, and said, ‘There is an artefact there, a device from an earlier age, before the coming of Chaos. Even now, Archaon works to excavate it.’

  ‘What sort of artefact?’ Teclis demanded, voice hoarse. Hammerson was startled by the elf’s expression. He had never known one of that race to ever show such raw horror so openly before. The mage was white-faced and trembling.

  ‘One which, if certain rites are performed, will detonate. It will create a rift in the fabric of your colourless reality. A rift to equal those which occupy the poles of this broken world.’ The daemon prince smiled. ‘So you see, you are not important, for you have already lost.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see it,’ Hammerson blurted out. ‘What is this overly talkative soot-stain hissing about?’ He looked at Gelt, who shook his head helplessly.

  ‘It means the end of everything, dwarf,’ Teclis said. ‘The end of the world.’

  Teclis sagged. He felt as if his strength were but a memory. Everything he had done, every sacrifice he had made… all for nothing. He felt Lileath reach out to steady him, but he flinched away from her. He forced himself up, and looked around. Every eye was upon him now, waiting for answers only he could provide. Answers that he did not wish to provide. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat. ‘The Loremasters of Hoeth theorised that our world only survived the coming of Chaos because a terrible equilibrium formed between the two polar rifts. They cancelled one another out, and became stable. But if a similar rift is opened in Middenheim, with no counterbalance…’ He trailed off, unable to get the words out.

  ‘THE WORLD WILL BE CONSUMED,’ Nagash said.

  ‘It might take years, or days or mere moments,’ Teclis said. ‘But if that rift is called into being, if it hasn’t already been called into being, the end is certain.’ He looked around. Horror and fear was etched onto every face.

  I did this, he thought. If he hadn’t taken the Flame of Ulric, Middenheim might have withstood the siege. Tyrion would be dead, but the world might have survived. He had sacrificed everything to resurrect his brother, and now it was all for nothing. The world was doomed regardless. He closed his eyes and pressed his head against his staff. My fault, he thought. Forgive me, please.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the man, Volker, staring at him. The human’s eyes had gone yellow, and something terrible and lupine was superimposed over his own features. It was invisible to the others, he knew, save perhaps Lileath and Nagash. But the godspark was there, crouched in the dark of Volker’s soul, waiting. The wolf-god met his gaze and licked his chops. Teclis shuddered and looked away. No wonder the god persisted. Teclis had bet the world and lost, and now his debt was fast coming due.

  ‘THE ARTEFACT MUST BE SEIZED,’ Nagash rasped.

  ‘Middenheim is too far, liche,’ Malekith said. ‘Too much territory to cover, and too many enemies between us and it. The worldroots have withered, and we do not have the manpower to make such an invasion feasible.’ The Eternity King sank back into his throne. ‘The daemon is right. We lost this fight before we even drew our blades.’

  Silence fell. Teclis tried to think of something. He had always had a plan, even in the darkest moment. But nothing came to him now. There was no path to take that did not lead to destruction. He felt a hand on his back, and turned as Lileath stepped past him. She was shaking slightly, and he wondered again what had passed between her and Jerrod, before Be’lakor’s attack. He had had no time to ask, and he doubted she woul
d tell him.

  ‘Impossible or not, it must be accomplished,’ she said, her voice cold and hard. ‘The artefact must be destroyed. Together, you have the power to do it, and to thwart this madness before it overtakes us all.’

  ‘Were you not listening, woman? There is no way,’ Malekith snarled. He thumped his throne with a fist. ‘We do not have the troops or the time.’

  ‘Then use magic to make up for both,’ Lileath said coolly, not looking at him.

  ‘I know such magics – I used them to help us escape Averheim – but I cannot transport so many such a distance,’ Gelt said. ‘And even if I could, to unleash such magics in close proximity to the rift might prove disastrous. We might precipitate the very catastrophe we hoped to stop.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it must be done,’ Lileath said. ‘There are no more options. There is only this path, this certainty – if we do not act, the world dies.’

  ‘The world is already dead,’ Be’lakor said. ‘You merely seek to postpone its burial.’ He looked up at Malekith. ‘Well, Witch-King? Have I bargained for my life satisfactorily?’

  Malekith sat silently for a moment. Then he laughed harshly. ‘Oh yes, I’d say so. You will have life, of sorts.’ He gestured. ‘You shall be broken on the Anvil of Vaul, daemon, and sealed in ithilmar.’ He looked at the Everqueen.

  Alarielle reached up, and plucked a ruby from her crown. She handed it to Malekith and said, ‘This ruby shall be your cell. The essence of you shall be sealed within its facets, once my… husband has cracked your bones and stripped you of your flesh.’

  If Malekith had noticed Alarielle’s hesitation in referring to him as her husband, he gave no sign. Instead, he held up the ruby and continued, ‘Thus bound, you shall be sealed away, deep beneath the Glade of Starlight, in a prison of root and stone which shall outlast even the Rhana Dandra. You shall live, in the dark and the quiet, while the world lives or dies about you.’ Malekith leaned in. ‘Your story is done, daemon. It has come to its final ignominious conclusion.’