Be’lakor snarled and made as if to lunge up the dais, but the halberds of the Black Guard flashed and the creature fell, squealing. He cursed and screamed as he was dragged away, Caradryan and Malekith following in his wake to see to his imprisonment. Teclis watched them go. The council had broken up without making a decision, but he had expected as much.
‘Fools,’ Lileath said, watching as the Incarnates drifted away to discuss events with their advisors and allies. ‘Can they not see what is made plain?’
Teclis did not reply. He took a deep breath. The air was thick with the dry smell of changing seasons, as winter overtook the forest. Finally, he said, ‘You told me that we could win. Is that still the truth?’
Lileath looked away. ‘No.’
‘Was it ever the truth?’ Teclis asked softly.
Lileath looked up. ‘I knew from the first that this doom would come upon us.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘What sort of prophet would I be otherwise?’
‘You lied to me,’ Teclis said, fighting to keep his voice even.
‘You told me once that you could not fight without hope,’ Lileath said. She looked at him. ‘So I gave it to you. I needed you, Loremaster.’
He felt sick. ‘It was all for nothing then.’
‘Not at first,’ Lileath said. She spoke hurriedly, her words clipped and forceful. ‘By the sacrifices you made, I wrought a great working – a Haven. A place of safety that would have seen your people – our people – through the coming storm.’ She smiled sadly. ‘But… I cannot feel it any more.’
‘What happened to it?’
She turned away. ‘I do not know. Maybe it still exists. Maybe the Dark Gods found it, and have already consumed it and the untold souls within, including my brave Araloth and… our child. My daughter.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I cannot feel my daughter, Teclis.’
Teclis stood helplessly as she began to weep. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.
‘You will not stay, then?’ the Emperor said, as he helped Jerrod onto his horse. ‘Your sword will be missed, Duke of Quenelles.’
It had been several days since Be’lakor’s interrogation and imprisonment. The elven healers had done what they could in that time for Jerrod, but the marks of the daemon’s claws remained. His face was a ruin, one eye covered by a ragged length of cloth torn from a standard. His leg was almost useless, a lump of dead meat held together only by his armour. Even so, Jerrod felt he had got off lightly.
Jerrod looked down at the other man, and smiled sadly. Volker and Hammerson were there as well to see the Bretonnians off. The dwarf looked glum, and Volker looked drunk. Jerrod thought it was appropriate, seeing as they’d looked much the same when he’d first met them. He shook his head. ‘We cannot stay. I have told you why.’ He looked out at the western edge of Athel Loren, where the trees grew thin and gave way to the vastness of Quenelles, and felt his heart grow heavy.
‘I know,’ the Emperor said. He reached up and clasped Jerrod’s forearm. ‘And I do not begrudge you your anger. I hope… I pray that you find some sanctuary in this world, Jerrod. I hope your people survive and flourish, and that one day, we again feel the ground tremble beneath the hooves of the true sons of Bretonnia.’
‘Thank you, my friend,’ Jerrod said. The Emperor nodded and stepped back. Jerrod looked at Volker and Hammerson. ‘Goodbye, my friends. It has been an honour to fight beside you. Both of you.’
Volker clasped his hand, and stepped back to join the Emperor without speaking. Hammerson glared up at Jerrod for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he said, ‘If you ever have need of the Zhufbarak, lad, you have my oath that we will come. So long as your kith and kin exist, we shall stand at their side.’
‘And will you lead them, then?’ Jerrod said, smiling.
‘If I don’t die in the next few days, certainly,’ Hammerson said. He hesitated, and then patted Jerrod’s leg. ‘Maybe I’ll even make you a new leg, eh?’
Jerrod laughed softly. ‘I look forward to it, Master Hammerson.’
Hammerson nodded tersely and stepped back. Jerrod watched the three of them return to the forest, and did not feel slighted at their departure. There were plans to be made and a war to be won or lost. But it was not his war, not any longer. The elves had lied to them, and no knight in his company wished to fight alongside those who had used them so.
Before he could set his horse into motion, however, he heard the drumming of hooves, and turned to see four riders approaching out of the dark. He tensed as he recognised Vlad von Carstein in the lead. ‘Well met, Duke of Quenelles,’ the vampire called out, as he drew close. ‘Might I have a word, before you leave?’
‘A quick one,’ Jerrod said brusquely.
‘I wished to impart a story I heard, not long after my resurrection,’ Vlad said, dismounting as his steed drew up beside Jerrod’s. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting.’
‘I do not have time for stories, vampire.’
‘You have nothing but time,’ Vlad said. ‘And this is no ordinary story. It is about a monastery.’ Jerrod blinked in confusion, but said nothing. Vlad leaned forwards. ‘There is said to be a monastery, somewhere in the Grey Mountains, where Gilles le Breton has decided to make his stand,’ he murmured. ‘I had it from the mouth of one who rides with us now – a mad creature, whom your folk knew as the Red Duke.’ He turned and gestured to one of the other riders. Jerrod looked past him, and met the malignant gaze of a nightmare out of legend. The Red Duke sat proudly in the saddle of his skeletal steed, one hand on the pommel of his infamous blade. At first, he scowled at Jerrod, but then, after a moment, he dipped his head in a gesture of respect. Jerrod returned the nod before he could stop himself. He looked back at Vlad.
‘In that place, it is said that your king fights beside a knight garbed in crimson, in defence of what remains of your people,’ Vlad went on.
‘A red knight…’ Jerrod murmured. He looked at Vlad. ‘He is one of your kind. Like… the Duke. Like you.’
‘No. Not like that sad, mad warrior or like me. Abhorash is the best of us,’ Vlad said softly. ‘He owed a debt to your king, and swore an oath, and while he fights, Bretonnia lives. In some small corner of your shattered land, the heart of all that was Bretonnia survives.’
‘Why do you tell me this?’ Jerrod asked hoarsely.
‘Because I know that it was Mannfred who broke your faith, and set you at odds with Lileath. And because I too know what it is like to lose everything. To lose your home, your people, even your gods.’ Vlad turned away. ‘I would not wish it on anyone.’ He looked back at Jerrod and smiled. ‘Even a man who, under other circumstances, would be doing his level best to remove my head.’ He stepped back. ‘The Red Duke knows the way. He will lead you to your people, if they yet live. And two others will go with you, to see that you and your men arrive safely, and that your guide does not… get out of hand. Erikan Crowfiend and Elize von Carstein, a daughter of my blood and a son of the Bretonni. They are old, and strong in the ways of our kind.’
Jerrod looked at the other two vampires, on their mummified steeds. One was a haughty-looking, crimson-haired woman, the other a dishevelled, broad-faced man. Their steeds stood so close together that the knees of their riders touched. As Jerrod watched, the man took the woman’s hand. He blinked, and looked down at Vlad.
‘You can trust them. And when you reach your sanctuary, tell Abhorash that…’ Vlad hesitated. He laughed and shook his head. ‘Tell him that he was right, in the end.’
‘About what?’ Jerrod asked, without thinking.
Vlad chuckled and turned away, pulling his cloak tight about himself. The vampire hauled himself into the saddle and rode away, leaving Jerrod staring after him. After the vampire had vanished, Jerrod turned. His people waited. He looked at the Red Duke.
‘Well?’ he asked, softly.
The creature turned his skeletal steed about
. ‘West,’ he growled. ‘To the fires beyond the horizon, and into the mountains.’ With a shout, the vampire kicked his mount into a gallop. The other vampires shared a look, and then followed suit.
Duke Jerrod, the last son of Quenelles, inhaled the clean air of Athel Loren one last time. Then he spurred his horse into motion. And the knights of Bretonnia followed.
The Winterglade, Athel Loren
‘I should not be here,’ Eldyra of Tiranoc said. Even marred as it was by a predator’s rasp, her voice was still a thing of beauty. Measured and graceful, more so than any human could hope to mimic. ‘I have no right to this place.’ She looked from side to side slowly, staring at the trees and the shadows. ‘Not any longer.’
‘And who told you this?’ Vlad said, softly. He walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back, seemingly at ease. In truth, he was as nervous as she, for Athel Loren contained dangers even for creatures like himself. Nonetheless, he felt a sense of satisfaction. After the revelations of the council, it felt good to accomplish something, anything. Even if it was only honouring an old debt.
He wondered if the Bretonnians would make it. He hoped so. There was little enough nobility in the world, and for it to pass away entirely was not something he wished to see happen. What might you have made of them, Abhorash, if you had not made that oath? He smiled. What might he make of them still?
Too, it was good to know that at least one of his bloodline might survive the coming conflagration. Whatever else happened, the von Carstein name would not die. Oh Isabella, you would be so proud of your little Elize, he thought, and then frowned. He rubbed his neck where Isabella’s blade had hacked his head from his shoulders, only a few months before, and thought of his loving paramour and the twisted fate which had befallen her. The gods were cruel, and cunning. They had snatched Isabella’s soul from Nagash’s grasp, and brought her back. They had bound her tortured soul up with that of a daemon of plague and pestilence, in an act equal parts malice and mockery, and set her loose on Sylvania.
It was that attack which had roused Nagash, and convinced the Undying King that he required allies. And it was that attack which had convinced Vlad of his course. In order to save Isabella, he had to save the world. And that meant making alliances, and binding together the separate strands of the remaining forces opposed to the Ruinous Powers, whether they liked it or not. And the only way to convince them to stand together was to give them hope that there would be a world, come the morning.
Of course, it would be helpful if I believed that, he thought sourly. In the attack, he and Isabella had met, and she had killed him. Granted, it wasn’t the first time Isabella had stuck something sharp in him, but it was the first time she’d done so with such an excess of malice. He growled softly, and pushed the thought aside. The Dark Gods wanted him to agonise over her fate, to falter and hesitate. But he was not one to crumble beneath the pangs of loves lost or imperilled. He loved her, and he would do what he could to save her. He would free Isabella one way or another, even if he had to take her head to do it.
That was one lesson Mannfred had never bothered to learn. Loyalty went both ways. He owed as much to those of his bloodline as they did to him. Thinking of Mannfred gave him pause to wonder where his former disciple had vanished to. That he had escaped Athel Loren was obvious. As to where he had gone, well, he had had several days to get there. Vlad pushed the thought aside. Mannfred was a problem for another day, if another day ever dawned.
‘No one had to tell me I wasn’t welcome here,’ Eldyra hissed. She wheeled about, perfect features cracked and uncertain. The beast poked through her bones. Then, it was never very far from the surface in elves. They were as savage as any barbarian hillman, for all the airs they put on. Perhaps even more so. He smiled.
She had been waiting at the edge of the forest while he saw the others off. Given the events of the council, he’d thought it best to clear up all lingering questions, debts and worries. One needed to be free of mind to properly enjoy a cataclysm, after all.
‘Then how do you know? Does your flesh burn? Does your soul cringe? If not, then there is no bar to your presence here. Indeed, I had hoped that a walk through these woods might even soothe your unquiet spirit somewhat.’ Vlad gestured airily about him.
Eldyra stared at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead turned away, hugging herself. Vlad frowned and reached for her. She whirled and slapped his hand aside. She hissed, eyes red and wild. Vlad backed away, hands held out in a pacifying gesture. ‘You have not fed. The beast is harder to control when you are starving.’
‘Blood will never cross my lips,’ she spat.
‘It already has, otherwise you wouldn’t be in this situation, my dear,’ Vlad snarled, letting his own mask slip. ‘And if you continue down this path, you will lose what little sanity remains to you.’ He spread his arms. ‘We do not die of starvation, princess of Tiranoc. We merely shed our skins, like snakes, losing all pretence of humanity. Vargheist,’ he said. He gestured. ‘Too much feeding, the same. Varghulf, then. The beast is always lurking, just below the skin. It rages like a fire, and like a fire, it requires careful tending.’
‘Better to snuff it entirely, then,’ she croaked. She looked down at her hands. ‘I will not be a slave to darkness.’
‘You are not a slave. You are one of night’s dark masters,’ Vlad said. He held out his hand. ‘Take my hand, and I will teach you, as I have taught so many. You have been given a gift, and I would not see it go to waste.’ Eldyra strode past him. He laughed and caught up with her. She needed to be taught, even as Isabella had. As they all did. And he had brought her here, so that she might speak to the only man who might help her learn.
They found Tyrion in a clearing, but he wasn’t alone. The Emperor stood beside him. They were speaking quietly as they watched the burning sky. He held up a hand, and Eldyra halted. Her eyes were fixed on Tyrion, and she trembled slightly. Vlad gestured for her to remain silent. Despite the distance, he could hear their conversation as clearly as if he stood beside them.
‘I see little cause for hope,’ Tyrion said.
‘Meekly spoken, for one who has returned from the dead,’ the Emperor said. Tyrion glared at him. Vlad smiled. A point for the man without a kingdom, he thought.
‘It will take more than clever words to survive the coming doom,’ Tyrion said. ‘Even for you, god-king.’ Vlad blinked. Had that been a turn of phrase? If so, it was surely an odd one. Vlad cocked his head, considering. There was something about the Emperor, it was true… Vlad felt a vague sense of unease whenever he drew too close to the man. As if there were some force within him which threatened the vampire’s very existence. Until now, he’d put it down to the lingering traces of the magic which had reputedly been torn from the Emperor. But what if it were something else?
‘That is why you and I must persuade the others to go to Middenheim,’ the Emperor said. ‘Lileath is right. Archaon must be stopped. At any price.’
‘The city lies many weeks’ march away, through territory swarming with foes. Do you honestly believe that we can prevail against such odds? Even with the aid of our… allies, it will be almost impossible.’
The Emperor grunted. ‘I shall not sit back and wait for death.’
Tyrion was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘No. Nor shall I. To Middenheim we shall go, then. And whatever fate awaits us there.’
‘Not immediately, one hopes,’ Vlad said, smoothly.
Tyrion and the Emperor turned, and Vlad winced. The elf glowed with an internal light that was almost impossible to bear. He heard Eldyra whimper, and clamped a hand on her shoulder. ‘Stand, for his sake, if not your own,’ he murmured. Still clutching her, he bowed low. ‘My Emperor, I have come before you, seeking a boon.’
‘I was under the impression that your master was Nagash,’ the Emperor said, with what might have been a slight smile on his face.
&
nbsp; ‘Ah, but a man may have many masters,’ Vlad said, straightening. ‘Some, even, by choice.’ He smiled ingratiatingly. ‘I am Elector of Sylvania, am I not? Indeed, I fancy I am the last elector, besides your gentle self, my lord.’ Vlad’s smile turned feral. ‘Aye, if you were to die I would, by default, become emperor, would I not?’
‘No, you would not,’ the Emperor said.
‘No?’
Karl Franz smiled. ‘The emperor must be elected by a majority of electors.’ His smile turned hard and cold. ‘The dead, unfortunately, do not have a vote.’
Vlad frowned. He was about to reply, when Tyrion said, ‘Why are you here, vampire?’
‘I believe you know my companion, O mighty prince,’ Vlad said, stepping aside. Eldyra twitched, as if she might flee.
‘Eldyra,’ Tyrion said, softly. She froze, quivering. She took a hesitant step. Tyrion, his face sad, held out his hand. ‘I feared you dead, sister of my heart.’
‘I am dead,’ she hissed. Her fangs flashed in the moonlight. ‘I died in Sylvania. I failed and died, cousin. And now I pay the price.’
Tyrion said nothing. He merely held out his hand. Eldyra hesitated. Then, she reached out and took his hand. Vlad watched as Tyrion led her off, out of earshot. The Emperor looked at him. The human showed no fear, no disgust. Only curiosity. Vlad was impressed. The Empire had improved the calibre of its aristocracy since he had last walked abroad, he thought. ‘Why did you bring her here?’ Karl Franz asked.
‘What else could I do?’ Vlad said. He shrugged. ‘She is of no use to me as she is. Maybe he can make her see sense.’
‘Meaning to accept her fate,’ the Emperor said, looking at Tyrion and Eldyra. ‘To surrender to the curse which has been thrust upon her. To give herself up, like a lamb to the slaughter.’
The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 26
