The End Times | The Lord of the End Times

SIX

Jerrod, the last Duke of Quenelles, hunched in his saddle and steeled his mind against the creeping quiet of the Forest of Loren. Since childhood, he had feared the forest which clung to the south-eastern border of Quenelles. Over the years, it had been responsible for the deaths and disappearances of more friends and subjects than he cared to count. More than once, as a young lord, he had ridden to its edge on the trail of a missing peasant child, only to be forced to turn back in failure. It was a place of pale shapes and bad dreams. Then, the world itself had become a nightmare of late.

He closed his eyes, and wished yet again that the burden he now bore had not passed to him. That his cousin Anthelme had not perished in Altdorf, victim of a plague-stained blade. That Tancred, Anthelme’s predecessor, had not fallen to the black axe of Krell. That he, Jerrod, was not the last of the line of Quenelles. But mostly, he wished that he was not here now, riding into the belly of the beast rather than fighting alongside his people in their hour of need – whatever remained of them.

Jerrod could still recall the smoke that lay thick on the horizon as he’d ridden hard through the pine crags, seeking aid for his beleaguered companions. The smoke that rose over the pyre that had been his homeland, and more besides. For there to be so much smoke, the whole of Bretonnia would need to be aflame, he knew.

What had happened, in the months since he and the Companions of Quenelles had ridden out alongside Louen Leoncoeur’s crusade into the heart of the Empire, to bend their lances in aid of their oldest rivals, greatest enemies and occasional allies? What had befallen Bretonnia in that time? He opened his eyes and reached beneath his helmet to scratch at the week-old growth of beard covering his cheeks and jaw. Since his manservant had been brained at the Battle of Bolgen, he’d had no one to make him presentable.

If what was occurring in Bretonnia was anything like what was happening in the Empire, he feared to learn of it. The Empire had always seemed an unconquerable behemoth to him, a vast dragon with many heads, belching fire and ruin against its foes. To test oneself against that dragon had been the dream of many a young knight, himself included. But now the dragon had fallen, slain by a death of a thousand cuts, each more inglorious than the last. Then, when your enemy wielded plague, storm and fire as easily as a peasant wielded a cudgel, glory was the first casualty, as he and his Companions had discovered to their cost.

Barely a third of the men who had ridden beside him, first in the civil war against Mallobaude’s wretches, and then later at La Maisontaal Abbey, and finally to Altdorf at the command of the Lion-Heart, still lived. Gioffre of Anglaron had died beneath Krell’s axe at La Maisontaal Abbey. The cousins Raynor and Hernald had fallen beside Anthelme at Altdorf. Old Calard of Garamont had died on the walls of Averheim, sword in hand and a curse on his lips. Those who remained, however, were the cream of what Bretonnia had stood for – driven by duty and their oaths to the Lady to stand against evil wherever it might be found. And there was evil aplenty in the Empire.

First Altdorf, then Averheim, had become victims of the foulness seeping down from the north. The other cities of the Empire had fallen besides, but he had been at both Altdorf and Averheim, and had led the Companions in battle against the enemy alongside the Emperor Karl Franz himself, as well as the wild-haired Slayer King of the mountain folk, Ungrim Ironfist.

The thought of the latter only made the weight on his soul all the heavier. The Slayer King had died so that they might live, and escape the trap Averheim had become. While Jerrod knew little of dwarfs, he knew from the weeks they’d spent fighting beside one another that such a death had long been Ironfist’s desire. That made it no less sorrowful, and he felt a moment of pity for the remains of the once-mighty throng which had followed Ironfist out of the Worlds Edge Mountains and into defeat. Like the Bretonnians, they too were the last gasp of a shattered people. And like the Bretonnians, they had no way of knowing the fate of those they had left behind.

He turned slightly in his saddle, to glance down at the heavy form of Gotri Hammerson as the dwarf runesmith stomped alongside Jerrod’s horse. He was old, older perhaps than many a storied Bretonnian keep, Jerrod thought, and as hard as the stones of the mountains they now travelled through. He and the dwarf had not become friends – not quite – but they had fallen into a companionable routine. Their outlooks were not entirely dissimilar, for all that the dwarf mind was a thing utterly alien to Jerrod.

It was Hammerson who had seen them safely away from Averland, after the magics of Balthasar Gelt had plucked the battered remnants of their forces from the clutches of the Everchosen. Hammerson had led the Emperor and his motley assemblage of humans and dwarfs through the Grey Mountains by hidden dwarf roads. Indeed, it was only thanks to Hammerson that they had been able to proceed at all. Unguided, the army would have foundered, burdened as it was by the number of wounded.

Even with Hammerson’s aid, the going had been difficult. Mindless dead clustered in the high crags, their only purpose to kill the living. Pools of suppurating wild magic had given birth to monsters and daemons. Too, the mountains were home to hundreds of orc and goblin tribes. Even the hidden dwarf paths had not been entirely safe. More than once, the battered group of men and dwarfs had been forced to defend themselves against greenskins which swept howling out of the crags. There, only Zhufbarak guns and Gelt’s spellcraft had carried the day, a fact which proved no small frustration to Jerrod and his remaining knights.

While he respected Hammerson, his feelings for the wizard, Gelt, were mixed. The man, clad in filthy robes and a tarnished golden mask, made Jerrod’s skin crawl. He stank of hot metal, and there was something… otherworldly about him. Jerrod had felt similarly when in the presence of the Emperor, who had wielded lightning at the Battle of Bolgen.

Unfortunately, whatever power had infused the Emperor now seemed to be gone, ripped from him by the hands of the Everchosen himself. He was nothing but a man now, in a time when men were all but helpless.

Jerrod sighed. He had seen two great nations consumed in fire and blood, and he longed to do something, anything, to achieve some small measure of retribution, no matter how futile. Nonetheless, even with guns and sorcery, it was invariably a close thing. The greenskins had ever frenzied forth in great numbers, but now, as the world came undone, they seemed particularly driven to madness. It was as if some unseen power had caught hold of them and set their brute minds aflame.

But even battle-maddened greenskins had been as nothing compared to what had come after. Even as the column of refugees had reached the pine crags that marked the northern boundary of Athel Loren, the wind had carried the sound of berserk howls. They had been pursued all the way from Averheim by an army of the Blood God’s worshippers, and it was at the infamous Chasm of Echoes that they had been forced to make their stand. While Gelt and Hammerson’s dwarfs had held the pass, Jerrod and the Emperor had ridden hard, braving the forest’s dangers in an effort to make contact with Athel Loren’s defenders.

Jerrod looked up towards the head of the column, where the Emperor walked alongside his griffon, Deathclaw. The animal was limping, but even so, it looked as dangerous as ever. It was a rare man who could ride such a beast without fear. Rarer still was the man who actually felt some form of affection for his monstrous mount. That Deathclaw seemed to reciprocate this affection was merely proof of Karl Franz’s worthiness, and the rightness of Leoncoeur’s decision to bring aid to the embattled Empire.

Jerrod had fought alongside the man for months. While at times Karl Franz seemed aloof and otherworldly, Jerrod had come to admire him, foreign sovereign or not. The Emperor inspired the same sort of loyalty in his men as the resurrected and re-crowned Gilles le Breton had in Jerrod’s own countrymen. Especially his Reiksguard, the knights who acted as his personal bodyguard. Jerrod had got to know one of them quite well – Wendel Volker.

It was Volker who had brought the sad tidings of Middenheim’s fall to the Emperor at Averheim. Volker was young, but his hair was white and his face worn like that of a man twice his age. His armour was battered and scorched, and he moved at times like one who was trapped in a dream. He was, like many men in these sad times, broken. He had seen too much, and endured more pain than any man ought.

Volker was walking beside the Emperor, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He had not left Karl Franz’s side since arriving at Averheim’s gates, leading a tiny, exhausted band of riders – the only survivors of Middenheim. How Volker had got them out, he’d never said, and Jerrod hadn’t asked. They had arrived only days before Archaon’s forces, and had ridden their horses to death to reach the dubious safety of the city walls. As if he’d heard Jerrod’s thoughts, Volker slowed, turned and soon fell into step beside Jerrod’s horse.

‘Hail and well met,’ Jerrod said, leaning down. He extended his hand. Volker took it.

‘Never thought I’d see this place,’ Volker murmured, without preamble.

Jerrod looked around. ‘Nor did I.’ He shivered. ‘I wish there had been some other way.’

‘You and me both, manling,’ Hammerson grumbled. He looked up at Volker. ‘It’s no place for men nor dwarfs.’

‘Few places are these days,’ Volker said. He ran a hand through his frost-coloured hair. ‘And fewer by the day.’ He blinked and looked up at Jerrod. ‘I’m sorry, Jerrod, I spoke without thinking.’

Jerrod smiled sadly and sat back in his saddle. ‘We’ve all lost our homes, Wendel,’ he said. He swept an arm out. ‘We are all that remains of three mighty empires, my friends. The last gasp of a saner world. I would that it were not so, but if it must be, at least we die as the Lady wills, with courage and honour.’

‘I’m sure Sigmar is of a similar mind,’ Volker said, with a grim smile. He looked at Hammerson. ‘And Grungni as well, eh?’

‘I doubt a manling knows anything of the mind of a dwarf god,’ Hammerson said sourly. He sniffed. Then, ‘But aye… if death comes, let it come hot.’

‘No danger of it being otherwise, given our rescuers,’ Volker said. He pointed upwards, towards the sky, where the fiery shapes of phoenixes swooped and cut through the air. They were ridden by elves, Jerrod knew.

It had been by purest chance that he had found himself on the path to Ystin Asuryan, as their rescuers had called it. Fiery birds, white lions, and tall, proud elven warriors clad in shimmering armour had marched along its length, and gone to the aid of Hammerson and Gelt against the followers of Chaos. Now, the remains of that host escorted them deeper and deeper into the winding heart of Athel Loren.

All at once, Jerrod was reminded of where he was. Around them the trees seemed to press close, and strange shapes stalked through the gloom, watching them. This forest was no place for men. And there was no telling what awaited them within its depths.

Gotri Hammerson ignored the shadows and the trees and the whispers and concentrated on the path ahead, as Jerrod and Volker continued to speak. Let the forest talk all it wanted. He didn’t have to listen. That was where the manlings always went wrong… they listened. They couldn’t help it. They were curious by nature, like beardlings, only they never grew out of it. Always poking and prodding and writing things down. And on pulped wood or animal skins at that, he thought. They trust their knowledge to things that rot… That tells you all you need to know.

Still, they weren’t all bad. He glanced at Volker, and at Jerrod, who sat slumped in his saddle. The Bretonnians were a hardy folk, and they knew the value of an oath. It was a shame that they had the stink of elves on them, but that was humans for you. Naive, the lot of them. You couldn’t trust an elf, everybody knew that. Common knowledge in Zhufbar, that was. Couldn’t trust elves, halflings or ogres. Not an honourable bone in any of that lot.

And you certainly couldn’t trust a forest. That much wood in one place was unnatural. It did odd things to the air, and the light. And this particular forest was a wellspring of grudges, stretching from the time of Grugni Goldfinder to the present day. Many a dwarf’s bones were lost beneath the green loam of the deep forest, their spirits trapped by the roots, never able to journey to the halls of their ancestors.

It was a bad place, full of bad things, like a pocket of old darkness in an abandoned mine. At least we’ve got the ancestor gods on our side, Hammerson thought. He felt a moment of shame, but pushed it aside. It wasn’t the manling’s fault, no matter what some among his dwindling throng might grumble. Still, there wasn’t a dwarf alive who wouldn’t be discomfited by the thought of one of their ancestor gods – and Grungni no less! – blessing a human so.

And there was no other explanation for it. Balthasar Gelt was blessed. How else to explain how runes flared to vigorous life in his presence? In the wizard’s vicinity, gromril armour became harder than ever before and weapons gained a killing edge that no whetstone could replicate. Hammerson sniffed the air.

He didn’t even have to look around to know that Gelt was near. The wizard glowed with an inner fire, like a freshly stoked forge. The air around him stank like smelted iron, and when he spoke, the runes that were Hammerson’s to shape and bestow shimmered with the light of Grungni. Hammerson could feel the human’s presence in his gut, and it bothered him to no end to admit that, even to himself.

Why had the gods gifted a manling with their power? And a wizard at that – a blasted elf-taught sorcerer, without an ounce of muscle on his lean frame and no proper axe to speak of. And he rides a horse. With feathers, Hammerson thought sourly. Couldn’t trust a horse, especially one that could fly. A horse was just an elf with hooves.

And speaking of elves, and their lack of trustworthiness… Hammerson stumped ahead, one hand on the head of the hammer stuffed through his belt, to join Caradryan at the head of the column. The elf looked as tired as Jerrod, for all that he sat erect on his horse. His overgrown chicken was somewhere above them, turning the night sky as bright as day. Only an elf would ride a bird that burst into flame if you gave it a hard look. Caradryan, like Gelt, smelt of magic. He stank of wildfire and burning stones. It was a familiar odour to Hammerson.

‘So you’ve got it then, have you?’ he said, without preamble. He’d heard the Phoenix Guard weren’t allowed to talk, so he was anticipating a short conversation. Or maybe just a nod, or grunt of acknowledgement. ‘Ungrim’s fire?’

Caradryan blinked and looked down. ‘What?’ he said, and his voice crackled like a rising flame. His eyes shone strangely, but Hammerson wasn’t afraid to meet them. He’d got used to eyes like that, on the march from Zhufbar to Averheim. Ungrim had been like a flame caged in metal, sparking and snarling, aching to unleash its power.

‘I thought you lot couldn’t talk,’ he said.

‘We can speak. We simply did not. Asuryan commanded it,’ Caradryan said. The elf’s face twisted, and what might have been sadness filled his eyes.

‘Nice of him to let you talk now,’ Hammerson grunted.

‘Asuryan is dead. And silence is no longer an indulgence we can afford,’ Caradryan said.

‘Just like an elf. Wouldn’t catch a dwarf breaking a vow just because he misplaced his god,’ Hammerson said, bluntly.

Caradryan’s expression became mask-like. ‘What do you want, dwarf?’

Hammerson looked up at him. ‘Got a bit of godfire in you, elf. Don’t deny it. Ungrim Ironfist had it, before he fulfilled his oath. I can feel it from here. Worse than that bird of yours. I’m surprised that horse hasn’t died of heatstroke.’ Hammerson looked away. ‘Godfire or no, if you’re leading us into a trap, I’ll crack your skull.’ He patted his hammer affectionately.

‘Why would I rescue you, only to lead you into a trap?’ Caradryan murmured. Hammerson frowned. He didn’t like being reminded of that. He was no prideful beardling, and he knew that the presence of the elves had been instrumental in turning back the tide of blood-worshippers who had caught up with the dwarfs and their mannish allies in the pine crags. But it was impolite to mention it, and even an elf ought to know better.

‘Who knows why elves do anything? You’re all crooked in the skull,’ Hammerson said, twirling his finger about alongside his head. ‘And you didn’t rescue us. Maybe you helped the manlings, but the Zhufbarak need no aid from your sort.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘We didn’t have to offer you our help, you know,’ Caradryan said, frowning.

‘Elves never offer help freely. There’s always a price.’

‘And your people would know all about that, eh, dwarf?’ Caradryan said.

Hammerson looked up at him, and made to retort. But before he could, someone said, ‘There is a price, and it is obvious, Master Hammerson. For we have all asked it, and paid it, in these past few months.’

Hammerson glanced over his shoulder, and saw the human Emperor striding along beside his griffon. Karl Franz had one hand on the beast’s neck, and its striped tail lashed in pleasure as he scratched beneath its feathers. ‘We fight for each other. That is the price and the paying of it, in these times. To fight alongside one another, and for one another, in defence of all that we knew and loved.’

Hammerson grimaced and turned back to the trail ahead. ‘Aye,’ he grunted. ‘Doesn’t mean we have to like it, though.’

The Emperor laughed. ‘No, nor would I ask it of you. Irritable dwarfs fight better than content ones, I have learned.’

Hammerson opened his mouth, ready to deny it. Then he snorted, shook his head and looked up at Caradryan. ‘And what about elves, then?’ he asked.

‘We fight better than dwarfs, whatever their disposition,’ Caradryan said. The elf turned in his saddle and looked at the Emperor. ‘We are drawing near. When we arrive, you will accompany me into the Eternal Glade alone.’

‘Not if I have anything to say about it,’ Hammerson growled.

‘You do not.’ Caradryan didn’t look at him. He spoke disdainfully, as if Hammerson were no more important than a pebble lodged in his horse’s hoof. Then, that was elves for you. They thought the world danced to their tune. Even now, with everything that had happened, elves were still elves. But dwarfs were still dwarfs.

Hammerson stumped around in front of Caradryan’s horse and extended a hand. As the horse drew close, the dwarf reached out and gave the animal a hard flick on the snout with one thick finger. The horse reared and snorted. Caradryan cursed and fought to control his steed. The whole column crashed to a halt behind him. White lions roared in consternation as horses whinnied and men shouted questions. Elves pelted forwards, bleeding out of the forest like ghosts. Hammerson ignored them, and the arrows that were soon pointed at him.

The runesmith crossed his brawny arms and smiled. ‘Seems like I do, lad. Now, before we go a step further, I think we ought to decide who’s going where, and who’s invited to what.’

‘Move aside, dwarf,’ Caradryan said. The air grew hazy around his head and shoulders, and Hammerson could see the faint outline of flames. Hammerson shook his head.

‘No.’ Behind Caradryan, he could see the Emperor watching the confrontation, and Gelt as well. The latter looked as if he intended to intervene, but the Emperor stopped him with a gesture. Hammerson felt his smile widen. Aye, leave it to the dwarfs, manling, he thought.

‘Move aside, or be moved,’ Caradryan growled. He slid from the saddle and approached Hammerson. Flames crawled across his armour and his flesh was growing translucent, his every pore shining with reddish light. Hammerson held his ground, though every instinct he had was screaming for him to run. The elf wasn’t really an elf any more, even as Gelt wasn’t human. There was a power there he didn’t understand, and didn’t want to. But that power was as nothing compared to the weight of the responsibility on Hammerson’s shoulders.

‘No. Whatever happens, from here on out, my people will be heard and will hear all that is said. We’ve earned that right, in blood and iron.’

‘You’ve earned nothing, dwarf,’ Caradryan said, in a voice like the hiss of flame across stone. ‘That you still live, after being allowed so far into the last, most sacred place of my people, should be enough, even for your greedy kind.’

‘If you think that, then you really don’t know much about us. Whatever is said, it likely concerns us, and I would hear it.’ The Zhufbarak, his warriors, his kin, were all that remained of Zhufbar. As far as he knew, they might be all that remained of the dwarf race. He had a responsibility to them, to see that their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. To see that their enemies, at least, remembered them. To see that, whatever else happened, they had a say in how they met their end.

‘I should have left you to die,’ Caradryan growled. Hammerson wondered how much of the anger in his voice was him, and how much was the power that now resided in him. Ungrim had been much the same, in those final days. Angry at everything, and nothing.

‘Would have been convenient for you, aye,’ Hammerson said. He cut his eyes to Gelt, and then added, ‘Without us to caution them, the manlings would fall right into whatever trap you’ve laid out for them. That’s why you don’t want us to hear it, eh?’

Caradryan frowned. ‘You know nothing,’ he snapped. Flames blazed to life around his clenched fists and crawled up his forearms. In their light Hammerson saw strange figures, part wood and part woman, slink through the trees, their bark claws flexing eagerly. More elves had arrived as well, these clad in the colours of the woods, and he felt a chill as he recognised the wild elves and dryads of the forest.

‘Well that’s why I want to hear all about it,’ Hammerson said. He thought of home, of the Black Water, and of the huge waterfall that cascaded down the side of the chasm in which the hold was nestled. If he were to be burned here, he wanted that to be his last thought.

‘Wait,’ someone said, from behind him. Hammerson turned.

Several figures stood behind him, suffused by a soft light which threw back the darkness that clung to the trees. Three elves – a woman and two men, both of the latter armoured, one in black iron, the other in gold and silver. The woman stepped forwards, her forest green robes rustling softly. She wore a crown of gold, and her face was so beautiful as to be painful, even to Hammerson. Caradryan sank to one knee, head bowed. His flames flickered and died.

The Emperor moved then to stand beside Hammerson. He sank down slowly, arms spread, head lowered. ‘Greetings, Alarielle the Radiant, Everqueen, Handmaiden of Isha. We come before you to humbly beg sanctuary and to offer our aid in these troubled times,’ Karl Franz said. His voice carried easily through the trees. He looked up. ‘Will you welcome us to Athel Loren?’

Hammerson lifted his chin in defiance as the woman’s gaze passed over him. He knew of the Everqueen, and knew that she could incinerate him on the spot with the barest word. The runes branded into his flesh ached, and he could feel the power of her through them. But he was a dwarf of the Black Water, and he would not kneel before an elf.

Her eyes met his, and, after a moment, what might have been the ghost of a smile passed across her lovely features. She inclined her head. ‘Be welcome, travellers,’ she said. She raised her hand, and the elves lowered their weapons. The dryads retreated, slinking back into the forest. ‘The world has changed, and old distrusts and grudges must be abandoned. You have done well, Caradryan.’ Alarielle gestured for the Emperor to rise. ‘Come. There is much to be discussed, before the end of all things.’

Teclis, once-Loremaster of the now-shattered Tower of Hoeth, blood of Aenarion and Astarielle, sat beneath an ancient tree in the Eternal Glade, eyes closed, his head pressed against the staff he held upright before him.

To his mystically attuned senses, the heartbeat of the primordial forest of Athel Loren was almost deafening. The forest, and the Eternal Glade in particular, was a place of immense, incomprehensible power. It would have taken him an eternity to learn its secrets, if he had been so inclined. And then only if the forest itself had let him.

The murmur of voices rose and fell around him, beyond the barrier of his eyelids. Not just the voices of elves, more was the pity. There were men as well, and dwarfs. Athel Loren had become the final redoubt for the mortal races as well as the immortal.

When Caradryan, captain of the Phoenix Guard, had led a column of weary survivors into the Eternal Grove that morning, he had paid no notice to the furore it elicited in the inhabitants of the woodland realm. Instead, his mind had turned inwards, hunting, seeking, probing, trying to root out some clue as to the source of his failure.

Where did I go wrong?

He was not used to asking such questions. In him was personified both the capability and the arrogance of his people, and it was not without cause that some – including himself – thought he was the greatest adept produced by the folk of Ulthuan since the breaking of the world in those far, dim days when daemons had poured through the wounds in the world’s poles. He was the first to admit it, and wore it as a badge of pride. Like his brother, Teclis was the best and the worst of his folk made flesh.

I made a mistake. Somewhere, somehow… What did I miss? What factor did I overlook? The thoughts spiralled around and around, like leaves caught in a stiff breeze. Where did I go wrong? He examined the moment again and again, from every angle and facet.

He could still feel the frustration of that moment – the winds of magic raging within the Vortex, even as Ulthuan crumbled beneath him, his ancient home sinking into the raging sea. He could feel the winds escaping, one by one, slipping through his grasp as quick as eels, and the mounting sense of loss. He had wagered everything on a single throw of the dice, and while he had not lost, he hadn’t won either.

His hands tightened on his staff. He knew every groove and contour of it by touch, and he had worked magics into it since he had first taken a knife to the length of wood in which it had hidden. The staff was as much a part of him as one of his limbs. It was warm to the touch, and the pale wood shone with a soft light. The residual power of the lore of Light, the one wind until recently within his grasp, coiled within the core of his staff, where it had slumbered until he’d found the one on whom he would bestow it. The one whom he had resurrected and transformed into the Incarnate of Light, a living embodiment of Hysh, the White Wind of magic.

Oh my brother, what have I made of you? What have I done to you? What have I done for you? The latter question was easier to answer than the former. His sins in that regard were ever at the foreground of his thoughts. Tyrion, his brother, had died, consumed by the curse of their mutual bloodline, his body and soul twisted by the madness of Khaine. And it had happened by Teclis’s design.

It had always been Tyrion’s destiny to become the Incarnate of Light. But if he had done so while still bearing the curse of Aenarion, that power – the power necessary to redeem the world – would have become corrupted, and bent to the will of Khaine… or worse things. Thus Teclis had been forced to manipulate his own brother, to set the one he loved best on a path that would inevitably lead to his death. That such an outcome had been the only way of ensuring that the curse exhausted itself did not ease Teclis’s guilt. Nor did the knowledge that Tyrion’s resurrection as the Incarnate of Light was the lynchpin of his plan to throw back the Rhana Dandra – to win the unwinnable war. All that mattered was that he had killed his brother and doomed the world.

But Teclis had brought Tyrion back from death’s bower; he had transported the frail, mummified remains of his twin across the world, from the shattered remnants of Ulthuan, leaving his people in the hands of Malekith.

He had come to Athel Loren, and watered the seeds of Tyrion-as-he-had-been within the Heart of Avelorn. When Tyrion had awoken from the slumber of death, Teclis had filled the emptiness left behind by Khaine’s passing with the Flame of Ulric, filling Tyrion’s still-weak limbs with new strength. He had damned a city and all of the innocents within its walls in order to give his brother a chance of survival, and he knew, in his heart, that he would make the same choice again. Tyrion had endured too much, and all of it at his brother’s hands, for Teclis not to. And then, when he was sure that Tyrion could stand it, he had given him the power of Hysh, and stirred the ashes of destiny to life once more.

He had given his brother back his life, and in return Tyrion had fought alongside his fellow Incarnates, Malekith and Alarielle, to save the Oak of Ages from the depredations of Chaos’s firstborn son, Be’lakor, and those dark spirits he had twisted to his foul cause. Now, in the aftermath of that desperate battle, the few survivors of another, equally terrible conflict had come seeking sanctuary under the boughs of Athel Loren. And with them had come two more Incarnates.

Through the staff, he could sense the presence of the five Incarnates, their power grounded in frail flesh and bone, and the briefest trace of a sixth. The world hummed with the weight of them. Their every word sent shockwaves through his senses, and he could taste the raw power that seeped from their pores.

Slowly, his eyes still closed, he turned his staff, the gem set in its tip moving like a serpent’s tongue, tasting the scent of each wind in turn. The gemstone was almost as old as the world itself, and it had taken him decades to work it and carve its facets to the proper shape. In his mind’s eye, he saw the radiance of each – the blinding aura of Hysh, the constantly-shifting morass of Ulgu, the throbbing heat of Ghyran, the roaring hunger of Aqshy, the dense power of Chamon and, last and least, the faint thrum of Azyr, the Blue Wind of magic. Light, Shadow, Life, Fire, Metal and the faintest traces of the Wind of the Heavens. Only two were missing… Shyish, the Wind of Death, and Ghur, the Wind of Beasts.

Of the two, he suspected he knew where the former had ended up – indeed, where else could it have gone? – but he had lost all hope of learning the location of the Wind of Beasts, or of the identity of its chosen host. The others, however, were here, right where they were supposed to be, and his regret was tempered by some small relief.

Nonetheless, he had failed. He had failed to control the Incarnates, failed to bestow the winds of magic on his chosen soldiers, and failed to bring them together in time. He had failed Ulthuan, he had failed his people, and now the world teetered on the knife-edge of oblivion. What remains of it, at any rate, he thought. The island-realm of the high elves was gone, lost to the swirling waters of the Great Ocean; the blood-slicked stones of Naggaroth were now little more than a haunt for cannibals and monsters; and Athel Loren was an inhospitable refuge for what remained of the elven peoples.

The elves were not alone in their doom, however. The ancient temple-cities of Lustria were no more, consumed in fires from the sky, the fate of their inhabitants unknown. The dwarfs had fared no better; their greatest holds had been all but overrun by skaven and worse, and those that remained had barred their gates in a futile effort to wait out the end of all things.

The realms of men had suffered as well. Bretonnia was a haunted wasteland, overrun by daemons and monsters despite the best efforts of its defenders. The lands of the south were gone, erased by the rampaging hordes of the ratmen. Kislev had been stripped to the bone by the hordes of Chaos, its people slaughtered or driven into the frozen wilderness to die. And the Empire, the last hope of the human race, was all but gone, its greatest cities taken by the enemy or reduced to plague-haunted ruins.

The enormity of it all threatened to overcome him, and would have, had events not conspired to bring the Incarnates together at last. He had doomed the world by his actions, his carelessness, but there was still a chance to salvage something. There was still a chance to weather the storm of Chaos, and throw back the Everchosen. And while there was a chance, Teclis would not surrender to despair. He could not.

‘Teclis.’

Teclis opened his eyes. A ring of expectant faces met his sight. He took note of some of them – the newcomers had only been allowed a few representatives. The Emperor, Karl Franz. Duke Jerrod of Quenelles. Gotri Hammerson, runesmith of Zhufbar. Balthasar Gelt, wizard and Incarnate. And a white-haired knight, who was the Emperor’s bodyguard. Something about the latter drew his attention. The man looked cold, as if he had been doused in ice-water, and when he caught Teclis looking at him, his face twisted, just for a moment, into a snarl. Teclis blinked, and the expression was gone. He hesitated, suddenly uncertain. ‘What would you wish of me, Everqueen?’ he asked, looking at Alarielle.

The Everqueen had been a living symbol of Isha, the mother-goddess of the elves, in better times. But her beauty had been transfigured into something terrifying since she had become the host for the Wind of Life. No more the nurturer, Alarielle had become instead the incarnation of creation and destruction, of life’s beginnings and endings. The trees of the Eternal Glade shuddered and twitched in time to her heartbeat, her breath was in the wind, and in her voice was the rush and crash of the brooks and rivers.

‘What I wish, Loremaster, and what I require are two separate things,’ Alarielle said. Teclis knew she meant no insult, but even so, the coldness of her tone was almost too much for him to bear. Ever since she had given up the Heart of Avelorn to help resurrect Tyrion she had become withdrawn, as if the love she had once borne for his brother had become as dust.

‘Not Loremaster,’ he said. ‘Not any more. Ulthuan is gone, and the Tower of Hoeth with it.’ He spat the words with more bitterness than he’d intended. You have no right to bitterness, he thought, not when your actions are the cause.

‘But you still live, brother,’ Tyrion said, softly. ‘We still live. Our people survive, thanks to you. Ulthuan is gone, but while one asur lives, its spirit persists.’

‘Oh yes, very pretty. And while one asur lives, or druchii or asrai for that matter, I am still their king, as much good as it does any of us,’ Malekith interjected, his voice a harsh, metallic rasp. Like Alarielle, he had been bound to one of the winds of magic. In his case, it had been Ulgu, and the coiling, cunning lore of Shadows suited Malekith to his core. He was less a being of flesh than of darkness now, stinking of burned iron and radiating cold. ‘And as king, I would have answers. Why do you come to us, human?’ Malekith asked. ‘Why do you dare to come to Athel Loren?’

‘Where else is there to go?’ Karl Franz said. ‘The world has grown hostile, and sanctuary is hard to come by. Old allies find themselves equally hard-pressed.’ He indicated Hammerson and Jerrod. ‘Our greatest cities are in ruins, and our people are in disarray. Our last redoubt, Averheim, is dust beneath the boots of the world’s enemy. I am an emperor without an empire, as are you,’ Karl Franz said, looking at Malekith.

‘Look around you, human… my empire still stands,’ Malekith said. He stood and spread his arms. ‘The enemy have broken themselves on it again and again. But we still stand.’

Karl Franz smiled. ‘If this is what you call an empire, I begin to wonder why Finubar feared you.’

Shadows coiled and writhed around Malekith’s form as he went rigid with anger. ‘You dare…?’ he hissed. ‘I will pluck the flesh from your bones, king of nothing.’

‘Yes, for that has ever been the way of your folk. The world burns, and you can think of nothing better to do than to squabble in the ashes.’ Karl Franz gestured sharply. ‘You would rather kill the messenger than hear the message. You would turn away allies, because in your arrogance you mistake strength for weakness and support for burden.’

‘What would you know of us, human?’ Alarielle said. Teclis glanced at her. Her features were perfectly composed, but he thought he detected the trace of a smile on her face.

‘I know enough,’ Karl Franz said. He turned, his eyes scanning the Eternal Glade. ‘I know that what your folk call the “Rhana Dandra” has begun – indeed, it began several years ago. I know that Ulthuan is gone, and that the Great Vortex is no more.’ His eyes sought out Teclis. Teclis twitched. The Emperor’s gaze revealed nothing, but the elf felt a glimmer of suspicion.

Why had Azyr sought out Karl Franz? The winds were drawn to their hosts as like was drawn to like, but the Emperor had, to the best of his knowledge, never displayed the least affinity for the lore of the Heavens. Teclis forced the thought aside. It mattered little now, in any event. The power was gone, torn from him. Teclis shook himself and said, ‘And do you know why?’

Karl Franz looked at him. ‘No,’ he said, and Teclis knew it was a lie.

‘Oh, well, let Teclis illuminate you, eh?’ Malekith said. He had sunk back onto his throne, his anger already but a memory. Teclis looked at him, and Malekith gestured sharply. ‘As your king, I command you to tell the savages of your crimes, schemer.’ Malekith laughed. ‘Tell our guests how you gambled the world, and lost.’

Teclis looked at the thin, dark shape of the creature once known as the Witch-King, sitting on his throne of roots and branches beside the Everqueen. The creature he had helped crown Eternity King, and had gifted with more power than he deserved. Malekith met his glare, and Teclis knew that the former ruler of the dark elves was smiling behind his metal mask.

Teclis used his staff to help himself to his feet, and he pulled the tattered remnants of his authority about him. He looked at the newcomers. Despite being bedraggled and bloodstained, they did not look beaten, and for that, Teclis thanked the fallen gods of his people. They would need every ounce of strength that they could muster for what was coming. He cleared his throat, and made ready to speak.

Before he could, however, a snarl ripped through the glade. A snarl that was achingly familiar, and utterly terrifying. He turned, and his searching gaze was met by a yellow, furious one. Beast eyes those, and blazing with intent. The temperature in the glade began to drop.

‘Thief!’ the white-haired knight roared, in a voice not his own. The Reiksguard shoved past the Emperor, and hurled himself towards Teclis, fingers hooked like claws.

‘Volker – no!’ the Emperor bellowed, reaching for his guard. The man slithered out of his grip.

With a curse, the dwarf, Hammerson made a grab for Volker. ‘Hold him back, lad, or it’s an arrow to the giblets for the lot of us,’ the dwarf roared at the Bretonnian as he wrapped his brawny arms around Volker’s legs. The Reiksguard fell sprawling and Jerrod sprang on top of him, armour rattling. Volker thrashed beneath them, howling like a wolf. Teclis stumbled back, one hand pressed to his throat, his face pale with shock.

Volker was cold; colder than Teclis thought it was possible for a man to become and survive. The air around the struggling figures became silvered with frost, and the grass beneath them turned stiff and shattered. Jerrod’s teeth were chattering, and Hammerson was cursing. Volker glared at Teclis, his eyes yellow and bestial. ‘Thief,’ he snarled again, and Teclis shuddered, pulling his cloak about himself. He had expected this, though he’d hoped it would be otherwise. Ulric was not the sort of god to pass quietly into oblivion, even if it would be better for all concerned.

‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Yes, I am a thief. And your moment has passed, old wolf. You are dead, and I will not let you sacrifice a life merely to take mine.’ He lifted his staff, and the words to an incantation rose in his mind. But before he could speak, Karl Franz stepped between them. Though the Wind of the Heavens had been stripped from him, there was still something yet in him that made Teclis wary. A lurking strength, as unlike his own as Tyrion’s was. He lowered his hands. ‘I did what I had to do,’ he said, without quite knowing why, as he met the Emperor’s gaze. ‘I did what was necessary.’

‘And would you do it again?’ Karl Franz said, his voice a quiet rumble.

Teclis hesitated. He glanced towards Tyrion. ‘In a heartbeat,’ he said.

The Emperor nodded slowly, as if he had expected no other answer. He turned and looked down at his bodyguard. The man thrashed and howled, fighting to be free of his captors. Veins bulged on his neck, and froth coated his lips. Karl Franz looked back at Teclis. ‘Can you help him?’ he asked.

Instead of replying, Teclis knelt. Volker’s body twitched and his face seemed to elongate, becoming monstrous and unformed. Teclis stretched out his hand and plunged his fingers into the wet chill that obscured the man’s face. He tried to grasp the shard of Ulric’s essence that had made its home in the man, even as he had grasped the Flame in Middenheim. But this was different. It was no mindless flux of power, but rather a desperate consciousness, savage and determined. It struggled against him, and he heard Volker wail in agony.

Images flooded his mind. He saw Middenheim burn, felt the heat of the flames, and the blistering cold as the sliver of Ulric’s might was pressed into Volker’s soul. Fear, weakness, fatigue, all were buried beneath the cold, so that Volker might survive the sack of the city and escape to bring warning to Averheim. Even in death, the wolf-god had been determined to watch over his chosen people. Sigmar might have been their greatest god, but Ulric had been their first.

But now, with warnings delivered, there was one last task. Ulric had known that somehow, someway, Teclis would cross paths with the men of the Empire once more, before the end of all things. And he was determined to have his revenge. Teclis felt a sudden, stabbing pain, as if teeth were tearing into his flesh, and he jerked his hand back with a hiss. Steam rose from his blue-tinged flesh as he cradled the wounded limb to his chest. Alarielle and Malekith’s guards started forward, but the Eternity King slammed a fist down on his throne. ‘Be still,’ he grated. ‘No more of our people’s blood shall be spent in payment of his schemes. Let him survive or fall on his own.’

Volker flung off his captors. ‘You killed them, thief,’ Volker snarled, lunging for him again. His voice echoed strangely amongst the trees, with a sound like ice-clad branches snapping. As he fell back, Teclis saw Tyrion start forwards, one hand on his blade. He waved a hand, stopping his brother before he could interfere. This is my fight, brother, my burden, Teclis thought. ‘You killed my city – my people – you killed the world. For what?’ Volker growled, in a dead god’s voice.

‘For him,’ Teclis said, indicating his brother. ‘For them. I sacrificed your people for my own, and I would do it again, a thousand times over, if I had to.’ He extended his staff to hold Volker at bay. ‘Malekith was right. I gambled the world. But I did not lose, for here you all stand… Incarnates, gods in all but name, ready to throw back the end of all things.’ He made a fist. ‘I tore apart the Great Vortex, and sought to ground the winds of magic in living champions, who would become mighty enough, as a group, to defy the Chaos Gods themselves.’

He saw Balthasar Gelt nod, as if a question had suddenly been answered. The wizard said, ‘But not all of the winds are accounted for – what of the Winds of Beasts, and of Death?’

Volker threw back his head and howled, before Teclis could even attempt to reply. The air quivered with the sound. He ripped his sword from its sheath and swung a wild blow at Teclis. The sound of steel on steel followed the echoes of the howl, as the Emperor interposed himself, and his runefang, between the maddened knight and his prey. ‘No,’ Karl Franz said. ‘No, the time for vengeance is done.’

‘Who are you to gainsay me?’ Volker roared. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and froth dotted his patchy beard. He strained against Karl Franz, trying to untangle their blades.

‘I am your Emperor, Wendel Volker. And that should be all that needs to be said.’ The Emperor spoke quietly as he leaned into the locked swords. ‘Now sheathe your blade.’ The two men locked eyes, and for a moment, Teclis wondered which would win out. Then Volker staggered back and slumped, his sword falling to the grass. He sank down, and the frost that coated his armour began to melt. The Emperor dropped to one knee and placed a hand on Volker’s shoulder. Teclis could still feel the wrath of the wolf-god, or whatever was left of him, retreating, slinking back into hiding. It was not gone, but its fury was abated, for now.

Before anyone could speak to break the silence that followed, the trees gave out a sudden rattle, and a wind rose up, causing the leaves to make a sound like murmuring voices. Teclis stiffened. While he was no native of the forest, he knew well what that sound meant. It was a warning.

A moment later, a member of the Eternal Guard moved out of the trees to Alarielle’s side and whispered something into her ear. Her eyes widened and she stood quickly. She looked around. ‘It seems that you are not the only refugees seeking sanctuary within the forest,’ she said. Her voice was strained, and her skin pale. ‘An army approaches the edge of the Wyrdrioth.’

Teclis’s grip on his staff tightened. He could feel the presence of another Incarnate – and one far more powerful than any of those now standing in the Eternal Glade. Together, they might equal him, but separately, they stood no chance. Even here, in the living heart of Athel Loren, he could feel the malignant, suffocating pulse of Shyish – the Wind of Death – and the one who had become its host.

‘An army?’ Malekith snarled. ‘Who would dare?’

‘The Wind of Death,’ Teclis said, before Alarielle could speak. He bowed his head. ‘It is the Incarnate of Death.’ He looked up, meeting the gaze of each Incarnate in turn.

‘The Undying King has come to Athel Loren.’

SEVEN

‘Well, they appear to have prepared quite the welcome for us, I must admit,’ Mannfred von Carstein said as he lounged insouciantly in Ashigaroth’s saddle. The abyssal steed growled in reply. Mannfred patted the creature’s armour-plated neck, and glanced around at his bodyguard of Drakenhof Templars. The armoured vampires sat astride their cannibal steeds, awaiting his orders. Or so they wish me to believe, he thought. His good humour evaporated. He turned back towards the forest and ran his palm over his hairless scalp.

If he’d been human, what he saw before him might have taken his breath away. Banners of all colours and designs were raised together as, for the first time in generations, elves, dwarfs and men prepared to fight as one. The battle-lines had been arranged before the tree line, barring the army of the dead from the Wyrdrioth.

If he’d had any intention of taking his forces into the forest, such a display might have annoyed him. He turned in his saddle, taking in the bleak host which was spread out behind him. The banners of the dead were thick among the pine-crags. An army of worm-picked bone and tattered wings, lit by baleful witch-fires, the dead had spilled down from the mountains in their thousands, their every step precise, guided by a single, crushing will. The will of Nagash.

Mannfred snapped his teeth in frustration. In the years since he had aided Arkhan the Black in resurrecting the Undying King, he had seen everything for which he had worked since his resurrection from the stinking mire of Hel Fenn turn to ashes. Every scheme, every triumph, gone like dust on the wind. All of it ground beneath the remorseless heel of Nagash, as the Undying King prepared for the final war.

Even Sylvania was no longer his – Nagash had given the blighted province over to Neferata to defend, while he marched to war with his remaining lieutenants. Speaking of which… where is the bag of bones? He twisted about, hunting for any sign of his rival. Arkhan was never very far from Nagash these days. Too, he seemed somehow… diminished by the association. As if Nagash’s will had completely obliterated his own. In and of itself, the neutering of his old rival didn’t bother Mannfred all that much. But the implications of it were unpleasant, to say the least.

I’d rather not become a mindless automaton, thank you very much, he thought. Such a fate was beneath him. Then, so was the current state of affairs. Still, reduced circumstances often meant increased opportunities. And there were plenty of the latter, in the wake of the destruction of the Black Pyramid.

He smiled thinly, relishing the memory. At the time, it had not been so enjoyable. But in the aftermath, with several weeks between then and now, he had come to see it for the opportunity it was. A sizeable Chaos army, composed of the rotting dead, giggling plague-daemons and howling barbarians, had smashed through Nagash’s defences with a single-minded determination that put the Undying King’s own forces to shame. Even worse, the enemy had been commanded by old friends and absent companions – the spectral abomination known as the Nameless, and Isabella von Carstein, newly resurrected and as unhinged as ever. One of them would have been bad enough, but the presence of both had made a bad situation all the worse.

The Nameless had ever been treacherous; the dark spirit was a thing fuelled by spite and treachery, more so than any vampire, and its questions and petulant demands had been a constant annoyance. Why Nagash had brought it back, when there were any number of appropriate champions to choose from, Mannfred couldn’t say. The Great Necromancer could stir the waters of death and bring any spirit bobbing to the surface – why not bring back Konrad or one of the other von Carsteins? Anyone other than Vlad, he thought. But no, Nagash had seen fit to bend the Nameless to his will, and then forgotten about it until the creature had returned in the service of a new master.

And Isabella had come with it. Hadn’t that been a surprise, he thought. Of all the von Carsteins he had certainly never expected to see her. Indeed, he’d half expected that Nagash had hidden her soul away in some phylactery somewhere, so as to better control Vlad. It was what Mannfred would have done, had he ever conceived of such a ploy. Unlike Nagash, however, he had no illusions as to just how uncontrollable Vlad truly was. Or had been, Mannfred thought, not without some amusement.

Sylvania had resisted the End Times until that point, inviolate and unchanged. Now, it was a reeking ruin, and what little life it had once had was gone, snuffed by the contest between Nagash and Nurgle. And more than one of Nagash’s lieutenants had been claimed in that conflagration – Luthor Harkon, gone at last to join his treacherous kinsman Walach, and the mighty Vlad von Carstein himself, brought low by the woman he loved.

Mannfred couldn’t restrain a laugh. Goodbye, goodbye, parting is such sweet sorrow, he thought gleefully. So soon returned to the dust where you belong, old man. How the Chaos Gods had got their talons in Isabella’s twisted soul he didn’t know, but she had been the most effective weapon they’d employed to date. She had distracted them all, even Nagash, while the skaven had burrowed beneath Nagash’s nightmare pyramid and claimed a debt that the Undying King had owed them since the razing of Nagashizzar.

It had been a plan worthy of… well, him. He scratched his chin and chuckled, studying the ranks of the living. Of course, if he had been in charge, he would have made sure Nagash had been returned to his well-deserved oblivion, one way or another. Instead, all the Dark Gods had managed to do was stir the tiger from his lair. And now the predator had come to make common cause with his prey, against the fire that threatened to claim the forest around them. Not that the prey knew that just yet. The smell of fear on the wind was delightful.

‘Ah Vlad, if only you could be here – at last, he follows your sage counsel. Too little, too late,’ Mannfred murmured.

‘You sound cheerful for one who has just had his territories stripped from him,’ a familiar voice said. Mannfred twisted about in his saddle and looked down at Arkhan the Black as the latter pushed through the front rank of corpses. ‘I thought you might make your move at last, when he made Neferata castellan of Sylvania.’

Mannfred’s smile faded. ‘My loyalty is as solid as the bedrock beneath our feet, liche.’

Arkhan’s skull tipped back, and a weird scuttling sound rose from his fleshless jaws. Mannfred’s lips peeled back from his fangs. The liche was laughing at him. ‘Oh, be silent, you withered husk,’ he snapped.

‘You are like a spoiled child, angry at having a favoured toy snatched from his grasp,’ Arkhan rasped, staring towards the army of the living. ‘And it is only fitting that Neferata rule… She was born for it, and it would take all four gods of Chaos to shift her. Besides which, there are now more Nehekharan nobles in your precious province than the backward Sylvanian aristocracy you and Vlad dote on. Nagash took the Great Land from them, and now they will have Sylvania in recompense.’

‘Yes, because gods forfend that they should be discomfited in any way. A fragile breed, your desert princes,’ Mannfred spat. Arkhan was right, which only made it worse. The customs of the kings and queens of Nehekhara were alien to him, and without Nagash there to quell them, they would revolt against him the moment he tried to impose his will. For now, at least. He pushed the thought aside and hunkered forwards in his saddle.

‘Think of it, Arkhan. Few men, living or dead, can say that they have seen the green-vaulted reaches of Athel Loren. What secrets must linger in that wild wood? What secrets might you or I rip from it? All we have to do is…’

‘Parley,’ Arkhan said.

Mannfred snorted. ‘Of course. Forgive me. For a moment, I forgot we had an army of but thousands at our back. So of course we must parley, lest their few hundred wreak unmentionable havoc.’ He looked slyly at Arkhan. ‘Why the sudden change of heart, you think? Why now, after all this time, does our lord and master stoop to address the cattle?’ He smiled and tapped his nose. ‘Vampires are very good at smelling weakness, liche. We can taste death on the air.’ He leaned down, and met Arkhan’s flickering gaze unflinchingly. ‘Just how badly did losing the Black Pyramid hurt him, eh?’

‘Why not ask him yourself?’ Arkhan said.

‘I thought I was,’ Mannfred said. He turned away. ‘In any event, who’s it to be, then? Who’ll act as herald, to bring word of our peaceful intentions to yon foemen?’ He sat back. ‘You, perhaps? Or one of your Nehekharan addle-pates? Perhaps that loudmouthed fool, Antar of Mahrak? He’s a favourite of yours, is he not?’

‘You will do it,’ Arkhan said, not looking at him.

‘Will I?’

Arkhan said nothing. Mannfred sniffed, stood up in his saddle, and craned his neck, searching for the Undying King. Nagash was hard to miss – he stood at the centre of the army, a skeletal giant surrounded by a flickering corona that changed colour by turns, becoming green, then black, then purple. He was the corrupt heart and dark will of an army that was little more than a single, charnel entity. The hooded and cloaked forms of a dozen necromancers surrounded him as ever, each one lending his will to ease Nagash’s burdens.

Nine heavy tomes, each filled with Nagash’s darkest wisdoms, floated around him, pages flapping with a sound like the snapping of jaws. The grimoires were connected to Nagash by heavy chains, and they strained at them like beasts at the leash. Moaning spirits swirled about him, blending together and breaking apart in a woeful dance of agony. There were men there, and elves and dwarfs, as well as other races. To die at Nagash’s hands was to not die at all, but instead be condemned to eternal servitude.

The wide skull, lit by its own internal flame, turned, and the blazing orbs that danced in its cavernous sockets brightened briefly. Nagash did not speak. He did not need to. Mannfred knew that Arkhan would not have spoken without Nagash’s permission. He turned and snapped Ashigaroth’s reins. The abyssal steed leapt into the air with a shriek, and hurtled towards the lines of the living.

He did not bother to attempt to conceal himself. As pre-eminent as he was in the sorcerous arts, those below were his match. The most powerful surviving sorcerers, wizards and necromancers in all the world, those not aligned with the Archenemy, were here in this place. The rest were dead, or hiding. Creatures like Zacharias the Everliving had perished, defying Nagash to the last, while monsters like Egrimm van Horstmann had been consumed by the ever-shifting tides of war and madness. Those who remained had chosen their hills to die on, and were gathering their strength for the storm to come.

Zacharias, at least, had made his end an entertaining one. He smiled as he thought of it – the sky had been wracked with spasms, and the Vanhaldenschlosse chewed to steaming wreckage by the confrontation between vampire and liche. Zacharias had held off Nagash’s army alone with only his magics for days, before Nagash had bestirred himself to end the conflict. There had been something personal in it, there at the end, Mannfred thought. As if the two knew one another, and there was some grudge between them. In the end Zacharias had perished at Nagash’s hands, strangled in the ruins of the Vanhaldenschlosse and his remains cast upon the pyre.

He leaned forwards, and Ashigaroth wailed like a lost soul as it hurtled over the heads of elves, dwarfs and men. Mannfred laughed as he let his steed indulge itself. Like him, the creature fed as much on fear as flesh, and there was precious little of the former left in a world so close to ultimate ruin. But while it lasted, he saw no harm in enjoying it.

He knew he was trusting in the curiosity, and perhaps even the misguided honour, of the living. And that trust was not misplaced. No arrow, bullet or spell assailed him as his abyssal steed dropped to the top of a towering boulder just before the line of raised shields. He sat for a moment, relishing the attention. He had moved in the shadows for so long, waging little wars, that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be the focus of so much fear. Once, long ago, he had faced men and dwarfs arrayed similarly. His enjoyment lessened as he recalled how the battle of Hel Fenn had gone. For all his power, he had been struck down in what should have been his moment of ultimate triumph.

And now, he was merely one nightmare amongst many. Mannfred shook his head, and smiled. ‘Ah well,’ he murmured. ‘Best to be about it.’ He straightened and said, ‘So – who will it be, then?’ His voice carried easily. The living were almost as silent as the dead. Mannfred grinned. ‘Come now, don’t be shy. We are all men of the world, and is not my presence a guarantee of good conduct? Who will it be? The Emperor without an empire? Or one of the exiles of fair Ulthuan, who now infest these shores like field mice? Come, come, step forward, and sign thy name into history as the one who stretched out a hand in fellowship to the Undying King,’ he said. ‘You have called, and we have come. Do not turn us away now, at light’s last gleaming.’

It was a pretty speech, equal parts mocking and inviting. And it had the desired effect: a tall figure, clad in darkly gleaming armour, stepped forwards. ‘Say what you have come to say, abomination, and then begone,’ said Malekith. His armour’s death-mask rendered his words strangely metallic, and Mannfred felt a chill. Here was one like Nagash, bound to some greater power. He could smell the raw essence of magic rising from the Witch-King, and for a moment, he felt his confidence waver.

Mannfred leaned in. ‘And if I choose to tarry?’ he spat.

‘Then we will destroy you, and forget you,’ said a second masked individual. Robes rustling, Balthasar Gelt stepped up to join Malekith. ‘Your master has a surplus of puppets, vampire. One more or less will hardly change things.’

Mannfred smiled lazily. Though he could sense the power that now held Gelt in its glittering clutches, he was on firmer ground with Vlad’s former pet. ‘Ah, Gelt. Twice-traitor, first to your Empire and then to Vlad.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Vlad… He could have used your help, you know. There at the end, I mean.’

Gelt stiffened, and Mannfred laughed. ‘And now, here you stand.’ He leered at Alarielle, who stood behind Malekith. ‘I wouldn’t trust him, my lady. Yon poltroon is the very best of serpents. Why, his heart is rotted clean through with guile and malice.’

‘Something you would know intimately,’ Karl Franz said. He didn’t look at Mannfred as he spoke, and the latter knew, without turning to look, that the Emperor was staring at Nagash. And that, even more worryingly, Nagash was staring back at him.

Incensed, Mannfred glared at the man. ‘I know only that you are a relic of a newly dead world. What use have you now, eh? A statesman without a state, a tyrant stripped of his power. A dead man would be more use than you, Karl Franz, last of the rotten house and failed potentate that you are. I dub thee Fumbler of the Faith and Lord Lackwit,’ Mannfred said, making the sign of the hammer in mocking fashion. The Emperor looked at him, and Mannfred lowered his hand. Smoke rose from his fingers, and he shook his hand to disperse it. Even now, the symbols of Sigmar held some power over him.

‘You have no power in that regard, thankfully,’ Karl Franz said. ‘Only one vampire was named elector, and he does not stand before me.’

Mannfred blinked. For a second, he was tempted to cross the distance between them and tear out the man’s throat. But he restrained himself. Now was not the time to be drawn into foolishness. He licked his lips and looked at Malekith, pointedly ignoring the human. ‘You commanded that I speak my piece, so I shall, mighty elf-king.’ He swept out his arm to indicate the maggoty host stretched across the horizon. ‘Great Nagash, Lord of the Underworld, Undying King and Supreme Lord of All Dead Things, wishes to parley.’

Arkhan the Black watched Mannfred confront the last rulers of the living world, and thought how, under different circumstances, the army spread out around him would be here for different reasons. Instead of a triumphal siege, however, they had come seeking allies in a last-ditch gamble.

The thought elicited some amusement. In life, he had been a notorious gambler, and a champion of debt; that was how Nagash had first caught him up in his schemes of empire. And here he was at the last, wagering what little he still had in one last great throw of the dice. He reached up and touched a charred spot on his robe. The black mark was in the shape of a hand – the hand of the Everchild, Aliathra of Ulthuan. In her final moments, before Arkhan had slit her throat, the elven princess had struck him. Something had passed between them, though he could not say what it had been. Whatever it was – curse, blessing or something in between – it was still within him. And it was growing stronger.

Arkhan looked up, examining the wheel of stars and the tortured heavens. They held no answers. The music of the spheres had become discordant and painful. Auguries showed only falsehood, and the oracular spirits spat gibberish, even when Nagash himself questioned them. The underworld was in disarray, and the gods of men were dead or diminished.

The Great Work was undone. An eternity of careful preparation, of strife and conflict, all for nothing. The thought did not weigh as heavily as he’d feared it might. In truth, it was worth it, if only to see the Undying King at a loss. Though his mind and soul had long been bartered away to Nagash, some flicker of the man he had been yet remained. Some sliver of that cynical, acid-tongued wretch, with his black teeth and gaudy robes, still lingered in the husk of him, and was, perhaps, growing stronger as Nagash’s attentions were diverted to more important matters. And that fragment, that ghost of a ghost, was amused to no end by the predicament that Nagash had found himself in.

‘Irony is a beautiful thing, if you are not its victim,’ someone said, close beside him. Arkhan looked around. He was surrounded by a flock of robed and hooded adherents – liches, vampires, necromancers – all students of the Great Work. Mortuary priests, disciples of poor, dead W’soran, and those few surviving living practitioners of the Corpse Geometries, all gathered together now at his discretion. But the one who had spoken was none of those things – he was as unique as Arkhan himself. He wore a hooded cloak, concealing his identity, but there was no hiding the warrior’s build, or the aristocratic posture.

‘I was never one to indulge in the misfortunes of others,’ Arkhan said.

The hooded figure gave a bark of laughter. ‘You forget – I have played dice with you, Arkhan. I know exactly what sort of man you were – and still are.’

‘And what sort of man are you?’

‘One who honours his debts.’

Arkhan turned away. ‘It is a shame that you could not reach Averheim in time. You might have turned the tide.’

The hooded figure looked at him. ‘It is a shame that our lord and master failed to heed me when I suggested that we muster in defence of the Empire. And now look where we are. The last place any of us, especially him, wanted to be.’

‘Which him are you referring to? Nagash… or your hapless progeny?’

‘Both, I think,’ Vlad von Carstein said. ‘But Nagash especially. Mannfred knows that failure breeds opportunity as well as, or better than, success in the right circumstances. Nagash, I think, does not.’ The vampire looked towards the towering shape of Nagash, his expression speculative.

‘Nagash cannot conceive of failure. To fail would imply that he made a mistake. To admit that would unravel all that he is, was and will be,’ Arkhan said.

‘And would that be so bad?’

Arkhan leaned against his staff, skull pressed to its length. ‘For better or worse, Nagash is as close to a god as remains to this dying world. To remove his certainty would be to cripple him, and by extension, condemn us all.’

‘Arrogance set him on his path, and arrogance will see him through,’ Vlad said. He shook his head and sighed. ‘More and more, I wonder if Mannfred is not his truest servant after all, given the similarities between them.’

‘Mannfred is a fool. Nagash is not.’ Arkhan looked at Vlad. ‘Why have you not informed him of your survival? He believes that you met your end in Sylvania, at your paramour’s hands.’

‘To be honest, I’m a bit surprised that he still thinks I’m dead,’ Vlad murmured. He frowned, and for a moment Arkhan considered asking him about Isabella. That the Chaos Gods had brought her back was of little surprise to him. Nothing was beyond them, and such a resurrection was merely a parlour trick for such powers. But he decided against it. What Vlad thought of it was unimportant. All that mattered was that he served.

‘He has never been very observant, where his desires are concerned. He wishes for you to be dead, and so you are,’ Arkhan said. ‘That is his greatest weakness, and greatest strength. His lies propel him on, fuelling the arrogance that lends him strength.’

‘Like Nagash,’ Vlad said, with the smile of one who believes he’s scored a point.

Arkhan shifted uncomfortably. He did not reply. Let the vampire think what he liked. In all the years he’d spent duelling with Mannfred, he’d forgotten how much more deadly the first von Carstein was. Mannfred, for all his faults, was not a philosopher. He was pragmatic, and focused on the material world. A craftsman of death, rather than an artist. For all his pretensions of nobility and all of his insistence that the world’s throne was his by right of blood, Mannfred was still a callow, petty creature.

Vlad, on the other hand, was anything but. He had wrung knowledge from the writings of Nagash without the benefit of a tutor, learning through trial and error. He had fought for everything he claimed, and claimed nothing he had not shed blood in pursuit of. Mannfred schemed towards a single, final goal, like an arrow travelling towards its target. Vlad, however, was more like a sword, capable of more than simply carving out an enemy’s heart.

‘Was I ever as arrogant as Nagash?’ Vlad asked. ‘Was I ever as blind as Mannfred?’

Arkhan looked at the vampire. ‘You tell me,’ he said, after a time.

‘Neferata certainly thought so,’ Vlad said, and chuckled. He rubbed the heavy ring that decorated his finger. ‘Never could abide arrogance, that one.’

‘No… she cannot.’ Arkhan turned away from him. Vlad smiled.

‘She and Isabella have – had – much in common. I thought, once upon a time, that I could mould her into the image of the queen. When she resisted, when she turned my arrogance back on me, hissing and spitting, I knew that there was no need. The first time she raised her voice to me in anger, I felt my heart ignite.’ Vlad cocked his head. ‘Was it that way with you, gambler? Prisoner, slave, lover… so many masks between you two. And now, shorn of all pretence…’

Arkhan said nothing. Vlad waited. When no reply seemed forthcoming, he sighed and shrugged. ‘And that is the shame of it all. Love, that rarest of alchemies, is lost so easily when the wind shifts and the fire is sighted on the horizon. Luckily, for some, adversity only adds strength to that bond.’

Arkhan turned to see what Vlad was looking at. Behind them were arrayed the Drakenhof Templars. Loyal once to Mannfred, they had, by and large, honoured their oaths to serve the master of the von Carstein line, and had bent knee to Vlad upon his resurrection. Of the inner circle, only a few remained. Count Nyktolos had met his fate on the sands of the Great Desert; and the burly monster Alberacht Nictus, the Reaper of Drakenhof, had died defending that infamous pile, and the scores of huddled Sylvanian peasantry sheltering within it, against daemons more monstrous even than himself.

Of those he had known, and who had aided him in restoring Nagash, only two remained – Erikan Crowfiend, and Elize von Carstein. The morose Bretonnian, in his dark patchwork armour, sat close beside the crimson-haired von Carstein woman, both of them mounted on cannibal horses from the Sternieste stables. He saw that their hands were not-quite touching, fingers barely intertwined. Love was not forbidden among the dead, for Nagash had little understanding of it, save as a goad. But it was rare. Vlad watched them surreptitiously, his eyes unreadable.

If he had been capable of it, Arkhan might have smiled. Instead, he let his gaze play over the other templars. Von Carsteins, most of them, though there were a few who bore on their faces the stamp of other primogenitors. Hard-eyed Blood Dragons, cunning Lahmians, even one or two brutal Strigoi, wearing tattered armour and cradling crude weapons. And one other, her face composed and so still as to resemble marble.

Eldyra of Tiranoc was an elf, or had been. She was the only survivor of Eltharion the Grim’s doomed rescue attempt on behalf of the Everchild, she whose life essence had been used to quicken Nagash’s spirit from its dark bower in those final moments at the Nine Daemons. She had fallen in that last, fateful battle, but Mannfred had been seized by one of his distressing whims, and had shown her mercy. Of sorts, at any rate.

Now, she sat astride her horse, as undead as the rest of the Drakenhof Templars, and as bloodthirsty as any of Mannfred’s get. The elf noticed his attentions, and met his gaze. Her eyes held no hint as to her thoughts. As he watched, Elize von Carstein leaned over and murmured something to Eldyra, and the elf looked away.

‘Not the first mistake Mannfred has ever made, but it might be his last,’ Vlad said. Arkhan looked at him. Vlad gestured to Eldyra. ‘Still, I am impressed that it was done at all. A rare thing, to see one of our sort crafted from alien flesh.’

‘Your sort. Not mine,’ Arkhan said.

‘But even you have to admire the artistry of it. Men are born to die. They are well on their way to being corpses with the first, squalling breath that they draw. But to take a thing of life, a thing which will not know death, and to twist it so… Ah, well.’ Vlad shook his head. ‘Mannfred was always creative. For a limited value of the term.’

‘Yes. And foolish. He is taunting them,’ Arkhan said. Vlad followed his gaze, and frowned.

‘Well, that’s hardly a surprise, is it?’ He chuckled. ‘It has ever been his nature to be imprudent. That arrogance you mentioned earlier, I think. He cannot conceive of a defeat or a treachery of which he is not the author.’

‘Then he is in for a rude surprise,’ Arkhan said. He looked at Vlad, and then past him, at Nagash. The Undying King paid no attention to the living or the dead, instead communing with the roiling tempest of souls which had made him its aleph in the moments following his consumption of the gods of Nehekhara so many months ago. Arkhan cut his eyes back to Vlad. ‘You are certain, then?’

‘If I weren’t, I would have said nothing. I would not be hiding myself from him,’ Vlad said softly. He frowned. ‘Mannfred is a poison, and he always has been. He is treacherous and uncontrollable. He knows no master save ambition, and he listens to no counsel save that which is born in the black froth which passes for his mind. And he is the author of too much of the tragedy, too much of the grief which afflicts them. Though I am loath to admit it, Mannfred shook the pillars of heaven and earth. And the only way to patch the resulting cracks is… well.’ He smiled sadly. The emotion, Arkhan noted, did not reach his eyes.

‘He will be missed,’ Arkhan said.

Canto Unsworn rode through the ruined streets of Middenheim on his gibbering horse and tried to ignore the shrieks and screams that even now, a year after the fact, still rang out at odd intervals from the shadowed recesses of the fallen city. He also ignored the moans of the beaten, battered shape which he had dragged behind his horse across half of the city. Ignoring the former was easier than ignoring the latter.

A crackling bolt of sorcerous lightning hammered into a nearby building, causing a section of it to collapse and a cloud of dust to wash across the street. Canto looked up. The skies overhead still boiled with madness. The fury of the maelstrom above was matched by the destruction below. In the wake of the slaughter wrought by the victorious Chaos forces, the city had been scoured of what life it had once possessed. Archaon’s forces ran riot through the ruins. Corpses had been piled into heaps in every square and plaza, unstable mountains of carrion that grew until they rivalled the city walls in sheer height. Many of these had been set on fire, and now a pall of stinking charnel smoke hung over sections of the city. Northmen, skaven and beastmen alike looted freely and with abandon.

Canto knew that it was only the will of Archaon which kept the disparate parts of the horde from turning on each other. For the servants of the Dark Gods, victory was as perilous as defeat, and the only safety was in battle unending. Already, the knives had come out; more than one ambitious chieftain or champion had made a try for Archaon’s throat. Their bodies now hung above the city’s gatehouses, beside the bodies of the Fellwolf Brotherhood, the Gryphon Legion and any others who had elicited the Three-Eyed King’s displeasure.

The latter had been the last of the organised resistance within the city to fall. The hardy Kislevite knights, led by their Grand Master, Dostov, had holed up in the House of Coin, alongside the survivors of the various mercenary companies who had fought for Middenheim. Surrounded and besieged in an ill-provisioned prison of their own making, Dostov and his followers had nonetheless held out for several weeks. When the break-out attempt came, the Gryphon Legion – or what was left of it – had led the way, thundering towards the northern causeway and the viaduct beyond. Those who made it had found themselves fighting upriver against the warbands which were even then still streaming into the city.

Now Dostov hung from a stake on the northern gatehouse, beside what was left of the Grand Master of the Knights of the White Wolf, Vilitreska the so-called Lord of the Flux, Fregnus the Pallid, and the Pox-Knight.

Canto hauled back on his mount’s reins, forcing it to stop as a pack of baying hounds loped across the street ahead. Through the smoke he thought he saw manlike shapes moving amongst them, and heard human voices mingled with the howling. Nearby, a nest of writhing tentacles and pulsing flesh that had once been a carriage house emitted a soft, wheezing moan, as if in mockery of the mortal wreckage Canto dragged behind him.

‘Quiet, Ghular,’ Canto said, as he twisted about in his saddle. ‘Unless you want me to take your other hand.’ The bedraggled shape shivered and fell silent. How the mighty have fallen, Canto thought. Ghular Festerhand, the Ravager of Loren, the King of Flies, and the Duke of Rot, was mighty indeed. Or had been, before Canto had taken off the blighted limb from which he had taken his sobriquet.

‘You have only yourself to blame for this, you know,’ he said, turning away. ‘You saw what happened to the others, didn’t you? The Pox-Knight? Cringus of the Thirty-Seventh Configuration? The Copper Princess? Do those names ring a bell, perchance? No? Of course not. Because if they did, you certainly wouldn’t have planned to do what you were planning to do.’ Canto shook his head. ‘I understand the temptation, believe me. But did you really think the Everchosen wouldn’t step on you like the disgusting maggot you so resemble?’

Canto kicked his steed into motion and rode on without waiting for an answer. The streets squirmed beneath the hooves of his horse, and ahead of him, a giant made from broken stones, splintered beams and masticated corpses staggered drunkenly across the Ulricsmund, roaring unintelligibly. Whole sections of the city had become distorted reflections of their former glory, transmogrified into screaming sculptures of living fire or revolving facets of impossible design and unknowable angles. Those that were left untouched by the warping power of Chaos had been claimed by petty chieftains or muttering cults, made over into personal lairs and fanes.

Granted, there weren’t as many of the latter as there had been in the weeks following the city’s capture. Archaon had seen to that, dispatching the detestable Curseling south to lay siege to Averheim. He’d sent the most enthusiastic and troublesome with the two-headed sorcerer, and as a result the city had quieted down nicely. For a time at least.

But then, the Curseling had gone and ruined everything. By the time Archaon had marched on Averheim, Vilitch had vanished. He wasn’t especially missed, but his ineptitude had enabled the Emperor to escape into the mountains. Archaon had gone into a rage – denied the lives of both Valten and the Emperor, he’d butchered threescore of his lieutenants and tossed their skulls to the hounds. Canto had avoided that particular fate only by dint of luck; in the aftermath of the siege of Averheim, several plotters had chosen to take advantage of Archaon’s fury to make their moves.

Canto had put himself between the Everchosen and the blades of his enemies. He had done so without thinking, and now reaped the rewards. He looked back at Festerhand. Some rewards are better than others, he thought morosely.

Archaon had taken Averheim as a message from the gods. He had returned to Middenheim, taking only such forces as were necessary. The rest, mostly worshippers of Khorne, he’d sent haring off to chase down the surviving enemy. Averheim had been left to the beasts. Some milky-eyed brute named Moonclaw ruled there now, the last Canto had heard of it. Now, Archaon sat brooding on his throne, conferring only with daemons, and marshalling his forces for… something.

And oversaw the excavation, of course. Mustn’t forget that, must we? Canto thought, without amusement. Indeed, how could one forget a steadily growing chasm being gouged into the very heart of the Fauschlag by hundreds of slaves, both human and otherwise? At the very least, the massive heaps of spoil and slag which surrounded the ever widening scar were a constant reminder. Gangs of skaven scuttled past, keeping to the shadows. They lurked amongst the spoil and smoke, their chittering voices accompanying the screams of slaves and the hum of warpstone-powered devices.

Archaon had been quite put out with the skaven for a time, despite the alliance between his forces and those of the so-called ‘under-empire’. He had become enraged when the ratmen had interfered in his duel with the Herald of Sigmar, and he had personally hunted down a number of the creatures in order to make them answer for their effrontery, including the creature which had first proposed the alliance – a whining, sneaky wretch of a rat called Thanquol. Now their bodies were displayed with the rest, and those that survived had quickly made themselves useful as overseers, foraging parties and slave labour.

When he reached the Temple of Ulric, Canto did not stop, but let his horse climb the steps. Besides being able to curse in four languages, the animal was quite adept at scaling stairs. That it could do both never failed to impress Canto. As it climbed, he gazed east, towards the excavation where it abutted the temple. Day and night, the Ulricsmund rang with the sounds of it, and he fancied his ears would never be free of it.

He rode past toppled statues of the wolf-god, and into the temple proper. The echo of his horse’s hooves as he rode through the rotunda sounded strange, and slightly distorted. All around him was madness: busts and statues had been thrown down, or carved into hideous new shapes. Faces writhed and moaned along the walls. The vaulted ceiling had been hung with thick iron chains, from which dangled hooks and blades. On the latter were spitted the bodies of priests. All were present – the servants of Sigmar, Ulric, Shallya and more besides. Most were dead. Some were not.

Archaon was waiting for him, as ever, at the centre of his chosen throne room. The Everchosen had claimed the dais from which the Flame of Ulric had once burned as his own, and had placed his throne there. The throne was a monstrous construction, composed of brass and black iron, covered with stretched skin and skulls. Ghal Maraz sat at its apex, clasped in brass claws. A heavy shadow, black and stinking of hot iron, crouched behind Archaon’s throne. It was massive, larger than any ogre or troll. As Canto approached, the shadow straightened with a sound like a bellows and great wings unfurled. He felt a wash of heat, as if from a smokeless fire.

He knew the daemon’s name, though he wished that he did not. Ka’Bandha, the Skull-Smasher. Ka’Bandha, the right hand of the Blood God himself. Eyes like forge-fires gazed at him, burning him inside out. The air around the bloodthirster shimmered, as if the creature’s very presence were a wound in reality. It eyed him with interest, as if sizing him up for a challenge. Canto ducked his head and tried to make himself smaller. Even Archaon himself would have been hard-pressed to survive an encounter with Ka’Bandha. Canto would have no chance at all. He kept his gaze averted, and relaxed slightly as he felt the daemon’s disappointment wash over him. No fun for you here, beast, he thought.

The Swords of Chaos lined the way to the throne. Even now, having fought beside the black-armoured sentinels more than once, Canto could still feel the palpable menace which radiated from them. He hauled back on the reins and brought his disagreeable mount to a halt amidst a flurry of gutter-Estalian.

Canto waited, counting the moments. When Archaon did not stir, Canto cleared his throat and said, ‘I come bearing gifts, my lord. As you requested.’ He reached behind him and cut the straps that held Festerhand tied to his saddle. The champion, or what was left of him, flopped to the floor with a groan. His armour hung in ragged tatters from his maggot-like body, and his pale flesh was streaked with blood and bruises. He cradled the stump of his wrist to his sunken chest. Ka’Bandha chuckled. The sound was like scalding water hissing over stones.

Archaon looked up. He stared at the broken shape of the traitor for long moments, and then said, ‘His hand?’

Canto reached into his saddlebag and produced a dripping sack. Something moved unpleasantly within. ‘I thought it best to disarm him,’ he said. He tossed the sack down.

Archaon didn’t laugh. He rarely laughed. He pushed himself up, off his throne, and strode down from the dais, after gesturing for the bloodthirster to remain where it was. He stepped over the sack as if he hadn’t seen it, and made his way to Ghular’s side. He looked down at the broken creature. ‘Grandfather Nurgle grows impatient. How many of his champions has he thrown in my path of late?’ He looked at Ka’Bandha as he spoke.

‘You do them honour, to call them champions,’ the bloodthirster growled. Canto heard the clatter of brass chains as the shadowy mass moved about behind the throne. ‘They are as blossoms, pruned from his garden, and as easily crushed.’

‘Yes,’ Archaon said. ‘Fewer of them than the Schemer or the Prince of Pleasure, to be sure, but still… a not inconsiderable number. Is it vengeance for the Glottkin? Or something else?’ The bloodthirster subsided into silence.

Canto knew Archaon wasn’t expecting an answer. He followed Ka’Bandha’s example and kept silent. It was always the same; Archaon spoke more to hear himself speak, than because he wanted replies. The Everchosen sank to his haunches with a creak of metal, and examined Canto’s prisoner. ‘Did he fight hard?’ he asked.

That he expected an answer to, Canto knew. ‘No harder than the others,’ he said. ‘I waited until he was looking the other way, and then cut his hand off. After that, he didn’t have much fight in him.’

Ka’Bandha made a sound like a dog choking on a bone. The heat grew intolerable, and Canto forced himself to look only at Archaon. The bloodthirster had a short temper, and it was made even shorter by such admissions. Simple murder was beneath the god of slaughter, apparently. ‘Coward,’ the beast gurgled, eyes shining like beacon fires.

Archaon stood. ‘You are getting a reputation, Unsworn. They say you are my executioner.’ Ka’Bandha made another disapproving noise, but Archaon ignored the creature.

‘I am but your humble servant, my lord,’ Canto said, bowing his head.

‘Then come with me, O humble servant. I wish to look upon my great work, and see how it progresses,’ Archaon said. Ka’Bandha rose to its full height, as if it intended to follow the Everchosen, but settled back at a gesture from Archaon.

Canto hesitated, watching the daemon warily, then slid out of the saddle and hurried after the Everchosen as the latter strode deeper into the temple. He could feel Ka’Bandha’s eyes on him the entire way.

‘What about the Festerhand?’ he asked, as he caught up with Archaon. They were descending into the chill depths of the Fauschlag. Those who knew such things said that the skaven had bought their survival with a treasure that they had located deep in the mountain’s guts, somewhere beneath the temple. And that treasure was the reason for the great excavation, as Archaon employed hundreds of slaves and gangs of sorcerers and daemons both in the endeavour, carving a path down through the heart of the mountain. Canto knew the truth of it, and knew that it was not a treasure, but something infinitely worse.

‘What about him?’ Archaon said. ‘If he survives until I return, then I will kill him – or spare him, as the mood takes me. If he doesn’t, the point is moot.’

‘As you say, my lord,’ Canto said obsequiously. He wondered what would get the Festerhand first… his wounds, or Ka’Bandha. Khorne had less use for beaten champions than he did for murderers.

Archaon stopped. Canto stumbled to a halt, just barely avoiding slamming into the Everchosen. Archaon turned. ‘Do you disagree?’ he asked. Canto hesitated. Archaon cocked his head. ‘Do you know why I elevated you, Unsworn?’

A thousand witticisms sprang to mind and immediately turned to ash on Canto’s lips. He shook his head slowly. ‘No, my lord,’ he said.

‘I elevated you because I am not your lord,’ Archaon said softly. ‘Not really. You are a scavenger, a jackal, haunting the edges of eternity. You owe no fealty to any god or warlord. Like a thousand others, you are a man apart, with no loyalty or code to bind your words or mark your path. You do not seek pain, pleasure, pestilence or power. You seek only to survive. Of all the men and women who ride beneath my banners, you and your ilk are the most human. The most flawed, the weakest. But also the strongest.’ Archaon turned away and continued walking. Canto followed.

Archaon continued talking. ‘The followers of the gods burn bright, but burn swiftly. In every war, they die first, and at the pleasure of the gods. But your kind survives. You cling to this world like a barnacle, holding tight to what you once were, though it profits you nothing. Why did you never seek out the favour of the gods, Unsworn?’

You’ve already asked me that. You ask me that every day, Canto thought. What he said was, ‘Fear, my lord. I feared losing myself.’ It was the same answer he always gave, but it never seemed to satisfy Archaon. Then, few things did. The Three-Eyed King seethed with a cosmic frustration, as if the very air scraped his nerves raw.

‘And would that be so bad?’ Archaon asked. Canto looked at him. It was the first time Archaon had asked that. They had come to a massive cavern, its walls marked by skaven graffiti and piles of rotting bodies heaped in the corners. Chittering, red-eyed rats scattered as Archaon and Canto stepped into the eerie light cast by the iron and brass braziers set about the circumference of the cavern.

Before Canto could answer Archaon’s question, a guttural voice bellowed a challenge. A trio of ogres, their flesh marked by tattoos of ownership and allegiance, and their arms and armour bearing all of the hallmarks of the daemonsmiths of Zharr Naggrund, stepped into view out of the shadows. The ogres bore heavy swords, and horned helmets that obscured their brutish features. Archaon raised his hand, and the ogres sank to their knees with much grunting and grumbling.

Archaon led Canto past the brutes, and into the gloomy chamber beyond the cavern. Something horrible and flickering occupied the bulk of the chamber – a black, glistening globe supported between two golden hemispheres. The globe was a blotch of shimmering darkness which seemed to draw all sources of light towards it. Canto staggered, struck, as always, by the sheer wrongness of the thing.

He had seen it more than once, but it never failed to cause his mind and what was left of his soul to tremble and cringe. He could hear a vast roaring of innumerable voices, and a thinner, sharper sound, like the scraping of rats behind the walls of the world.

Even worse, he knew it was but the merest tip of whatever monstrous eidolon was buried beneath the Fauschlag. Gangs of slaves worked day and night to uncover it, when Archaon’s pet sorcerers weren’t studying it, trying to unlock its power. Both slaves and sorcerers died in great numbers, their bodies left to rot at the bottom of the pit from which the thing rose. Soon they would have it fully uncovered, and they would pry it free of the mountain, like a pearl from an oyster.

Archaon moved across the chamber towards the dark globe, and the coven of robed cultists who were gathered about it. The cultists were muttering and invoking for all that they were worth. Which, Canto knew, wasn’t much. The masked fools were little more than attendants. One of them, obviously the leader if one went by his golden mask, hurried towards Archaon, trying to run and bow at the same time.

‘Can we proceed?’ Archaon said, not looking at the coven leader.

‘It stirs to life even now, mighty Archaon,’ the man whimpered. He flung out a trembling hand. ‘See how it shines, with the radiance of a thousand unseen suns. We have only uncovered the barest tip, and already it awakens.’

‘Can we proceed?’ Archaon asked again. There was a hint of menace in his voice.

The coven leader jerked upright in a flare of robes. ‘If the gods will it,’ he said. Archaon was silent. The man twitched and added, ‘An offering of souls will be needed.’

‘Then make it,’ Archaon rumbled.

‘My lord?’

‘The slaves,’ Canto interjected, unable to bear the coven leader’s stupidity. ‘Start feeding it the slaves.’ He moved closer to Archaon.

‘You never answered my question,’ Archaon said softly, after a moment of silence. ‘Would it be so bad, to lose yourself?’

Canto hesitated, and then said, ‘Yes. Who I am, who I was, is the only thing I have left. To surrender it is to lose everything I fought for in the first place.’

‘You value the life you had, then?’ Archaon said. ‘You cling to the past, afraid to face the future.’ He swept out a hand towards the shimmering black globe. ‘See, Unsworn, the beautiful thing which awaits all of us. It is not terrifying. It is life, and change, and growth. It is the life which springs from death. This world is dead, but a new one is growing here.’

‘Mushrooms from a corpse,’ Canto said.

Archaon lowered his hand. ‘If you like. Maybe the world to come will be simpler, at that. Less burdened by the weight of history and failure. What I do know is that it will be stronger than this husk of a world we reside in now. There will be no weakness, no false morality or burdensome piety to chain men. The gods will sweep aside the old, and unmake the false foundations upon which the lie of this world stands.’

‘And that will be better, will it?’ Canto asked, without thinking.

‘Yes.’

‘For whom?’ he asked. Archaon looked at him. Canto waited, then, when no punishing strike came, he continued. ‘I never wanted this burden. It just came on me. I’m only a man,’ he said softly. He looked at his hand, encased in black iron for gods alone knew how many centuries. ‘I’ve only ever been a man. A wicked, evil man, who has done wicked, evil things. But I was never a monster. Never that.’

Archaon chuckled. ‘And what would you be now, Unsworn? Man or monster?’

‘I would be true to myself,’ Canto said, though not without hesitation.

‘There was one other who spoke like that,’ Archaon said. ‘His name was Mortkin. They called him the Black-Iron Reaver, and he carved his saga on the hearts of the gods themselves.’ He glanced at Canto. ‘He could have been the one standing here, once upon a time.’

‘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

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.

Frustrated, he drew his sword partway from its sheath and let it drop back with a rattle. He caught Lileath looking at him, and felt a flush of shame for his loss of control. Her eyes seemed to pull him in, and open him up. It was as if she knew everything about him, and somehow found him wanting. She looked away as the Emperor spoke up, and Jerrod twitched in relief.

‘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 of 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.

Not for the first time, Hammerson wondered if he should simply take his folk and go. They would return to Zhufbar and see what remained of it, either to rebuild or avenge it. It was a nice thought, and it kept him warm on cold nights, staring into the dark of the trees, pipe in hand without even a good fire to provide light and comfort.

But that was all it was. If the thing must be done, let it be done well. And the dwarfs had made an oath long ago to the human thane, Sigmar, to defend his people for as long as there was an empire. And dwarfs, unlike elves, knew that an empire was made not of stone or land or castles, but of hearts and minds. Stones could be moved, land reshaped and castles knocked down, but an empire could survive anything, as long as its people still lived.

While one citizen of the Empire yet lived, be they soldier, greybeard, infant or Emperor, the Zhufbarak at least would die for them. Because that was the way of it. An oath was an oath, and it would be fulfilled, come ruin or redemption. Even if the humans chose to throw in their lot with the King of Bones himself, the Zhufbarak would stand shield-wall between them and the ravages of Chaos until the end.

Speaking of which, he mused, studying the giant of bone and black iron where he stood in an ever-widening circle of yellow, brittle grass. For a creature whose very existence was under threat, Nagash didn’t seem altogether concerned. Which, to Hammerson’s way of thinking, was worrying.

Malekith obviously felt the same. He was in fine form, arguing passionately with Lileath and Teclis. Hammerson could almost admire the Eternity King, if he hadn’t been a deceitful, backstabbing kinslayer. Kings had to be harder than stone, and colder than ice, at times, and Malekith was both of those and no mistake. But too much cold, and even the hardest stone grew brittle.

He heard a hiss from Volker, and glanced at the knight. The white-haired man was staring hard at Nagash. Hammerson looked more closely at the liche and saw that the creature was stirring. One great claw rose, and silence fell over the glade. ‘YOUR FEAR IS WITHOUT CAUSE,’ the liche said. His voice spread through the glade like a noxious fog. ‘THE WORD OF NAGASH IS INVIOLATE. AND NAGASH HAS SWORN TO FIGHT FOR THIS WORLD.’

Hammerson shuddered. The liche’s voice crept under your skin like the cold of winter, and fastened claws in your heart. He wasn’t alone in feeling that way. The Incarnates stared at the creature the way birds might regard a snake. Malekith reacted first. ‘Any betrayer would say the same, if it suited his interest,’ the Eternity King rasped, glaring down at Nagash from his dais. Nagash stared at the elf, as if sizing him up. Then he inclined his head.

‘INDEED. AND SO I OFFER A GIFT, AS TOKEN OF MY INTENT.’

Malekith laughed. ‘A gift offered by one such as you can hardly be considered proof of anything. I know, for I have used the same trick to great effect more than once.’

‘I HAVE WRONGED YOU. YET THE INITIAL OFFENCE, THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN, WAS NOT AT MY INSTIGATION,’ Nagash grated. If a skeleton could look amused, Hammerson thought, then Nagash was it. The wide, fleshless rictus seemed to grow wider still, less a smile than a tiger’s grin. ‘THE EVERCHILD’S DEATH WAS NOT MY DOING.’

Teclis flinched as the words rolled over the glade. He closed his eyes. He could feel the heat of Tyrion’s rage beginning to build. Nagash’s words had stoked fires that could never truly be extinguished. Malekith too must have sensed it, for he moved quickly to speak. But he fell silent, his words dying on his lips, as Alarielle rose from her throne.

‘You speak of my daughter as if you were fit to say her name,’ the Everqueen said coolly. Her voice was composed, and controlled, but Teclis could sense the fragility beneath. ‘More and more, you insist on your own destruction.’

‘MY DESTRUCTION WILL NOT BRING HER BACK. NOR WILL IT AVENGE HER.’ Nagash looked around the glade. ‘IT WILL ONLY BRING RUIN.’

‘Listen to the dead thing plead,’ Tyrion snarled. He had not drawn his sword, but his hands were balled into fists, and the light within him was beginning to stir. ‘We will not bargain for Aliathra’s soul,’ he spat. Alarielle looked sharply at him, but said nothing. Teclis could feel the Wind of Life beginning to stir as well. Is this how it ends, even as it began… over the soul of the Everchild? he thought.

His brother’s sin, come home to roost. The child he’d fathered, against all logic, reason and tradition, the child who had been the hope of Ulthuan, and its destruction. Aenarion’s curse made flesh, in a moment of passion and stupidity. Teclis’s grip on his staff tightened. Brave child. I failed you, as I failed your father and our people. But I failed you most of all. Sorrow washed over him, leaving only numbness in its wake.

It seemed like only weeks ago that Aliathra had been sent to the dwarfs of Karaz-a-Karak as part of the Phoenix Delegation of Ulthuan. As royalty, and a sorceress in her own right, the Everchild was thought fit to treat with the High King, Thorgrim Grudgebearer. Aliathra had her mother’s grace and poise and her father’s courage, and the old alliances had been renewed and invigorated. But then, death had swept down on tattered wings and put paid to the plans of dwarfs and elves.

Teclis studied Mannfred von Carstein, taking in the sharp contours of a face that shifted constantly between regal indifference and bestial malice. The name the creature went by was an assumed one, just another falsehood tacked on to the ledger that contained his crimes. Once, Teclis had sought to unravel that particular mystery – to find the source of the von Carstein bloodline and perhaps even eliminate it. Of all the vampiric infestations which blighted the world, theirs was the most militant, if not the best organised, and thus a potential threat to Ulthuan in the future. And of all the von Carsteins, Mannfred was the most dangerous.

His defeat of Eltharion the Grim in Sylvania proved that, if nothing else. The Grim Warden had attempted to rescue Aliathra at Tyrion’s behest. The army he had taken into death with him had been sorely missed in the days and weeks which followed. Teclis could not say for certain that Eltharion’s counsel would have ameliorated the tragedies that occurred after Tyrion had gone mad and their people had fallen to civil war, but his presence might have been enough to avert at least some of the anguish of those terrible days.

Instead, he’d died. And the hopes of Ulthuan had died with him. And now his killer stood smirking in the heart of Athel Loren, protected by an even greater evil. For a moment, Teclis wished that he were his brother, that he had even an ounce of Tyrion’s fire in him, so that he might put aside reason and caution and drive his sword through Mannfred’s twisted heart. But he wasn’t, and he never had been. Instead, he watched and thought, and wondered why Nagash was offering anything at all.

When the answer occurred to him, he smiled. Ah, clever. Of course. Why else insist on bringing the creature into the forest?

Nagash faced Tyrion and Alarielle. Perhaps the creature judged them the greatest threat, or maybe he simply wished to enjoy their agony. ‘YOU HAVE NO NEED TO BARGAIN. THE SOUL OF THE EVERCHILD IS NOT MINE TO GIVE. LIKE ALL OF YOUR KIND, SHE IS ALREADY FODDER FOR THE DARK PRINCE,’ Nagash said. Alarielle’s hand lashed out, catching Tyrion in the chest, stopping him before he could lunge at the liche.

Teclis could feel the other Incarnates gathering their powers now. Malekith and Gelt would act first, before the others. Caradryan would act last, despite being bound to the most impulsive of winds. He would wait for Alarielle, or Tyrion. The Emperor, as ever, stood to the side. Teclis could almost see the wheels turning in the human’s mind. The Emperor glanced at him, and gave a barely perceptible nod. He had figured out Nagash’s ploy as well.

‘INSTEAD,’ Nagash went on, ‘I WILL OFFER YOU THE ARCHITECT OF HER DEATH, TO DO WITH AS YOU WILL.’ As he spoke, Mannfred threw a triumphant look at Arkhan the Black. That look crumbled into abject horror, as Nagash turned and fastened one great metal claw on the back of the vampire’s head, hoisted him from his feet, and tossed him towards Tyrion and Alarielle without hesitation.

Mannfred struck the dais with a resounding crack, and flailed helplessly for a moment, his face twisted in shock. ‘No,’ he shrieked. ‘No, it wasn’t me! I didn’t kill her, it was…’ Whatever he’d been about to say was lost as Tyrion’s blade descended like a thunderbolt. Mannfred barely avoided the blow, scrambling to his feet, his own sword in hand. He whirled, looking for an exit, some avenue of escape, but a crackling flare of amethyst light rose and spread between the trees at the merest twitch of Nagash’s talons.

‘No, I’ve come too far, sacrificed too much to be your scapegoat,’ the vampire snarled. He turned back and forth, blade extended, trying to keep everyone at bay simultaneously. He looked at Nagash. ‘I served you! I brought you back, and this is how I am to be repaid?’

‘YOU STILL SERVE ME, MANNFRED VON CARSTEIN. YOU HAVE SERVED ME IN LIFE, AND YOU WILL CONTINUE TO DO SO BY YOUR DEATH.’ Nagash cocked his head. ‘REST ASSURED THAT IT IS APPRECIATED.’

Mannfred threw back his head and howled. He sprang from the dais, quick as a cat, and lunged for Nagash. His blade slammed down. Nagash caught the blow on his palm, and wrenched Mannfred from the air. The vampire tumbled end over end. He struck the ground, bounced, and lay still. Nagash held up the trapped sword, and his talons flexed. The blade shattered as if it were spun glass. The pieces fell to the ground in a glittering cascade, one by one, thumping into the dead grass.

Mannfred pushed himself to his feet. His eyes were empty, void of emotion. Teclis felt nothing. This was not victory of any sort or kind. It was a thing which had to be done for the greater good, and that drained it of any satisfaction it might have otherwise provided. Mannfred was to be but one more body for the foundations, rather than a conquered enemy. He met the vampire’s gaze, and saw a spark in the blackness. A refusal to surrender to fate. In the end, that was all vampires really were. Survival instinct given form and voice.

Mannfred made to speak.

Nagash cut him off with but a gesture. Bonds of amethyst formed about the vampire, mummifying him in dreadful light. Soon, a cocoon of death magic hovered above the ground, occasionally twitching as its occupant tried to free himself.

A hush fell over the glade. Nagash stood silent and still, his gift hovering behind him, ready to be delivered into the hands of his prospective allies, if they agreed. No one spoke, however. Some were shocked by Nagash’s actions. Others wondered if it were merely a ruse. Teclis wasn’t shocked, nor did he believe it was a trick.

The liche’s skull creaked as it swivelled to face him. The eerie light that flickered within Nagash’s sockets flared. Teclis stared back, unperturbed, at least outwardly. He had faced Nagash twice before, once in the quiet of Nagashizzar, many years ago, when he had tried to enlist the Great Necromancer’s darkling spirit as an ally against the growing shadow in the north. Nagash had refused then. Teclis wondered if the creature regretted that refusal now, when he was being forced to give up one of his servants as the price for what he could have once had freely. No, Teclis thought. No, you regret nothing. Such emotions have long since turned to dust in the hollow chasms of your memory. He smiled sadly. Lucky for you, I have regret enough for all of us.

Teclis looked at his brother. ‘Well, brother?’

Tyrion glanced at Teclis, and then looked at Alarielle. He made as if to offer her his hand, but turned away instead. ‘Honour is satisfied,’ Tyrion said. Alarielle stared at him for a moment, and then returned to her throne.

‘Honour is satisfied,’ she repeated, softly.

Malekith, who had watched them in silence the entire time, gestured sharply and returned to his seat. ‘Time itself is our enemy. As such, if… honour is satisfied, then I withdraw my objection.’

Teclis looked at Gelt. ‘And you, Balthasar Gelt?’ Gelt said nothing. After a moment, he nodded tersely. Teclis looked at the others. Caradryan shrugged. The Emperor nodded. Teclis sighed in relief. He turned his attentions to Nagash. ‘You heard them, necromancer. Mannfred is ours, and in return, you will be allowed a place on the Council of Incarnates.’

‘A PRETTY NAME. AND WHAT IS THIS COUNCIL, LOREMASTER?’

Teclis ignored the mention of his former position. ‘That should be obvious, even to one as removed as you.’ He met Nagash’s flickering gaze directly.

‘It is a council of war.’

NINE

Mannfred von Carstein cursed himself for a fool. It had become his mantra in the days following his betrayal and incarceration. He sat in the dark, constrained by a cage of living roots. The enchantments which had been laid upon his prison were a source of constant discomfort. He could not even muster the smallest cantrip.

This, he thought, this is how I am repaid? He had been loyal, hadn’t he? Loyalty must run both ways, though. He had served faithfully and honestly, and how had he been repaid? With the loss of all that he had fought for, with betrayal and punishment for a crime he had not even committed. It had been Arkhan who had slit the elf maiden’s throat, and used her blood to revive Nagash. Why hadn’t Nagash dispensed with the liche instead? Arkhan had served his purpose – he was a shell now. Nothing but an extension of his master’s will.

Maybe that was it. Neferata had said it herself – Nagash despised anything that wasn’t Nagash. And what Nagash despised, he feared as well. Do you fear me, Undying King? Even after all I have sacrificed on your behalf?

For the first few hours of his imprisonment, he had raged and ranted, hoping to attract the notice of guards, or, even better, one of the Incarnates. He thought that if he could but tell them the truth of things, they would see how Nagash had tricked them. He couldn’t say what he thought that might accomplish. He knew, now that he was imprisoned, he would not be freed, even if he proved his relative innocence. But to see Nagash defeated, or even destroyed, and Arkhan with him, was too tantalising a dream to relinquish.

But no guards came, if there even were guards. None of his enemies came, to gloat or to accuse. He was left alone in the dark, without the sorcery that was his birthright. Worse than his lack of magics, he could feel the very stuff of him draining away, as if the trees above him were drawing sustenance from his bones. The magics that permeated him were being siphoned off, and likely transmuted into new and vibrant growths above. A vampire being vampirised, he thought, and not for the first time. Under different circumstances, he might even have seen the humour of it all. As it was, he filled his days with plotting ever more savage revenge schemes for the day of his inevitable freedom.

And he would be free. That was the certainty which sustained him, even as his prison sought to suck the life from him. He had been buried before, more than once. Trapped in the dark. But he had always returned. Like Nagash himself, he had mastered death. It was not the end. He pushed himself to his feet. He looked up. ‘Do you hear me? It is not the end! I still live, and while I live, I…’ He trailed off. Someone was clapping. He whirled, a snarl splitting his features. ‘Who dares mock me? Show yourself!’

‘“Who dares mock me,” he asks. Would you like a list?’ Vlad von Carstein said, as he stepped out of the shadows and stood before the cage. He seemed healthy for a dead man, Mannfred thought. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope that Vlad had come to free him. Then common sense reasserted itself, and he took a wary step back.

‘Come to gloat, old man?’ Mannfred said. He glared at Vlad, wishing that he could kill with a glance. ‘Or maybe you’ve come to finally put me out of my misery. Well, took you long enough. I was beginning to wonder how many assassination attempts it would take…’

‘I’m not going to kill you, boy. The world has seen enough change, in my opinion.’ Vlad leaned against the roots that made up the bars of Mannfred’s prison and stared at him. ‘You are only alive because I asked him to spare you.’

‘Did you really?’ Mannfred spat.

Vlad smiled. ‘Well, not exactly. I pointed out that your suffering would make a better peace offering than your death. And Nagash, being, well, Nagash, thought that made sense.’

‘Remind me to thank you at the first opportunity,’ Mannfred said.

Vlad frowned. ‘I did it for you, boy. Whatever you think, whatever self-deluding lie is even now burrowing into the sour meat of what passes for your brain, know that what I did, I did for you.’ He leaned forwards, gripping the ancient roots. ‘You are still my… friend. My student. Even now. Even here.’

‘And that is all I will ever be, as long as you walk this world,’ Mannfred said. He slid down the wall and sat. Hands dangling across his knees, he laughed bitterly. ‘I will always be in the shadow of giants. You, Neferata, Abhorash… even that old monster W’soran. You carved up the world before I realised what was happening.’ He smiled. ‘I wonder where they are now.’

‘Neferata is doing what she has always done, boy. She rules.’

Mannfred grunted. ‘Yes. She rules the land we bought in blood and fire.’

Vlad chuckled. ‘Such is the way of queens.’ He leaned his head against the roots. ‘W’soran is dead, I think. If such a thing can die. Otherwise he would be here, with us, scheming away.’

‘And Abhorash?’

Vlad was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Abhorash fights. But he fights alone. He will not serve Nagash, or any man. Even so, some small part of the world will survive the coming conflagration, thanks to him. Where Abhorash stands, the enemy will never triumph.’

Mannfred looked at him. ‘You know where he is,’ he said finally.

‘I’ve made it my business to know where my people are. Especially him. Walach’s bloodthirsty lunatics were but pale shadows of the Red Dragon. Even Krell would not be able to match him. There is nothing alive or dead in this world that can, I think.’ He sighed. ‘What I wouldn’t give to fight beside him once more.’ His gaze turned inwards, and his expression lost its mask of jocularity. Mannfred studied him in silence. For the first time in their long, often bitter association, Vlad looked his age – old beyond reckoning, and battered on the rocks of existence. ‘We should, all of us, the last sons and daughters of Lahmia, be here. We were the first, and we should be here at the last.’

‘Life’s just not fair, is it?’ Mannfred said, spitefully. Vlad glared at him. He pushed away from the cage, and shook himself, as might one who has just awoken from a long dream.

‘No, it is not. It is a beast, and it is always ravenous. It eats and eats, but is never satisfied.’ He tilted his head. ‘Do you remember the day we met? Do you remember the first lesson I taught you?’

Mannfred said nothing. Vlad looked disappointed. ‘The first lesson was this… nothing stays the same. No matter how hard we fight, no matter how much we struggle, the world moves on. The world will always turn, empires will rise and fall, and if we are not careful, we will be drowned in the ocean of time. We must adapt and persevere.’

‘That is what I was attempting to do, before you came back and ruined everything,’ Mannfred snarled. He shot to his feet and flung himself at the bars of his cage. He slammed into the roots and thrust his arm through, clawing for Vlad’s face.

Vlad stepped back, out of reach. ‘Whatever ruin has been wrought, it was not my doing, but yours. It was your foolishness that saw Nagash resurrected, that saw the elven realms thrown into turmoil, and the Empire weakened in its darkest hour. You pulled down this house of cards, boy, not me. The Dark Gods exploited your hubris, and now we all must pay the price.’

‘From where I stand, I seem to be paying the price for us all.’

‘You might be the safest of us, boy. Here, hidden away in your living tomb. You’ll be safe from the fires that flicker on the horizon. It is my last gift to you.’ Vlad pulled his cloak tight about him. He smiled. ‘Rest now, my son. Your labours are over.’

‘Vlad, do not leave me here,’ Mannfred hissed. ‘You cannot leave me here. You need me. Nagash needs me. I know things, Vlad – about your so-called allies, about our enemies – but I can’t tell you if I’m trapped here!’

‘Nor can you try and use those secrets to benefit yourself at the expense of everyone else. I know you, boy. I know what monster drives you, and I know that if we are to have any hope at all, you must be left here, and forgotten.’ Vlad turned away. ‘Close your eyes and sleep, boy. Dream, and learn from your mistakes.’

‘Vlad,’ Mannfred called out. Then, more loudly, ‘Vlad!’

The elder von Carstein did not stop, or even glance back.

And soon, Mannfred was left alone in the dark once more.

Vlad von Carstein flexed his hand, and admired the way the dappled light which dripped through the verdant canopy overhead played across his ring. He felt better than he had in months. His death and resurrection had cleansed his system of Otto Glott’s blight, freeing him from the pain and weakness which had afflicted him since the Battle of Altdorf. The light stung his flesh, but he relished the clarity that came with such aches. It would help keep him focused in the hours and days to come.

He glanced up at Nagash. The Great Necromancer stood silent and still, as if he were some ancient idol, dug up from the sands of Nehekhara and carted to Athel Loren. Only the ever-shifting shroud of spirits which draped over him, and the flickering witch-light in his eye sockets, betrayed his awareness.

Arkhan, as ever, stood at his master’s right hand. Equally immobile, he nonetheless gave the impression of being far more alert than the Undying King. Vlad smiled. Arkhan made for an effective watchdog. Though he’d been stripped of flesh, the soul of the man yet remained. He was no dull, dead thing, his senses muffled by time and Nagash’s will. For all that he pretended otherwise, there was still enough of the back-alley gambler in the liche to make him dangerous. Much like Vlad himself.

His smile faded as he thought of Mannfred, buried down in the dark. Ah, my boy, what a disappointment you turned out to be. Too ambitious to see the trap laid out before you. Then, if it hadn’t been Mannfred, it would have been someone else. The world was winding down, and had been for centuries. It could not be turned back. It could only be stopped – frozen at the last moment of the last hour, eternally poised on the precipice. But that was better than nothing. The world would survive, in some fashion.

He looked across the glade. As before, only a select few were present. The elven Incarnates, of course, and the Emperor as well. Teclis and the woman, Lileath. The Bretonnian duke, and the dwarf runesmith. And, of course, Balthasar Gelt. Vlad met the wizard’s gaze, and inclined his head respectfully. Gelt too had cleansed himself, his mind and will no longer infected by the spiritual malaise which had been eating away at him when they’d first met on the Auric Bastion. Gelt had fallen, and been reborn as something new and powerful. Vlad smiled again, thinking of his own rebirth; the first, and the hundreds which followed, down the long road of years. He rubbed his thumb over his ring.

Gelt didn’t return his nod. Then, Vlad hadn’t expected him to. He let his attentions wander. He could hear the sounds of battle in the distance, to the west. That would be the elf-prince, Imrik, fighting against one of the many marauding herds of beastmen which threatened Athel Loren. The creatures grew bold, as the world weakened. They had penetrated the forest’s defences, and got farther into its depths than ever before. The elves hunted them now, where they were not fighting them openly, and not alone. As a gesture of good faith, men, dwarfs and even Nagash had lent their forces to that effort.

The Emperor’s man, Volker, led woodsmen from Middenland and Averland as well as foresters from Quenelles in daily patrols through those parts of the forest safe for human travel, and thus likely to be stalked by beastmen. Dwarf gyrocopters patrolled above the pine crags, and Vlad had set loose a few of his more over-eager followers, including Eldyra, on the hunt – a task which the elf-turned-vampire seemed to relish. He frowned. She was self-destructive, that one. Her new life did not sit well with her, and she was ever at odds with her fellow Drakenhof Templars. He had been forced to break up more than one confrontation in the past few days, and his patience with the former princess of Tiranoc was wearing thin.

Vlad glanced speculatively at Tyrion. The Incarnate of Light stood, as ever, near the throne of the Everqueen, one hand resting on his sword. Like Caradryan, Tyrion said little at these gatherings. Instead, he stared west, as if he could see the battle taking place there and longed to be at its forefront. From what Eldyra had told him of her old master, Vlad thought that the latter was exceedingly likely. He wondered if, perhaps, it might not be wise to bring master and former apprentice together once more. Eldyra would be of great help in the battles to come, but she needed focus. She needed to see that there was only one path open to her, and that path was Vlad’s. Whatever the elf thought of the changes wrought in her, he would surely strive to aid her.

And in the lending of that aid, common cause might arise between Vlad himself and the elf-prince. Vlad had no illusions as to the disgust and mistrust his presence engendered among the others. It had ever been such, and it was no less than he expected. But if the Emperor could put aside his distaste, and even Gelt could be civil, then there might be hope yet. The time was coming when Nagash would dispense with him and return him to the dust from which he had been drawn. To Nagash, his champions were but tools, and easily disposed of.

Vlad had no intention of going back into the dark. Not now. Not while Isabella still walked the world, held in thrall to the Dark Gods. And not while the empire he was owed could yet be salvaged. He reached up and touched the tattered seal affixed to his cuirass – the official seal of Karl Franz, and the sign of an elector. Yes, he would speak to Tyrion and the Emperor both, and ingratiate himself to his enemies as only one who had manoeuvred through the adder-pits of the Courts of the Dawn could.

But later, I think, Vlad thought. When Nagash’s presence was not such a sore point for the others, they might be more inclined to think charitably of him and his. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of argument. It was a familiar sound, and almost depressingly so. Teclis and the others were, Vlad reflected, finding that forging such an assemblage of disparate powers was one thing, but getting them to work in harmony was another entirely.

Elven voices outweighed those of men and dwarfs here, and it was only thanks to the mediating efforts of Karl Franz that violence had not already erupted between the haughty exiles of Ulthuan and their guests. And the less said about Nagash, the better. Everyone had their own opinion as to what action the gathered Incarnates and their ever-dwindling followers must take next, but none could convince the others. The pendulum of discussion swung back and forth from civil discourse to squabbling arguments, and Vlad watched it all in amusement. This time, it was the sorcerer, Teclis, trying to sway the so-called Council of Incarnates to his strategy.

‘The fate of the eighth wind is of the utmost importance,’ Teclis was saying.

Lileath stood beside him, her face grave. She added, ‘The Wind of Beasts is loose somewhere in the world, and while it is lost to us, your power cannot hope to match that of the Chaos Gods. If we are to have any hope of victory–’

‘And what victory would that be? To save a world already infected by the taint of Chaos?’ Malekith snarled. ‘No, that is no victory at all.’ He rose from his throne. ‘With our powers we might yet seal the great breaches through which the winds of Chaos roar. Imagine it, a world free of Chaos, and of the tyranny of wild magic.’

‘And without magic, what then?’ Alarielle said. ‘Our world only thrives because of it. Rather than dispensing with it, we should combine our abilities, and infuse Athel Loren itself with the very stuff of magic. We can return it to the splendour of ancient days, and make it a fitting final redoubt which might stand against the Dark Gods for an eternity.’

‘No,’ Arkhan the Black said. He stepped forwards, to the consternation of the others. Vlad hid a smile. Nagash rarely deigned to speak to the living, preferring that either Vlad or Arkhan handled such a tedious chore. The living undoubtedly considered it to be arrogance; in truth, Vlad knew that Nagash was ever at work attempting to bring the untold millions of mindless, unbound corpses which had wandered the world since his resurrection under control. Such a feat required every iota of Nagash’s attentions.

‘No,’ Arkhan went on, ‘Nagash shall not sacrifice that which is his by right. Not on behalf of the demesne of another.’

‘Indeed,’ Vlad said, speaking up. He smiled and gestured airily. ‘Especially when there are better ways to use such things.’

‘You will be silent, leech. You are only here on sufferance,’ Malekith snapped.

‘No,’ Gelt said. The wizard stepped forwards. ‘Whatever you think of him, in his time Vlad von Carstein was a military commander without equal. For that reason, if no other, we should heed him.’ Vlad hid his surprise. Gelt was the last one he had expected to speak for him, except for Hammerson, possibly. Vlad inclined his head.

‘The lands from here to Kislev are swarming with the walking dead – bodies without life or consciousness, uncontrolled, but waiting.’ He indicated Nagash. ‘With the power of the other Incarnates added to his own, Nagash would be able to control the dead in their entirety. An army of billions, waiting to be utilised howsoever we see fit. Imagine it,’ Vlad said, gesturing. ‘The Everchosen may have armies aplenty, but they are not limitless, and with every battle, our numbers would swell.’

‘Pah. Why bother with the dead at all? We should send emissaries to my folk,’ Hammerson barked, pounding a fist into his palm. ‘There are mighty holds yet in the mountains. Copper Mountain is but a few days travel east of here. My kin would open their doors to me – to us. And we would have an army capable of smashing us a path wherever we wish to go, or to hold these forests and crags indefinitely if that is your wish.’

‘Hammerson is right,’ Gelt said. He looked at the Emperor, as if seeking support. ‘The dwarfs have always been the staunchest allies of the Empire, come what may. They would not abandon us now.’ Hammerson nodded fiercely.

‘Aye. But say the word, and I’ll send my rangers into the crags. They’ll use the dwarf paths, the routes known only to the dawi, and bring us back an army…’

‘Time is short enough, without wasting it begging for aid from those who’ve already made their cowardice clear,’ Tyrion said scornfully. Hammerson snarled an oath, and made as if to attack the elf, but Gelt held him back. Tyrion looked around, seemingly oblivious to the dwarf’s mounting anger. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘we have an army. The finest in the world – Aenarion himself would have been proud to lead it.’

‘And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Malekith said.

The Emperor spoke up before Tyrion could reply. ‘And what do you suggest we do with this army?’ he asked.

Tyrion laughed. ‘Isn’t it obvious? We take back your Empire, my friend. We rally your folk, province by province. We drive the enemy back, back into the north, back into the void whence they came.’

‘There are no provinces to rally, Tyrion,’ the Emperor said, after a moment. His voice was rough with barely restrained emotion. ‘There are no armies to raise, no sieges to lift. There are no embers of resistance to fan into rebellion.’ He spoke slowly, as if every word was painful. ‘The Empire that I – that Sigmar – built is done and dust. It has been ground under and made as nothing.’

Gelt hunched forwards, leaning against his staff. ‘The Emperor is correct. The forces we have here are all that remain to us. To all of us.’

‘All the more reason then, to take control of the limitless dead,’ Vlad interjected. ‘We can bury them in hungry corpses.’ He looked at the Emperor. ‘And perhaps take some measure of vengeance for the atrocities they have wreaked on our lands.’

‘Not to mention the power that would give your master,’ Caradryan said, speaking up for the first time. ‘What would he do with that army, once our common foe was defeated?’

‘Aye, the elf has the right of it,’ Hammerson grated. He pointed a stubby finger at Vlad. ‘The living cannot trust the dead. My people know that better than most. Bad enough that we must fight alongside elves, but at least the pointy-ears are alive.’

Vlad smiled and spread his hands. ‘You think far ahead for one dangling from a precipice, Master Hammerson.’ He looked around. ‘There is no guarantee that even with the dead under our sway, it would be enough to throw back the enemy. Why worry about the future, when it is the present which is under threat?’

‘Because it is for the future that we fight,’ the Emperor said. He looked around. ‘Survival is not enough, my friends. Nor is victory. One without the other would be a hollow triumph at best, and pyrrhic at worst.’ His eyes met those of Vlad, briefly. Vlad stepped back, his pretty words suddenly so much ash in his mouth. ‘This world is all that is, and will be, for our peoples. There is nowhere that can be made safe, nowhere that we can run.’

As the Emperor spoke, Vlad saw Lileath blanch and step back, her hand at her throat. He wondered idly what secret she hid that made her react so, even as he said, ‘Then what are we even doing here?’ He gestured about him. ‘Beautiful as this forest is, I do not fancy it as a tomb.’

‘Nor do any of us,’ the Emperor said. ‘Which is why whatever else is decided here, it must be unanimous. We must stand as one, or we will fall separately.’

Vlad glanced up at Nagash, and then away. He smiled and shook his head.

It was a pretty sentiment. But it was going to take more than sentiment to sway any of the gathered powers to a single cause.

The Temple of Ulric rang with the sound of footsteps. Robed, huddled shapes scuttled into the dark, hissing and murmuring in abominable fashion. Strange, inhuman figures cavorted in the shadowed alcoves and aisles. Bestial forms clambered through the chains strung across the curve of the dome, feeding off the rotting bodies which hung there.

Pale shapes swayed and danced to the piping sound of flutes before the throne of the Three-Eyed King. They were clad in silks and damask, smelling of sweet oils and perfumes, and their hooves and claws were sheathed in gold. They sang and laughed as they danced, delicately clawing one another and scattering the blood about them as if it were rose petals. The pipers, slovenly, fat-gutted plaguebearers, crouched on the dais and played duelling melodies, as cackling pink horrors clapped and kept time.

Canto Unsworn strode forwards, through the silently arrayed ranks of the Swords of Chaos. To the best of his knowledge, the Chaos knights hadn’t moved since they had taken up their positions some weeks earlier. The daemonettes, in their dance, moved amongst them, but not a single one of the knights so much as twitched. Canto gestured sharply as one horned and cloven-hoofed beauty pirouetted towards him, and the creature dashed away, favouring him with a sulky smile as she spun past him. Her claws clicked across the side of his helm as he moved away.

As Canto drew close to the throne, he tossed the still-smoking helm of Nalac the Eschaton onto the floor. ‘The Changer of Ways sends his regards,’ Canto said, as the pipes went still and the horrors ceased their laughter. The helm, composed of millions of shards of tinted glass, caught the light in a thousand ways. It reminded him of another helm, belonging to another devotee of Tzeentch, long ago and far away. He pushed the thought away.

Archaon, heretofore slouched on his throne, sat up. ‘Nalac. I do not know him.’ He had Ghal Maraz across his lap. Even now, the hammer terrified Canto. No mortal hand would ever wield it again, but even so, it seemed to hunger for death and destruction. His death, and the destruction of those he served. Others had encouraged Archaon to dispense with it, to shatter it, or hurl it from the city walls. Their bodies now hung from the chains above, along with the others who had tested Archaon’s patience.

‘And you never will, my lord,’ Canto said. ‘He was one of Vilitch’s disciples, and was trying to rouse the tribes occupying the Sudgarten District. I thought it prudent to – ah – head that off at the pass, as it were.’ He gave the helmet a kick.

‘Did he die well?’

‘I’m not entirely certain. A flock of purple ravens burst out of his armour after I cut his head off. They flew off. I think that means I won.’ He looked up at Archaon. ‘The army grows restless, my lord.’

‘The army eats itself, Unsworn,’ Archaon corrected. ‘Like a fire, swelling to fill a room and snuffing itself in the process. That is the nature of Chaos. Like the serpent eating its own tail, it feeds on itself, until there is nothing left to devour.’ Archaon stroked the hammer gingerly, as if afraid it might bite him. ‘And then, it begins again.’ He shoved the hammer from his lap. It struck the dais and tumbled down the stairs. Daemons scrambled out of its path with shrieks and yowls. Canto stepped back as the hammer smashed into the floor at the foot of the steps. ‘It always begins again,’ Archaon said.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Canto said carefully, bowing his head.

When he looked up, Archaon was studying him. ‘Have I thanked you yet, Unsworn? While I sit here, in my seclusion, you wield sword and shield in my defence. You fight battles so that I do not have to. Do you begrudge me, my executioner?’

Canto did not meet Archaon’s gaze. He could feel its weight on his soul, and knew that his answer might determine his survival. Archaon had dispensed with most of his advisors and confidants in the days following the fall of Averheim. The lands of men were fallen, or of little consequence. The lands of the elves had sunk beneath the sea, and the dwarfs had retreated into the roots of the earth. The sour redoubt of Sylvania was ringed about by armies of beasts and daemons and skaven, and its crushing was of minor importance with Nagash’s departure. There were no enemies left that Canto could see, save Archaon’s own lieutenants.

Chaos feeds on itself, Canto thought. He lifted his head. ‘I do not, my lord. I am content with my lot.’ As he spoke, he hoped Archaon couldn’t see that he was lying.

In truth, Canto had been preparing to leave for days. Every time he thought he might slip out of the gates and ride hell for leather for Araby or Cathay, some champion or chieftain got it into their head to cause trouble. If it wasn’t a schemer like Nalac the Eschaton, it was a brute like Gorgomir Bloodeye, being spurred on by a suspiciously pale courtesan. Finding a vampire amongst the daemon-worshippers wasn’t that surprising. There was at least one other in the city, to Canto’s knowledge.

And a frightening creature she is, he thought. The Countess kept to herself, for the most part, and stayed within the plague gardens that had sprung up in what had been the merchant district. They said that she spent her days humming and singing to herself. On a whim, Sigvald the Magnificent had tried to hack his way into the gardens only to be put to flight, his tail between his legs.

‘I do not remember what contentment feels like,’ Archaon said. ‘Maybe I never knew.’

Before Canto could even attempt to formulate an answer to that, the heavy oaken doors of the temple were smashed open. The sound of splintering wood filled the rotunda, silencing all else. Then, a thunderous voice boomed, ‘You mock me!’

The temple shuddered as a heavy form entered Archaon’s throne room, stinking of fire and blood. Ka’Bandha strode through the swirling daemonettes, scattering the handmaidens of Slaanesh as it strode towards the throne. One of the Swords of Chaos was caught a glancing blow from Ka’Bandha’s axe, and fell. Before the knight could get to his feet, the bloodthirster sneered, raised one great hoof, and brought it down on the warrior’s helm, pulping it. As if the death of one of their own had been a signal, the Swords of Chaos swept into motion. As one, they drew their swords and turned towards the daemon.

Canto took up his position on the dais, his own blade drawn. He doubted if he would last much longer than any of the others but there was no place to run that the daemon couldn’t catch him, if it so desired. That was what he told himself, at any rate. Why else would he put himself between Archaon and the daemon? Better to stand with the Everchosen than perish. There was no telling what had driven the beast into a rage. The servants of Khorne longed for battle the way other beings desired food.

Archaon said nothing as the daemon thundered forwards. He merely raised his fist, and, in eerie rhythm, the Swords sheathed their weapons and retreated to the chamber’s perimeter. Canto hesitated, but then sheathed his own blade. There was no sense in making himself a target, after all.

‘You forget yourself, daemon,’ Archaon intoned as he slowly rose from his throne. ‘I am the Everchosen, and I am the edge of Khorne’s axe on this world. Would you approach his throne in so rash a manner?’ His words echoed through the rotunda, and a ripple of daemonic titters followed in its wake as the watching daemons twitched in glee to see Ka’Bandha spoken to in such a manner. There was no love lost between the beasts, even here, united beneath Archaon’s standard. They were worse than men, in some ways. ‘Remember, daemon. In this world, you serve at my whim.’

‘You are but a mortal speck,’ Ka’Bandha snarled. ‘I serve you only so long as you lead us to slaughter. But there is no slaughter here, Everchosen. Where is the ocean of blood we were promised? Where are the skulls you have tithed to the Lord of Carnage? I see nothing before me but the dried leavings of crows and jackals.’

The bloodthirster straightened, wings unfurling. A wash of heat billowed outwards, rippling from the daemon’s form and filling the rotunda. The stones at Ka’Bandha’s feet blackened and grew soft from that heat, and the chains dangling above its hunched shoulders turned white hot and dripped to the floor, link by link. ‘You mock me, king of filth. You mock Ka’Bandha, and make him an overseer for puling slaves,’ Ka’Bandha roared out, shaking the chamber to its foundations. The daemon smashed the flat of its axe against the brass cuirass which clad its hairy torso. The sound of metal on metal echoed through the temple and lesser daemons fled the sound of it, their paws pressed to their ears.

‘Those slaves toil and die in the cause of the Four-Who-Are-All. What they uncover, what they feed with their broken bodies and blistered souls, will, when it awakes, spill more blood than all of the axes ever forged. But it must be excavated, and it must be fed.’ Archaon paused. He cocked his head. ‘Unless the great Ka’Bandha fancies excavating it himself.’

The bloodthirster lifted its axe and drove it into the ground, splitting stone and rocking the chamber. ‘I will not be mocked,’ the creature roared, as it wrenched its axe free of the floor and lashed out, splitting one of the chamber’s support pillars in two.

Stone and dust cascaded down as part of the ceiling collapsed. Canto ducked aside as a chunk of stone smashed into the dais. Archaon didn’t so much as twitch, even as Ka’Bandha advanced on the throne. ‘No. I see that,’ Archaon said, as Ka’Bandha loomed over him. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. He looked up at the daemon. Their faces were only bare inches apart. ‘What is it you wish, then?’ he asked quietly. ‘Would you have me dispense with you, as I dispensed with the Fateweaver?’

Canto shivered. The two-headed daemon had grown agitated in the aftermath of the Emperor’s escape from Averheim. It was a given that the Fateweaver had been working to undermine Archaon; treachery was second nature to the servants of the Changer of Ways. When the beast had openly challenged Archaon, demanding that he pursue the Emperor into the Grey Mountains, a confrontation which had been simmering for weeks occurred in the blink of an eye. There had been no speeches, no grand gestures. Merely a sword, flashing in the dark, and the sound of two monstrous heads falling to the floor. What was left had been fed to the thing in the depths of the Fauschlag.

Ka’Bandha was silent. For a moment, Canto wondered whether it might attempt to strike Archaon down. Part of him hoped it would try. Part of him hoped it would succeed. The creature glared down at Archaon, axe half-raised. Archaon waited. When no blow was forthcoming, he said, ‘I am fulfilling your lord’s wishes, Ka’Bandha. If you doubt that, then strike me down.’ He spread his arms. ‘Let us see whether Khorne rewards you… or punishes you.’

The bloodthirster snarled and took a step back. ‘Blood must flow,’ the daemon snapped. ‘There is no blood here, Everchosen. Let the servants of lesser gods guard slaves. I would have battle.’

‘There has been battle aplenty. Enough to glut even the King of Murder himself. The world drowns in blood, mighty Ka’Bandha. Only a single lone island resists the tide, and it matters little, isolated as it is.’ Archaon lowered his arms.

There was something about his voice, his manner, which Canto found confusing. Archaon wasn’t trying to calm the beast – no, he was trying to aggravate it. It wasn’t just mockery. What are you up to? he thought.

‘The Emperor escaped you,’ Ka’Bandha growled.

Archaon shook his head. ‘And so? What is a ruler with no land to rule? And what power he stole from the heavens, I stripped from him with my own two hands. His power, temporal or otherwise, is gone. He is broken, his armies scattered, his land… ash. The lie of him has been exposed to the world, as I swore to do. And now I shall fulfil my oath to our masters, Ka’Bandha. I shall crack the world open, so that they might feast on it at last. What is the Emperor, compared to that?’

Says the man who has spent weeks brooding because Karl Franz slipped through his fingers at Averheim, Canto thought. His eyes were drawn to Ghal Maraz, where it sat at the bottom of the steps. Even Ka’Bandha avoided it, and cast occasional wary glances at the weapon. Archaon was up to something – but what?

‘It is a mistake to think him defeated,’ Ka’Bandha rumbled. ‘His skull belongs to Khorne.’

‘Then, by all means… go collect it,’ Archaon said, gesturing towards the doors to the temple. ‘Karl Franz’s life is yours. I give it to you freely, and without stipulation, save one.’ He held up a hand, as Ka’Bandha growled. ‘Let Khorne have his skull, by all means. But his skin is mine. Promise me this one small gesture, and I shall release you from my service, so that you might hunt your prey wherever he seeks to hide.’

The bloodthirster snorted. ‘Aye, so it shall be. I shall collect skin and skull both. I shall drown the trees in blood, and bury the mountains in offal.’ The creature threw back its head and roared in satisfaction. ‘Let the Blood Hunt ride once more, before the end of everything!’ The daemon spun on its heel and stormed from the chamber, smashing aside another pillar in its exuberance.

‘Well, that’s one way of handling it,’ Canto said, as the dust cleared.

Archaon descended the steps, and sank down on the bottom one. He looked down at Ghal Maraz. He reached out, and traced the intricate pattern of runes which covered the hammer. ‘Time… fractures, Unsworn. A thousand-thousand possibilities flare bright, and burn out before my eyes with every moment. But there are fewer and fewer of them with every passing hour. Our path grows narrow and thorny, and I am forced to play a game of death and deceit to ensure the proper outcome.’

The Everchosen picked up the hammer and held it out, as if weighing it. ‘The hours grow short, and the shadows long. I would have vengeance, not because I desire it, but because it must take place, else what was it all for?’

Canto’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Archaon was not looking at him. One blow, and he would be free. Or dead, he thought, as he lowered his hand. ‘I do not know, my lord.’

‘The beast will not succeed.’ Archaon touched the shimmering gemstone set into his helm. ‘I have seen its failure, spread across the skein of possibilities. The only question is one of time. When will the pieces fall? And where?’ He spun Ghal Maraz gently in his grip. ‘It must be here. There is a moment here, waiting to be born. It has weight, and draws every other moment towards it, like a stone drawing the man whose leg it is tied to down into the dark water. It will happen in Middenheim.’ He glanced at Canto. ‘The end must justify the means. The world is a lie, and the truth must out.’ Archaon rose to his feet, Ghal Maraz in hand. ‘I cannot rest until that is done, Unsworn. Even if I must defy the gods themselves, I will have the truth.’ He climbed the steps slowly, the hammer dangling from his grip.

Canto watched the Everchosen sink back onto his throne, and thought of Araby.

TEN

Duke Jerrod drove his blade down into the hairy back of the slavering beastman, severing the creature’s spine. He wrenched the blade free and twisted in his saddle, lopping off the arm of another. The creature howled and staggered back, clutching at itself. His stallion whinnied and lashed out, killing the creature with a single blow from its hoof.

The beasts were wild with madness. The bloodlust so common to the minotaurs had spread to every gor and ungor loping beneath the trees. For days they had hurled themselves into death on the spear points and sword blades of the elves, and for every thousand that perished, another thousand prowled forth, slavering and berserk. For the most part the bulk of the enemy were held at bay by the elves, but some small groups had slipped through the wall of spears and shields to ravage behind the static positions. It was these isolated fragments of the horde that the Incarnates had roused themselves to destroy.

The elves, led by the Dragon-Prince, Imrik, were on the verge of exhaustion. But to give in, to surrender even a single glade, was to threaten the safety of the King’s Glade. And that was too steep a price for even an hour’s respite. But such was the fury of this latest onslaught, that even the Incarnates had been stirred from their interminable debate.

Or so it seemed to Jerrod, at least. Endless hours of argument, back and forth, accomplishing nothing tangible save to put folk who should be allies at each other’s throats. It seemed inconceivable to him that such a thing was possible, that even now men and women broke and shattered beneath the weight of their own hubris.

Then, not everyone had the Lady to guide them onto the proper path as he and his knights did. Around him, the Companions of Quenelles fought with courage and honour, lances and swords red with the blood of abominations. He murmured a silent prayer as an axe hacked away one of the frayed strips of silk which decorated the crown of his helmet, and nudged his horse around. The flat of his shield caught the minotaur on the side of the head, knocking it aside. It stumbled, and then fell, as a spear erupted from its side. The beast collapsed onto all fours. Its hide bristled with arrows, and despite the spear in its side, it tried to struggle to its feet. An armoured boot caught it in the head, shoving it back down.

Wendel Volker caught the haft of the spear and jerked it free, before plunging it down through the minotaur’s bulging, bloodshot eye. The Reiksguard looked up at Jerrod and smiled. It was a fierce, unnatural expression, lacking in humour. ‘Much better than listening to all that bickering, eh?’ Volker said.

‘I never knew you to be so eager for a fight, Wendel,’ Jerrod said.

Volker left his spear where he’d planted it. He drew his sword, and a single-bladed axe, from his belt, and hefted them meaningfully. ‘What else is there?’ he rasped. ‘There’s nowhere to run now. May as well take what I’m owed, before the end.’

Volker had changed much in the weeks since they had arrived in Athel Loren, Jerrod reflected. It was as if something grew within him, remaking him in its image. What that image was, and what form it would eventually take, Jerrod could not say. Whatever it was, it frightened him. The white-haired knight had always been a brave, if hesitant man, with too much love of the bottle for Jerrod’s taste, but in the past few weeks he had become a fierce warrior, staying out on the borders of Athel Loren for days at a time, leading his band of foresters and scouts in hunting down any beastmen that slipped through the defences of the elves. The men who followed him included priests of Ulric and Taal, shrieking flagellants and howling, fanatical worshippers of the wolf-god. The mad and the lost, formed into a murderous pack that even the most bloodthirsty beast hesitated to cross.

Volker’s eyes blazed, and Jerrod’s horse whinnied nervously as the temperature dropped suddenly. He followed Volker’s gaze, and saw that he was staring at the elf mage, Teclis. The mage fought beside Lileath, the elf-woman who was neither Incarnate nor noble, as far as Jerrod could tell. He could not, in fact, say what she was. Lileath of the Moon, and Ladrielle of the Veil – that was what she had called herself. But what did those names mean? Why did they sound so familiar to him, as if he had heard them before? In a dream, perhaps, he thought. Volker took a step towards them, weapons raised. Jerrod nudged his horse between them, blocking Volker’s line of sight. ‘Your Emperor has said that the mage is not to be harmed, my friend,’ he said.

Volker grunted. ‘So he has.’ He twitched, and looked up at Jerrod. For a moment, his face was that of the man Jerrod had first met in Averheim, so many months ago. Then the mask was in place once more, and something feral looked out through Volker’s eyes. He nodded to Jerrod and turned, raising his weapons. He howled. Jerrod’s stallion stepped sideways in agitation as Volker’s band of lunatics ghosted through the glade, following into step with their commander. They flowed smoothly towards a point where the elven battle-line was beginning to buckle, and smashed into the beastmen with howls and wild screams.

Jerrod saw the enemy reel from the sudden onslaught. Another charge might put them to flight, he thought. He signalled for one of his Companions to sound his horn. At the first quavering note, the Bretonnian knights broke off from the melee with an ease born of hard-won experience and formed up about him. Jerrod had lost his lance in the first crashing charge, but he wouldn’t need it. Momentum, and the blessings of the Lady, would see him through. And if not, well… death would not find him a coward.

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 his 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.

His mouth twisted into a frown. Was that all he was now? A servant of fate? The thought did not sit well with him. Fate had ever been his enemy, from the first moment he had learned of the curse that had lurked in his and Tyrion’s bloodline. Without thinking, he sought out his brother. As ever, Tyrion was deep in the maelstrom of battle, his form glowing brightly as he rode Malhandir through the press, striking down beastmen with every blow. The Emperor rode beside him on his screeching griffon, and though the human did not glow with power, his sword, and the claws and beak of his beast, took an equal toll.

The two were accompanied by Imrik and his fellow Dragon Princes, who crashed and swirled through the enemy ranks like lightning. The finest cavalry in all of Ulthuan, it was all but impossible to force them to maintain proper battle order. The Bretonnians too had joined with them, carving out a trail through the heart of the warherd. And above the massed charge flew Caradryan and his Phoenix Guard. The captain unleashed torrents of flame which burned only beastmen, and spared elves, men and trees alike.

And still, it was not enough. Teclis could feel the awful pulse of dark magics which hissed through the blood of the enemy. The Children of Chaos had ever been the fodder of the dark armies, and they had been called to Athel Loren in their thousands, united at last in common cause. They were not meant to succeed, he knew. They were but chaff, sent to die and keep the last redoubt under siege, until the Everchosen bestirred himself to launch a final attack.

The question was, why hadn’t Archaon yet launched that attack? Why did he still sit north of the Grey Mountains, rather than flowing down and engulfing Athel Loren in fire and steel? Why not make an end of it?

There was something they were missing, some piece of the puzzle not yet fitted into place. Frustrated, Teclis whirled his staff over his head and brought it down. Crackling talons of lightning shot forth, catching nearby beastmen in their grasp. The creatures fell, wreathed in smoke. What have we missed? he thought. He heard the sound of a signal horn, and saw the Dragon Princes and the Bretonnians retreating. They flowed through the ranks of spearmen, who formed up behind them as the beastmen pressed forwards. He could hear elf nobles shouting out orders up and down the lines. They were buckling, and there was nothing anyone, even the Incarnates, could do. And will we survive long enough to find out?

He saw Imrik’s standard bearer gallop past. The spearmen were falling back in good order, covered by bowmen and Alith Anar’s Shadow Warriors as well as the dwarf Thunderers, but there were too many bodies in white and silver left behind. The battle-line was swinging inwards, folding in on itself as the press of the enemy became too great. Teclis set his staff, and readied a spell. It would not end here, but they would lose the Silvale Glade, and the enemy would draw ever closer to the heart of the forest-kingdom.

Then, a wash of cold, foul air filled the glade. The beastmen, once braying in triumph, began to edge back, suddenly uncertain. Teclis turned, and felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. Nagash had at last decided to act. The Great Necromancer had stood at the rear of the army, accompanied by Arkhan the Black, seemingly content to do nothing more than observe. But now, the Undying King moved slowly to the centre of the glade. The bodies of the dead twitched and stirred as he moved through them, and moaning souls were drawn in his wake. His nine books thrashed in their chains and snapped like wild beasts.

A minotaur charged towards him, roaring. Nagash’s claw snapped out and caught the creature by the throat. Without slowing, or any visible effort, he broke the beast’s neck and slung the body aside. Horns sounded and the elves retreated, streaming back from the liche. Teclis forced himself forwards. He doubted Nagash needed any help, and he wasn’t inclined to offer it besides, but he was curious about what the Incarnate of Death was planning.

Nagash raised his staff in both hands, and brought it down. The ground groaned, and a circle of dead grass spread out from the point where the staff touched. Amethyst light blazed through ruptures in the soil. It grew brighter and brighter, and where it passed, beastmen died in untold numbers. Hundreds fell in moments, and fear swept through those who survived. Soon, those that the light hadn’t touched were fleeing back into the trees. The herd was broken. Teclis released a shuddering breath.

Nagash lowered his staff and turned.

‘IT IS DONE.’

‘You… have our thanks,’ Teclis said. Silence had fallen over the glade in the wake of Nagash’s spell. Nagash strode past him without reply. Arkhan fell in step beside him. Vlad hesitated. He looked around, a slight smile on his face, and sheathed the sword he’d been holding. The vampire looked as if he’d participated in the fighting, at least.

‘Well, I trust you’re now seeing the benefit to our presence,’ the vampire said. He grabbed Lileath’s hand and bowed low. ‘My lady,’ he murmured. He released her and nodded to Teclis. ‘Loremaster,’ he said. Then he straightened, turned on his heel, and strode after Nagash.

‘Though you did not choose him, I am forced to admit he is impressive,’ Lileath murmured. She cradled her hand to her chest, and for a moment, Teclis wondered whether she was talking about Nagash or Vlad.

‘I would be more impressed if he’d done that to begin with,’ a harsh voice said. Teclis turned to see a familiar figure clad in blue and silver armour approaching, leading a horse in his wake.

‘Well met, Imrik,’ Teclis said. The Dragon Prince of Caledor looked as tired as Teclis felt, and worse besides. His once-proud bearing was bent beneath the weight of exhaustion, and his fine armour was hacked and torn and covered in gore. Imrik nodded curtly.

‘The beasts are retreating, for now at any rate,’ he said. His voice was hoarse from strain. He pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair. ‘They will return, though. In a matter of days, if not hours.’ He turned his helmet over in his hands. ‘There are more of them every time. It is as if every beast left in the world has gone mad, and come to Athel Loren.’

‘You’re not far wrong,’ Teclis said. He looked up at the blistered sky, where the clouds seemed to congeal into leering faces which came apart as soon as he caught a glimpse of them. ‘The Dark Gods muster their strength for some final blow – one which I fear will fall here, and soon.’ He looked at Imrik. ‘Can you hold them, if they come again?’

Imrik looked away, across the glade. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. ‘After that, however…’ He trailed off. He shook his head. ‘Your brother fought well, mage. He helped turn the tide here, as he did when the daemonspawn attacked the Oak of Ages. Hard to believe… what he was. It is almost as if it didn’t happen.’

‘Is it, Prince of Caledor? I find it all too easy to remember,’ Teclis said. He watched as Tyrion picked his way through the carnage, sword held loosely in his hand. Even now, suffused by Light, he looked as if he belonged nowhere else.

‘Aenarion come again,’ Imrik said. ‘And gone as quickly.’ He looked at Teclis. ‘Something must be done, mage. And soon… My forces are bled white while the Eternity King consorts with savages and worse things,’ he muttered, casting a wary glance at Nagash.

‘I know,’ Teclis said. He leaned against his staff. His limbs felt like lead. ‘I know.’

ELEVEN

Mannfred’s eyes opened slowly. He had not been sleeping. His kind did not sleep, no matter how much it might have passed the time. He had been thinking, plotting his course should the opportunity for freedom present itself.

There were few paths open to him. Sylvania was a trap that would be his unmaking, if he dared cross its borders. Neferata would send his fangs back to Athel Loren without hesitation. The rest of the world was being consumed in a conflagration the likes of which even he had never seen, and he had no intention of dying alone and forgotten in some hole. No, there was only one route that promised even a hint of a chance at victory.

Middenheim, he thought bitterly. Middenheim, the heart of enemy territory. Having been rejected by his allies, he had no place to go but the arms of his former foes. Would they welcome him? He liked to think so. How could they not? Was Mannfred von Carstein not a pre-eminent sorcerer and tactician, a master of life and death? And did he not know many valuable secrets?

Indeed I do, he thought. So many secrets, including the presence of the goddess of the moon herself. He smiled cruelly. His brief association with the branch wraith Drycha had yielded much, including the revelation that the Lady so assiduously worshipped by the Bretonnians was, in fact, the elven goddess Ladrielle, albeit in disguise. And since Ladrielle had kindly revealed that she and Lileath were one and the same, in the King’s Glade earlier, it wasn’t hard to see the weapon such information could be in the right hands.

But first, he would have to escape. And he judged that the opportunity to do so had just presented itself. A faint stirring of the air had brought him fully alert, and now his gaze roamed the shadows. There was a new smell on the air, indefinable but nonetheless familiar. Something was watching him. ‘I smell you, daemon,’ he said, acting on a hunch.

A shape moved out of the shadows on the other side of the bars. Great wings folded back as a horned head bent, and a voice like the grinding of stone said, ‘And I smell you, vampire. You stink of need and spite.’

‘And you smell like an untended fire-pit. What’s your point?’ Mannfred asked. ‘I’d heard that the elves had chased you out of the forest with your tail between your legs, Be’lakor.’ He gestured. ‘They cast you out, as is ever your lot. It must get tiring, being thrown out of places you’d rather not leave. Shuffled aside and forgotten, as if you were nothing more than an annoyance.’

Be’lakor cocked his head. ‘You are one to speak of being forgotten, given your current situation,’ the daemon murmured.

‘True, but you have fallen from heights I can but dream of,’ Mannfred said. ‘Be’lakor, the Harbinger, He Who Heralds the Conquerors, the Foresworn, the Dark Master. Blessed at the dawn of time by all four of the dark powers, you ruled the world before the coming of the elves. And now look at you… a shadow of your former glory, forced to scrabble for meaning as destinies clash just out of reach.’ He smiled. ‘One wonders what victory you seek here, in my guest quarters.’

‘No victory, vampire. Merely curiosity,’ Be’lakor said. ‘And now that I have satisfied that, I shall take my leave.’ The daemon prince turned, as if to vanish back into the shadows. Mannfred recognised the ploy for what it was. For an ageless being, Be’lakor had all the subtlety of a brute.

‘Free me, daemon,’ Mannfred said.

‘And why would I do that, vampire?’ Be’lakor asked. He stopped and turned. ‘Will you promise to serve me, perhaps?’ Obsidian claws stretched out, as if to caress the roots of Mannfred’s cage. ‘Will you sign yourself over to me, and wield those not inconsiderable powers of yours at my discretion?’

Mannfred laughed. ‘Hardly.’ He smiled. ‘I know you, First Damned. I know your ways and your wiles, and our paths have crossed more than once. I saw you slip through the streets of comet-shattered Mordheim, and I watched from afar as you tried to break the waystones of a certain foggy isle in the Great Ocean. Your schemes and mine have ever been woven along parallel seams, though until now we have not met face to face.’ Mannfred sniffed. ‘I must say, I wasn’t missing much.’

‘You mock me,’ Be’lakor rumbled.

‘And you mock me, by implying that you would free me in return for my loyalty. We both know that such an oath, made under duress, would be no more binding than a morning mist.’

Be’lakor’s hideous features twisted into a leer. ‘Even if it were not made under duress, I would no more trust you than I would trust the Changer of Ways himself. You are a serpent, Mannfred, with a serpent’s ambition. Power is your only master, and you ever seek it, even when it would be wiser to restrain yourself.’

‘Ah, more mockery… Be’lakor, hubris made manifest, warns me of overreach. Did I not say that I know you, daemon? I have read of your mistakes, your crimes, and you are the last being who should warn anyone of the perils of ambition. There is a saying in Sylvania… grave, meet mould.’ Mannfred chortled. ‘I leave it to you, to decide which you are.’

‘Are you finished?’

‘I’m just getting started. I have nothing but time here, and nothing to do but to sharpen my wit. Shall I comment on your many failures next?’

Be’lakor growled. Mannfred subsided. He sat back, and smirked at the daemon. He’d planned to provoke the creature into attacking, and thus freeing him, but he had the sense that Be’lakor was too canny for such tricks, despite his lack of subtlety. ‘No, instead, I think I shall offer thee a bargain. A titbit of some rare value, in return for thy aid in shattering the cage which so cruelly detains me.’

‘And what is this bibelot, this morsel, that I should exert myself so?’

‘Oh, something of great value, for all that it is but a small thing… a name.’ Mannfred cocked his head. ‘Much diminished, this name, but valuable all the same, I think.’

‘Speak it,’ Be’lakor said.

‘Free me,’ Mannfred replied.

‘No. Why should I? What good is this name to me?’

‘Well, it is not so much the name as the soul upon which it hangs. A divine soul, Be’lakor. One which has supped at the sweet nectar of immortality, but now is but a mortal. Helpless and fragile.’

‘A god,’ Be’lakor rasped. The daemon’s eyes narrowed. ‘The gods are dead.’

‘Not all of them. Some yet remain.’ Mannfred stepped back. He spread his arms. ‘One, at least, is here, in this pestilential forest. Hidden amongst the cattle.’

‘A god,’ Be’lakor repeated, softly. The daemon’s features twisted. Mannfred could almost smell the creature’s greed.

‘An elven god,’ he said. ‘One whose blood, mortal or not, contains no small amount of power, for one who knows how to extract it. I had considered it myself, but, well…’ He motioned to the cage. ‘I will gladly offer their identity in exchange for but the simple favour of cleaving these pestiferous roots which do bind me.’

Be’lakor was silent for a moment. Then, with a gesture, a sword of writhing shadows sprouted from his hand. He swept the blade across the bars, and Mannfred clapped his hands to his ears as he heard the trees which made up his prison scream in agony. He made to leave, but found the tip of Be’lakor’s blade at his throat. ‘The name, vampire.’

‘Lileath, goddess of moon and prophecy,’ Mannfred said, gingerly pushing the blade aside. It squirmed unpleasantly at his touch.

‘Where?’ Be’lakor growled.

‘That was not part of the bargain,’ Mannfred said. ‘But, as I am an honourable man, I shall tell you anyway. The King’s Glade. She sits on the Council of Incarnates, and listens to their bickering, no doubt plotting some scheme of her own.’

Be’lakor grinned. Then, in a twist of shadow, the daemon prince was gone. Mannfred sagged. Free of the deadening effect of the magics, he suddenly realised just how weak he truly was. Hunger gnawed at him.

He heard the rattle of weapons, and realised that Be’lakor’s destruction of the cage had roused the guards. Mannfred smiled, and as the first elf entered the chamber, he was already in motion, jaw unhinged like that of a serpent and claws sprouting from his fingertips. He bowled the elf over with bone-shattering force and tore the spear from his grip. He hurled it with deadly accuracy, spitting the second and driving her back against the wall. With a growl, he tore the helm from the first guard’s head and fastened his jaws on the helpless elf’s throat.

Pain lashed across his back, even as he fed. He turned, jaws and chest stained with blood, and twisted aside as the sword came down again. The elf pursued him as he slithered away. Mannfred caught the blade as it stabbed for his midsection, and hissed in pain as the sigils carved into its surface burned his flesh. He drove the claws of his free hand into the elf’s throat and tore it out.

He fed quickly, knowing that more guards were on their way. When he had supped his fill from each of the guards, he fled into the labyrinth of roots, taking care to keep to the shadows and to hide himself from the spirits which haunted Athel Loren. Freed of his cell, his magics had returned, and he had little difficulty in reaching the surface.

As he reached the open air, he tilted his head and sniffed. Escape was his most pressing concern, but he hesitated. He had been betrayed and humiliated. All of the plots and schemes he had concocted in his confinement came rushing back, and he savoured them. No, it wouldn’t do to leave without saying goodbye. Nagash was beyond the scope of his powers. But he could still poison the well.

Which one will it be? he thought, as he glided through the trees, moving swiftly, conscious of the alarms which were even now being raised. The Incarnates were all, like Nagash, beyond him, though he hated to admit it. That left only certain individuals. And only one whose scent was close at hand.

Mannfred smiled as he set off in pursuit of his quarry. How appropriate, he thought. Maybe fate is on my side after all. If nothing else, it might prove amusing to take Be’lakor’s prize off the table before the daemon got a chance to claim her. And if in doing so he could rend his faithless former would-be allies from a safe remove, all the better. Moving swiftly, he navigated the ever-shifting trails of the forest, avoiding the kinbands likely dispatched to bring him to heel, until he found the one he sought.

And then, with the surety of a serpent, he struck.

Duke Jerrod rose to his feet and spun, his sword flying from his sheath and into his hand. The point of the gleaming blade came to rest in the hollow of Mannfred von Carstein’s throat. ‘Do not move, vampire, or I will remove your foul head,’ Jerrod said.

The Council of Incarnates was squabbling again, arguing over which course of action to take. He’d hoped that the battle with the beastmen would have seen them united at last, but such was not to be. Even as they’d returned to the glade, arguments had started anew. While Hammerson seemed to take a perverse pleasure in watching such rancorous discussion, Jerrod no longer had the stomach for it. It reminded him of the last days in the king’s court, before Mallobaude’s civil war. An enemy on the horizon, and all of them more concerned about getting their own way. Even demigods, it seemed, were not immune to foolishness.

He had been kneeling in the glade, praying to the Lady, asking for some sort of sign which might show him the way, when he’d heard a stick snap beneath the vampire’s tread. Mannfred smiled and spread his hands. ‘Why would I move, when I am where I wish to be, Duke of Quenelles?’ He stepped back slowly, and bowed low. ‘At your service.’

‘I doubt that,’ Jerrod said. He kept his sword extended, ready for any attack the vampire might make. His blade had been blessed by the Lady herself, and would cut through magic and flesh with equal ease. That said, he felt little confidence that he could do much more than distract the creature before him until aid arrived. Even in Bretonnia, the name of von Carstein was a watchword for savagery and death. ‘I did not expect you to escape. Few make it out of the depths of Athel Loren alive.’

‘Well, I’m not really alive, am I?’ Mannfred said. His smile slipped. ‘I am not much of anything now.’ He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, and said, ‘We are two of a kind, you and I… lords without lands, deceived by those we placed our trust in, and fought for.’

‘We are nothing alike, vampire,’ Jerrod said. A part of him screamed for the vampire’s head. The creature deserved death for his crimes. But another part… He blinked. ‘What do you mean “deceived”?’ he asked, without thinking.

Mannfred pulled his cloak tight about him. ‘You do not know, then. How unfortunate. But how in keeping with the selfishness of such creatures, that even now, when you have sacrificed so much, she still refuses to tell you.’

‘She,’ Jerrod said. He knew who the vampire meant. Lileath, he thought.

As if he’d read Jerrod’s thoughts, Mannfred nodded. ‘Yes, you know of whom I speak.’ He frowned. ‘I come now to warn you, Duke of Quenelles, as I wish I had been warned. A final act before I depart this malevolent grove, to perhaps rectify at least one wrong in my misbegotten life.’

‘Say what you have come to say, beast.’ Jerrod readied his sword. ‘And be quick. I hear the horns of Athel Loren sounding in the deep glades. Your jailers will be here soon.’

Mannfred glanced over his shoulder, and then back at Jerrod. ‘Lileath of the Moon, and Ladrielle of the Veil,’ he said. ‘I knew I had heard those names before, secret names for a secret goddess. A goddess of the elves… and of men.’

Jerrod hesitated. ‘No,’ he said, softly.

‘Oh yes,’ Mannfred said. He stepped close as Jerrod’s blade dipped. ‘They do like their amusements, the gods. How entertaining it must have been for her to usurp the adoration of your people, and mould you like clay.’ He leaned close, almost whispering. ‘Just think… all of the times you’ve sworn by the Lady, well, she was right there, within arm’s reach. She heard every prayer, witnessed every deed.’ Mannfred grabbed his shoulder. ‘And said nothing.’

‘No,’ Jerrod croaked in protest. But it all made a terrible sort of sense. He could feel the connection between them, though he had not known what it was. And why else would the Lady have fallen silent, save that she was no longer the Lady, and had no more use for Bretonnia? He lowered his sword. For the first time in his life, he felt unsure. It was a strange feeling for him, for he’d never doubted himself before, not in battle or otherwise. But now…

He turned. Mannfred was gone. He shook his head. It didn’t matter. The vampire wasn’t important. Only the truth mattered. He was lying, he had to be, he thought as he hurried towards the King’s Glade. But what he’d felt when he’d first laid eyes on her and every time since. The way she would not meet his gaze. The way she had stepped between him and Malekith. Lying, oh my Lady, let him have been lying, he thought.

No guards barred his way, for which he was thankful. He burst into the glade where the council was being held. His sudden appearance had interrupted Malekith’s latest snarling rant, and all heads turned towards him. All save one.

‘Lileath,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Face me, woman.’

Silence fell over the glade. Malekith waved his guards back to their positions. The Eternity King slumped back into his throne, and said, ‘Well, face him, Lileath. Give the ape what he wants and maybe he’ll slink back off to wherever he goes to hide when someone raises their voice.’ Jerrod looked at him, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Malekith sat up. ‘Ah, I was wondering when he’d figure it out,’ he said softly, glancing at Alarielle. ‘Such dim-witted beasts. Unable to recognise divinity, even when it is right beside them.’

‘Be silent,’ Hammerson barked. The dwarf stepped towards Jerrod, ignoring Malekith’s sputtering outrage. ‘Lad, what is it?’

‘I know her name now,’ Jerrod said. Hammerson frowned, but before he could speak, Lileath turned.

‘And who told you that, Duke of Quenelles?’ she asked.

‘Is it true?’ Jerrod replied.

‘There are many truths,’ Lileath said, after a moment’s hesitation.

Malekith laughed bitterly. ‘This is pointless. I shall have my guards remove the ape and the dwarf both. How are we expected to proceed with such distractions?’

‘Proceed where?’ Hammerson said. Thumbs hooked in his belt, the dwarf scanned the faces of the Incarnates. ‘It’s been weeks, and all you’ve done is given yourselves a pretty name. Even the great councils of Karaz-a-Karak move faster than this, when the enemy is on our doorstep. Distraction – pfaugh. I’d think you’d welcome it.’ He patted the hammer stuffed through his belt. ‘And I’ll crack the skull of the first elf to lay a hand on me or the lad here.’

‘There is no need for skull-cracking, Master Hammerson,’ Lileath said. ‘I shall speak to Jerrod alone, away from the council, if he wishes.’ She looked at Jerrod and a wash of images flowed across the surface of his mind, memories and dreams, and for a moment, he was tongue-tied, humbled by her presence. He wanted to kneel.

Instead, he turned and began to leave. Lileath followed. They left the glade where the council met, and walked in silence to a nearby grove. For a while, the only sounds were those of the forest. The quiet shudder of branches, the rustle of leaves. And then, the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

‘Is it true?’ Jerrod said.

‘As I said…’ Lileath began.

‘No,’ he croaked. ‘No, do not play the mystic with me. I am only a man, and I would know whether or not my life has been a lie. I would know whether my people died for the games of a goddess not even our own.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘What does it matter?’ Jerrod snarled. ‘All you have to do is say that it is untrue. Say that you are not the Lady, and I will apologise. I will renounce my seat on the council, and we shall ne’er meet again. But tell me.’

Lileath was silent. Her face betrayed no anxiety, only calm. ‘I do not deny it,’ she said. Her voice was icy. ‘Indeed, I am proud of it. I am proud of what I made of your primitive forebears.’

‘You used us,’ Jerrod said. ‘We were but pieces on a game board, dying for a cause that did not exist.’ He raised his sword. ‘We thought you were our guiding light, but instead you were merely luring us to our doom. Now the best of us are dead, and the rest will soon follow.’

‘There was no other choice,’ Lileath said. ‘Prophecy was my gift, and I foresaw the End Times at the moment of my birth. I needed an army, and your people provided one.’

‘Why us?’

Lileath looked away. ‘Asuryan would never have countenanced the creation of a new race. Not after what was provoked by the crafting of the elves.’ She turned and swatted aside his sword with her staff. ‘I chose your forefathers to serve a greater purpose. I drew them up out of the muck, and gave them nobility and honour second only to that of the elves. Without the codes and laws that I gave you, your ancestors would have wiped each other out, or else been trampled into the muck by orcs or worse things.’ She extended her staff, nearly touching his chest. ‘Make no mistake, human. What you have, your honour, your lands, your skill, all of that is my doing. You owe me your life and loyalty, whether I be Lady or Ladrielle. And I make no apology for collecting on that debt.’

Jerrod heard a low, animal sound and realised it was coming from him. His sword arm trembled with barely restrained fury, and his blood thumped in his temples. The point of his blade rose. ‘You are no goddess,’ he whispered. ‘You are a daemon.’

‘No,’ Lileath said. ‘No, I am merely one who does what must be done.’ She lowered her staff. ‘It was necessary, Jerrod.’ Her voice lost its ice, and became sorrowful. Her poise crumpled, replaced by resignation. ‘The world is doomed. But that does not mean that hope is lost. There is a world – a Haven – where life may yet continue, even as this one is consumed in the fires of Chaos. Without Bretonnia’s sacrifices, I could not have created it. Surely that is worth something?’

She stepped towards him. Her hand stretched out, and Jerrod flinched back. ‘Listen to me,’ she pleaded. ‘This war could never have been won. Not by you, or any of your brothers who died in service to the Empire, or in the civil war. But part of them, part of those who died, lives on in my Haven, protecting it from the evil which even now seeks to infect it. Even now, the spirits of your brothers, of all the knights who have ever died in service to the Lady – to me – fight on for a new world. A better world.’

‘So even in death, you use us as weapons?’ Jerrod said. A chill crept through him. ‘Even our ghosts know no peace?’

Lileath dropped her hand. Her eyes were sad. ‘What is a knight, but one who sacrifices for others?’ she said, softly.

Jerrod stepped back. ‘Small consolation, given that you were the author of that creed,’ he spat. He shook his head. ‘Is that all, then? Is that the story of us? Dogsbodies in life and death, serfs to immortal masters who see us only as weapons to be used and discarded?’

‘Is that not what one does with serfs?’ Lileath said.

Jerrod said nothing. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Why was he here? Had it all been for nothing? Lileath sank down to her knees, her skirts pooling about her. She bowed her head. ‘If you do not believe me, then kill me, Jerrod, Duke of Quenelles. Kill me for what I have done. I ask only that after your honour – the honour I instilled in you – has been satisfied, you hold true to your oath and fight beside the Incarnates. Fight to hold back the darkness, so that a new world may be born.’

Jerrod hesitated. Then he raised his sword, taking a two-handed grip. He was ready, in that moment, to bring it down on Lileath’s head. It was too much for him. The whole of his world, the philosophy by which he and all of his people had lived their lives, was nothing but a goddess’s gamble. A game between inhuman forces, in which he and his were but pawns, raised up and spent with no more thought than a child might give to her toys.

‘Why?’ he croaked. ‘Why did you do this to us?’

‘I have already told you,’ she said, softly. ‘Saying it again will not help you understand. I made your people into the point of my spear, and used you as such. And now, you have turned in my hand, and your tip rests above my heart. Strike if you must.’ Lileath looked up at him. ‘But I would have your oath, before you do.’

‘I… no,’ he said. ‘No, no more oaths, no more lies.’

‘You will give me your oath,’ Lileath continued, as if he had not spoken. ‘You will swear to me, Jerrod of Quenelles, that you will fight alongside the Incarnates. That you will die for them, as you once might have died for me. You will swear this.’

‘I will not,’ Jerrod said. ‘No more games of death on your behalf, or on the behalf of any other. You have broken us, ruined us, and my course is set. I…’ He trailed off. The blade in his hand trembled. Before his eyes, he saw the faces of every slain Companion, and every fallen friend and family member. They had believed, and they had died, thinking that the Lady was watching over them. Instead, it had all been nothing more than a cruel hoax by a goddess who cared nothing for her people, or his.

But something held him back. Some tenuous strand of the man he had been, before Lileath had broken his certainties. Some small part which whispered to him that the deed he contemplated was unworthy of him. That to kill her, was to prove her right. To prove that her meddling and scheming had been necessary… That his people would never have found the light without her.

Jerrod looked down at her. He met her cool, alien gaze and said, ‘You’re wrong.’

Lileath blinked. Jerrod lowered his sword. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said again. ‘We owe you nothing. It is you who owe us, and you will not get out of our debt so easily.’

Lileath’s eyes widened. She made as if to speak, but no sound passed her lips. She snatched up her staff and rose to her feet so quickly that Jerrod thought she meant to attack him. Then he heard the snap of great wings, and knew that Lileath hadn’t been looking at him. He spun, and saw a dark shape explode from the shadows of the glade. Though he had never seen the creature before, Lileath clearly recognised it.

‘Be’lakor,’ she spat.

‘Yes,’ the daemon thundered as he charged forwards. ‘I have come for you, fallen goddess. You denied me once, but now I will have both your soul and the Haven you boasted of for my own.’ Wreathed in smoke and darkness, the daemon prince charged towards Lileath, shadow-blade raised, the glade shaking beneath his tread.

There was no time to think, no time to fear. Instinct took over. Jerrod stepped forwards, between the daemon and his prey. Be’lakor’s sword smashed down against Jerrod’s upraised blade, and the knight’s arm went numb from the force of the blow. For all that the creature seemed barely substantial, it had a strength greater than any he’d ever known. Be’lakor’s hell-spark eyes widened and his wings snapped, pushing him aloft. Leaves swirled about Jerrod, caught in the updraught as the daemon rose into the air.

He wished briefly that he’d thought to bring his shield. Then Be’lakor was dropping towards him, shadow-blade extended like a spear. Jerrod readied himself to meet the creature’s attack but at the last second Lileath shoved past him, her staff in her hands. She raised it, and bolts of blinding light lanced from its tip to strike the approaching daemon. Or they would have, had they not passed through Be’lakor’s form like arrows punching through fog. Jerrod reached out and grabbed the goddess by her shoulder, flinging her aside as Be’lakor swooped down over them.

He caught the creature’s blow on his sword once again, and pain pulsed through his shoulder joint. As he stumbled, Be’lakor’s free hand sliced towards him. The creature’s black talons tore bloody furrows in his face and hurled him to the ground. Jerrod skidded backwards through the mud and fallen leaves. He slammed into a tree and rolled onto his face, struggling to suck air into his abused lungs. He was blind in one eye, and his cheek felt like a punctured water skin. Everything hurt, and thin rivulets of what could only be his blood crept across the ground.

With a groan, he levered himself up onto one knee. Using his sword, he tried to push himself to his feet, but his arms lacked strength. Be’lakor strode slowly towards him, trailing fire and smoke. ‘Why do you fight?’ the daemon prince gurgled. ‘I heard all that passed between you, mortal. Your goddess has used you as badly as my gods once used me. She raised you up, and cast you down when you were of no more use.’

‘While I can stand, monster, I will fight,’ Jerrod groaned. He made to rise again, but his strength was gone. He toppled backwards. Be’lakor studied him for a moment. Then, with a grunt, the daemon lifted one clawed heel and slammed it down on Jerrod’s left leg. Jerrod screamed as the force of the blow split his armour and pulverised the flesh and bone beneath.

‘Now you cannot stand.’ Be’lakor smiled. ‘Do not feel obliged to interfere further, mortal. This is a matter for demigods.’ Seemingly satisfied, the daemon prince turned away. Jerrod rolled awkwardly onto his side, and tried to pull himself towards his fallen sword as the creature closed in on Lileath.

Her eyes were closed, and spirals of glowing white energy began to form about her. Those spirals lashed out at Be’lakor as he drew close, and he bellowed in agony as wisps of his shadow thinned to nothing or were plucked from his body. Snarling, Be’lakor brought his blade down, smashing the staff from Lileath’s hands and knocking her to the ground. ‘You think to banish me?’ Be’lakor roared. He smacked a fist into his chest. ‘I am the First Damned, and older than any exorcism or rite of banishment. I have more right to stride this world than you, and I will not be cast out – not now, not ever!’

Jerrod’s fingers closed on his sword. Biting back a scream, he plunged it into the ground and used it to haul himself upright. He lurched on his good leg, using the sword as a crutch, his eyes locked on Be’lakor’s broad back.

Lileath scrambled away, her eyes wide. Be’lakor laughed. ‘Is that fear I see in your eyes, little goddess? Prophecy was once your gift… Did you see this moment? Have you feared it all of this time? Is that why you offered your neck to the ape, so that you might escape your destiny?’ He reached for her. ‘Take it from one who knows, woman… There is no escaping destiny. There is only pain. Inevitable and unending.’

Lileath shied back from his outstretched talon, and Be’lakor leaned in. But he immediately reared back with a wail of pain as Jerrod lunged and slammed his sword into the daemon prince’s back. Be’lakor thrashed wildly and Jerrod lost his grip on his sword, falling heavily to the ground. He rolled aside as Be’lakor’s foot came down. The daemon prince’s screams threatened to burst his eardrums, and he clapped his hands to the side of his head as the sound rose to agonising heights.

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

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 would 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.’

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.

‘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.

‘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.’

‘No,’ Vlad said. ‘To fight. To live!’ He shook his head. ‘We all must make sacrifices if we are to survive. She has only two paths before her – acceptance or madness. And the world is mad enough already.’

‘There are always other paths,’ the Emperor mused. Vlad made to reply, when he heard the sound of a sword being drawn. He turned, and his eyes widened. Eldyra knelt before Tyrion, her head bowed. Tyrion stood over her, sword raised, his face expressionless.

‘No,’ Vlad snarled. He reached for his sword, but froze as he felt the edge of the Emperor’s runefang slide beneath his chin. Karl Franz had drawn the blade so swiftly, so silently, that Vlad hadn’t noticed.

Before he could react, Tyrion’s blade fell. Vlad closed his eyes and looked away. Anger pulsed through him, but he fought it down. He looked up, at the Emperor. ‘Why?’ he growled.

‘She asked me to,’ Tyrion said. Vlad turned to him.

‘You had no right. She was mine,’ Vlad hissed. ‘She was of my blood.’

Tyrion sank down beside the body, which was beginning to smoke and crumble into ash. He drew his fingers through it, and sent it swirling into the air. ‘She was my friend,’ he said, after a moment. ‘How could I refuse her?’ He looked at Vlad, and the vampire turned away, raising his cloak to cover his face as the light seared him. ‘Go now, Vlad von Carstein. You have my thanks, for what it is worth.’

‘I do not require your thanks,’ Vlad spat.

‘You have it, all the same,’ the Emperor said. He sheathed his blade. ‘You will find us in the King’s Glade tomorrow, as ever.’

Vlad backed away. ‘Yes, another day of acrimonious indecision ahead of us. How thrilling.’ He stopped as the Emperor looked at him.

‘No. No, one way or another, tomorrow will see the path ahead made clear. I expect to see you there, Elector of Sylvania.’ The Emperor turned away, and placed his hand on Tyrion’s shoulder.

Vlad hesitated. He had seen something there, a shadow-shape superimposed over the man’s frame, a giant made of starlight and the sound of clashing steel. Part of him wanted to kneel and swear fealty to the thing. Another part, the oldest part and the wisest, wanted nothing more than to run away.

Vlad listened, and fled.

THIRTEEN

Prince Imrik, once of Caledor, now of Athel Loren, coughed as the tainted smoke clawed at his lungs. Smoke from the pyres stained the sky, and a film of ash clung to everything in the glade. As fast as they burned the bodies of the beastmen, new pyres had to be lit. The creatures came again and again, heedless and mad.

Nagash’s display had only scared them off for a few days. They had returned, in greater numbers, driven forward by inhuman impulse. The entire glade stank of that madness, and whole seas of blood had been spilled. Whatever else happened, the glade would never recover from the carnage which occurred beneath its boughs.

How did it all come to this? The same thought had rattled in his mind since Ulthuan had broken apart and vanished into the hungry ocean. Could it have been prevented? Could any of it have been changed?

Imrik did not think so. At least not by him. He knew who was to blame, whose schemes had unravelled the very thread which bound their world together. But there was no refuge in recrimination. And revenge – well, there was no time for that either. Whatever Teclis had done, he had done because it had seemed the right thing to do. Imrik knew what that was like well enough. He had made similar decisions himself.

He had joined Malekith’s side during the war for the promise of dragons, and unity in the face of the storm seeking to devour them all. He had sacrificed his own ambitions on the altar of necessity, on the advice of a ghost. Caledor the First had spoken to him in his dreams, and showed him what must be done. Tyrion had gone mad, his mind and soul subsumed by Khaine. Malekith was the lesser of two evils, and whatever else, he was the true heir of Aenarion. Too, he had glimpsed chinks of nobility gleaming through the calloused soul of the Eternity King. In those moments, he knew that Malekith was the only one who could lead the elves into a new, better world.

Unfortunately, the world seemed to have other ideas. Horns sounded, and he signalled his men to regroup. The beasts were coming again. ‘Archers to the rear, spears to the fore,’ he roared. The tactic lacked elegance, but it had served them well so far. Arrows thinned the herd, and the spears did the rest. He and his knights would break any knot of beastmen too strong to fall to arrow or spear. Like Vaul at his anvil, he thought, with grim amusement. He readied himself, testing the weight of his lance. He looked around at his knights.

They were the finest knights in the world, survivors of the battle at the Isle of the Dead. To an elf, they looked tired, worn down. Only duty sustained them. Imrik had long ago run out of words and speeches. He met the eyes of the closest of the knights, and said, ‘Princes of the Dragonspine, ride with the speed of Asuryan, and fight with the valour of ages.’

He turned back to the battle as the first herds burst from the treeline. They pelted full-out, with no discipline or order or hesitation of any sort. Arrows flew, and those first herds died. Imrik sat up in his saddle. There was something different this time. There was something on the air, some thickening of the light and stink of battle. He looked up. Red clouds roiled above the trees, as they had for weeks. Some said that they could see faces in those clouds, but thankfully, whatever lurked in the sky had never revealed itself to him. His horse grew restive, pawing at the earth. Its eyes rolled in fear. He reached down to stroke the animal, and found it was trembling.

The din of battle grew muted and faint, but a new sound quickly intruded. It was as if all sound and fury had been drawn to a single point and squeezed into a throbbing pulse. Imrik saw an arrow take a beastman chieftain in the throat. As the arrow sank into the hairy flesh, it seemed to reverberate with a sound like thunder.

And then, with an ear-splitting crack, the world burst asunder.

The ground churned as the blood-soaked meadows ran like water drawn into a whirlpool. Trees were uprooted and smashed, and beastmen exulted as they were swept away by the bloody tide. Those elves closest to the writhing vortex of blood and darkness tried to scramble back, out of reach of the ground that snagged and grasped at them. Some made it, some did not. ‘Fall back,’ Imrik roared. ‘Fall back!’

The beastman assault had ended, but he could feel the earth screaming, and knew that something much worse was coming. His horse stamped and whinnied in terror, but he held tight to its reins. Whatever it was, it would not find Imrik of Caledor a coward.

Horned figures, red and lanky, burst from the roiling firmament and threw themselves at the collapsing battle-line of the elves. They were joined by baying daemon-hounds, and behind them came shapes even more monstrous – larger than any minotaur, with wings and horns and great roaring voices which called down the blessings of the Blood God.

Imrik shouted orders, but it was no good. There was no discipline, only fear, and his army bent in two and broke as the daemonic horde smashed through their centre like the tip of a blade. He urged his horse forwards, through the broken ranks of fleeing elves. King’s Glade, they’re heading for the King’s Glade, he thought. He had to stop them, though he knew not how. His knights followed, picking up speed as the army dissolved around them. Imrik lowered his lance and pointed his charger towards the largest of the daemons.

His lance splintered as it struck the creature, and it reeled with an angry bellow. But before his steed could carry him past, Imrik found himself smashed from the saddle by a fist the colour of dried blood. He hit the ground and rolled, his body convulsing with pain. He coughed blood as he tried to rise, but his legs refused to work. He struggled to draw air into his bruised lungs as he clawed weakly for his sword.

A heavy weight came down on his back, pressing him flat to the ground. He was enveloped in the stink of butchery and slaughter, and could only glare up at the being holding him down. ‘You are not the one I seek, little elf,’ the bloodthirster growled. ‘And anyway, the Lord of Pleasure has claim on your pathetic soul. But you struck a blow, and for that, I give you your life, such as it is. Take it and run, and do not seek to put yourself between the Blood Hunt and its prey.’ Then, with a triumphant roar, the beast sprang into the air, its powerful wings flapping.

Unable to move, wracked with pain, Imrik could only watch in horror as the daemonic tide flooded towards the King’s Glade.

‘Then we are decided. Middenheim must be taken,’ Lileath proclaimed. The elf woman stood in the centre of the glade, staff in hand, the focus of every eye and thought. ‘Even if it costs our lives to do so.’

Gotri Hammerson let out a sardonic cheer. He had anticipated another day of acrimonious wrangling, but had been pleasantly surprised to find that the Incarnates were, for once, of one mind. Even Malekith and Nagash had no objections to raise. Privately, Hammerson wondered whether it had been the departure of the Bretonnians which had motivated the accord. The absence of Jerrod and his men further reduced the forces available to the council, should the need for battle arise. They couldn’t take the chance that others – like the Zhufbarak – might follow suit.

You might have done us a favour, lad, though you’ll be sorely missed, he thought. He glanced up to find the Emperor looking at him. The man had a slight smile on his face as he turned away, and Hammerson shook his head. He knew for a fact that Karl Franz had visited most, if not all, of the Incarnates the night before. Was that why you didn’t stop him from leaving, then? Did you need a pair of tongs to stir the fire with?

He was a cool one, was the manling Emperor. He moved people like pieces on a board, and was always two or three moves ahead. Not that it had helped him at Averheim. Nonetheless, he was more formidable than the dwarf had expected. Hammerson looked at Vlad von Carstein where the vampire stood, as ever, beside Nagash. He recalled what the creature had said in the Silvale Glade, and he snorted. You’ll have a hard time supplanting that one, blood-sucker, elector or no. He’s already divided your loyalties, and you don’t even realise it.

Suddenly, alarm-horns sounded from the outer glades. Hammerson looked around, one hand following to his hammer. The air in the glade grew thick, and he could taste smoke and ash in the back of his throat, though he was nowhere near a fire. He saw Gelt stagger, and reached out to steady the human. ‘What is it, lad?’ he growled.

‘My… my head,’ Gelt said, cradling his skull. ‘I can feel it – feel them!’

Hammerson whipped around as Alarielle screamed and fell from her throne, to collapse on the dais. Both Malekith and Tyrion went to her side. ‘What in the name of Grimnir is going on?’ he snarled.

The glade was filled with a sound like tearing metal, and then a body flew into the glade. It crashed down, broken and bloodied. Hammerson recognised it as having been one of the ceremonial guards stationed outside the glade. Even as the body struck the ground, the air was filled with the stamp of cloven hooves and howls of eagerness. Nightmares made flesh streaked into the glade, before the dead guard’s body had even settled or the echoes of Alarielle’s scream had faded.

The daemons loped towards the dais, steaming blades bared, seeking flesh. And then they combusted into crackling ash as Tyrion rose to his feet, drew his blade and seared them from the fabric of the world with a blinding wave of light. Caradryan was the next to act, his halberd spinning in his grip, creating a vortex of hungry flame which enveloped another group of daemons and reduced them to greasy motes on the air.

Even before the ashes of the Incarnates’ victims had settled, a chorus of howls announced the arrival of a second, larger wave of daemons. The creatures burst into the glade from all sides, tearing through the undergrowth. Black blades glistened in the crimson hands of the hissing bloodletters as they loped towards their intended prey.

Caradryan flung out a hand and a wall of flame roared to life, catching a score of bloodletters in mid-leap. Some of the daemons survived the flames, however, and they came on, skin aflame. Caradryan set his feet and swept out his Phoenix Blade, killing one even as the rest bowled him over. Hammerson was about to go to his aid, when he heard a screech and saw the elf’s firebird plummet into the glade like a flaming comet. The great bird tore the daemons from its master, flinging them across the glade, and Caradryan sprang onto the animal’s back as it swept back towards him.

‘Master Hammerson, to your left,’ the Emperor shouted, as his runefang snaked out to block a blow that would have taken his head. Hammerson turned and caught a descending blade on the crossed hafts of his weapons.

He forced the bloodletter’s blade aside and rocked forwards, slamming the front of his helmet into the creature’s snarling features. The daemon shrieked and fell back, clawing at its face. ‘Why bother putting runes on your helmet, Gotri?’ Hammerson said, mimicking the voice of the runesmith who’d trained him. ‘That’s why, you old goat,’ he spat, as he cut the bloodletter’s legs out from under it and crushed its skull with his hammer.

The Emperor fought beside him, his steel caked in daemonic ichor. The human fought in silence, moving with the precision of a hardened veteran. Though the power he’d once wielded had been ripped from him, he was no less a warrior. Hammerson felt a moment of pride as he watched Karl Franz fight, and knew that he had made the right choice in staying. This was a man who was worthy of a dwarf oath. Even if he did ride an oversized buzzard.

Hammerson glanced at the dais as lightning flashed over his head. A nimbus of light played about Tyrion’s head and rippled from his blade to scour daemons from existence. Beside him, Teclis swept his staff out, wrenching lightning from the air and sending it snarling outwards to throw back the encroaching daemons. Near the twins, Malekith wielded his own magics, shadow-claws tearing at daemonic flesh.

As the tide of daemons pressed in, intent on reaching the Incarnates, the three were forced to fight back to back to protect the unconscious form of Alarielle. In that moment, all differences, all past conflicts, were forgotten and the last of Aenarion’s bloodline fought as one against an enemy as old as time itself.

Hammerson shook his head and smashed a leaping daemon-hound from the air, before he spun to crush the skull of another with his axe. ‘Come on, filth! Come and taste the steel of Zhufbar!’ he roared, clashing his weapons. ‘Though the Black Water might have fallen, her people still fight – come and take what you’ve got coming to you.’ The runes on his weapons flared and the air became as hot as a forge, to burn and blacken the flesh of the scuttling daemons. They fell twitching and squealing, and he finished them off quickly.

More took their place. They charged towards him, howling out hissing prayers to the Lord of Skulls, and Hammerson felt a twist in his gut. There were too many for him to fight alone. But he set his feet and hunched forwards. ‘You want me? Come and get me,’ he muttered. Before the first of the creatures could reach him, however, he heard a scream and felt a breeze. A massive wing smashed the daemons aside as the Emperor’s griffon, Deathclaw, landed in the glade. Hammerson glanced nervously up at the beast as it prowled past him, tail lashing. That nervousness faded as he saw more daemons bounding forwards. The griffon crouched, and Hammerson knew that even with the beast at his side, they’d be hard pressed. He looked up as a shadow fell across him, and saw Arkhan the Black, mounted atop his monstrous steed.

The liche seemed unconcerned with the battle raging below him. ‘A little help?’ Hammerson bellowed. Even as he spoke, he knew his words were futile. To such a creature, he was likely more use dead than alive. Arkhan turned away, as if the conflict below bored him. A knot of daemons burst past Deathclaw and flung themselves at the runesmith. Hammerson was knocked sprawling, his weapons flying from his hands. He drove a bunched fist into a leering face, and felt a flush of satisfaction as fangs snapped and the creature pitched back. But the others bore him down.

As his back hit the ground, however, the weight of the daemons vanished. He looked up and saw the creatures turning to dust. As they dissolved on the breeze, he saw Arkhan the Black looking down at him. The inscrutable liche held his gaze for a moment, and then turned away. Hammerson snorted and retrieved his weapons.

‘Don’t expect me to say thank you,’ he grunted, as he clashed his weapons and readied himself to face the next wave of foes.

Vlad von Carstein did not wait for Nagash’s permission before he leapt into battle. Let the Great Necromancer do as he saw fit; Vlad wanted nothing more than to lose himself in combat, if only for a little while.

He was frustrated and angry, and the daemons paid the price. He whirled and stamped, fighting with all the fury of an Arabyan dervish one moment, and then with the blunt force of one of the war-monks of Cathay the next. He slid from style to style, indulging in the raw physicality of combat. His sword flashed as he recalled lessons in peach orchards and vineyards, on dusty training grounds and ice-floes.

The bloodletters responded, coming for him like flies to spoiled meat. He spun, parried and thrust, using their numbers and his speed to his advantage. As he fought, he heard again the sound of Tyrion’s blade striking home, and the soft whisper of Eldyra’s essence fading. Again and again, he saw it, heard it, felt it, and his rage grew.

He knew why she had done it. Indeed, he was surprised she hadn’t done it herself. But he did not understand, and he cursed himself for a fool. If he had not taken her into the grove, then she would have lived. Unhappily, perhaps, but she would not have tossed away her life to no purpose. That, in the end, he could not forgive.

Fool, he thought, you had the power to make a difference. The power to set your world right, and instead you threw it away and for what – honour? Disgust? Fear? Mannfred should have known better than to allow his servants to turn Eldyra and give her their dark gift. Elves were too fragile, at their core. Too enamoured of their life as it was, to see the glory in becoming something else. Like the dwarfs, they were stagnant, trapped in themselves.

Thinking of Mannfred, he wondered where his student had fled to. He had set the Drakenhof Templars on his trail, but Mannfred had eluded them all. Now he was loose in the world, doing who knew what. I wish you well, boy. May you at last have learned something from your mistakes.

Vlad bent backwards with serpentine ease, avoiding the sweep of a black blade. He righted himself and drove his sword home, impaling the daemon. It folded over his arm, clawing at him weakly. He shoved it aside with a disdainful sniff.

He heard the screech of metal on metal and turned to see another of his former protégés, Balthasar Gelt, fighting side by side with Lileath. They had joined their magics, unleashing a molten storm of metal on the pack of flesh hounds bounding towards them. Several of the creatures were torn apart by the storm, but still more made it through, the brass collars about their necks glowing white hot. One of the slavering hounds leapt for the former goddess, jaws wide. Its pounce knocked her sprawling, and Gelt was too distracted to lend aid.

Vlad was at her side in an instant. He snatched the daemon from the air and dashed it down. As it struggled to right itself, he thrust his blade through its throat. He tore the sword free and spun, slashing a second hound in two in a single motion. As one the remaining hounds bayed and loped towards him, ignoring Gelt and the elf-woman, as Vlad had hoped.

He dispatched them efficiently and quickly, moving among them like a bolt of dark lightning. Wherever he struck, a flesh hound fell dead. When the last sank down with a querulous whine, he stepped back, and helped Lileath to her feet.

‘You… saved me,’ she said.

‘One does what one can, in these trying times,’ Vlad said. He inclined his head to Gelt. ‘And are we not allies? Sworn to defend one another, against a common foe?’

‘And what about your master?’ Gelt said. The wizard swung his staff out in an arc and the air was filled with glittering shards of silver, which plucked a bevy of bloodletters off their feet and sent them crashing down some distance away. Vlad turned.

Nagash stood alone, at the heart of a writhing amethyst vortex, surrounded by heaps and piles of withered, steaming daemon corpses. Fragments of broken bone and torn flesh swirled about him, dancing upon the unnatural winds he had called into being. The air about him was thick with wailing spirits, and at his merest gesture, daemons fell.

‘Nagash needs no aid,’ Vlad said, with a shrug.

‘No,’ Lileath murmured. She looked pale, and Vlad could smell the fear on both her and Gelt. Even his fellow Incarnates, it seemed, were not immune to the horror that was the Undying King. ‘Nor is he alone in that.’ She looked up. Vlad followed her gaze.

Above them, Malekith’s black dragon twisted through the air, breathing dark, poisonous fumes wherever daemons clustered. And where the dragon’s shadow touched, blackfire constructs in the shape of Malekith himself rose to howl across the glade, immolating any creature which stood against them.

Then the air was stirred by thunder and heat, and Vlad could taste the coppery tang of blood in his throat as roaring shapes, larger than any bloodletter, dropped towards the glade from above, crashing down like the fists of Khorne himself. Vlad was nearly knocked from his feet by the force of their arrival. Lileath fell with a cry, and Gelt was only able to remain standing thanks to the support of his staff. ‘Bloodthirsters,’ the wizard said, as Vlad hauled Lileath to her feet once more. The wizard whistled sharply, and the sound was answered by a shrill whinny as his pegasus darted through the upper reaches of the glade.

‘More than that,’ Lileath hissed. ‘It is the Blood Hunt – bloodthirsters of the Third Host.’

‘You say that as if I should care,’ Vlad said. ‘One daemon is much the same as another.’

‘The same could be said of vampires,’ Lileath said.

Vlad looked at her. He smiled. ‘I stand corrected. I– Look out!’ He caught hold of her and jerked her aside as Caradryan’s firebird crashed down into the glade, its body entangled in the whip of one of the bloodthirsters. The Incarnate of Fire was hurled from the saddle, and skidded through the carnage.

‘One side,’ Gelt said. The wizard caught hold of his pegasus’s mane and hauled himself into the saddle as the animal galloped past Vlad and Lileath. With a snap of its great wings, the pegasus thrust itself into the air and hurtled towards the fallen Incarnate, even as daemons pressed close about him. Vlad was tempted to join Gelt in his rescue attempt, but there were enemies aplenty, closer to hand.

Besides which, it was clear enough to him that Gelt had matters under control. The wizard cast chains of gold and air about the bloodthirsters as they descended on his fellow Incarnate, and held them back through sheer force of will. Caradryan rose to his feet, halberd in hand, and flames rose with him, reaching out to incinerate the roaring daemons where they struggled against Gelt’s magics.

Vlad stepped back as a bloodletter lunged for him. The creatures reminded him of the more feral of his kind, all brute instinct and no skill or finesse. Back to back with Lileath, his sword reaped a deadly toll on the bloodletters that careened towards him without an ounce of self-preservation between them. Lileath thrust out her hand and bolts of cold moonlight speared forth, causing daemonic flesh to smoulder and sear where it touched.

‘Well struck, my lady,’ Vlad laughed. ‘We might win the day yet!’

‘We are outmatched, brother,’ Teclis said, as he caught a daemon’s blade on his staff and forced it aside. As the creature staggered, off balance, he drove his sword into its side and angled the blade to catch its foul heart. The creature came apart like a fire-blackened log as he pulled his sword free. His arm ached from the force of the blow, and sweat stung his eyes. ‘There are too many of them,’ he panted. He couldn’t catch his breath.

‘And what would you have me do? I’m killing them as fast as I can,’ Tyrion snapped. He beheaded a bloodletter with a swipe of his sword and turned, pressing two fingers to his mouth. He whistled sharply.

‘Calling for your steed, then? Planning to leave us so soon?’ Malekith growled. ‘I never thought you a coward, whatever else you were.’ Shadow tendrils lanced from the Eternity King’s form and speared a pack of howling flesh hounds as they loped up the dais.

‘No – he’s right,’ Teclis said, forcing himself to stand up straight. ‘There are few of us, and many of them. We must keep moving and spread out, unless we wish to be overwhelmed. Make them divide their forces, and draw them to the strongest Incarnates. We will destroy them piecemeal.’

Malekith grunted. He looked down at Alarielle. The Everqueen was still unconscious. ‘What of her?’ he asked, his voice softening, though only slightly.

‘I shall guard her with my life,’ Teclis said.

The Eternity King looked at him and laughed hollowly. ‘I am sure she will appreciate it.’ He raised his hand, and with a roar that shook the glade, his dragon swooped towards him. Malekith shot skywards on a column of twisting shadows, and was in the saddle moments later. The dragon roared again and Malekith laughed wildly as the beast crashed into one of the newly arrived bloodthirsters, coiling about it like an immense black serpent.

Two more of the bloodthirsters raced towards the dais, their mighty hooves churning the soil. One leapt into the air with a single flap of its leathery wings and flew towards them with a bone-rattling bellow. ‘This one’s mine,’ Tyrion said. He extended his sword and a burst of cleansing light shot from the blade, clipping the daemon’s wing. The bloodthirster smashed into the dais with a startled roar. Before it could recover, Tyrion reversed his blade and leapt, driving the sword into the beast’s skull with both hands. As he tore the blade free, the second hurtled past him, towards Teclis.

Teclis gritted his teeth and smashed the end of his staff down. Magic flowed through him, and out, assailing his opponent. All eight winds were his to command, and he did so now, battering the daemon with amber spears, thorny growth, blistering starlight and searing flame. Blinded, bleeding and burned, the creature crashed down onto the dais, and did not move again. Teclis met Tyrion’s gaze, and the latter nodded curtly.

Tyrion turned as his steed, Malhandir, galloped through the press of battle, bowling over flesh hounds and trampling bloodletters. He vaulted into the saddle, hauled on the reins and turned the horse’s head east, towards the spot where the Emperor and Hammerson fought. Teclis silently wished his twin well.

Every muscle in his body ached and he could feel his strength beginning to ebb. The Incarnates had reserves of power he did not possess, and he was drawing near his limits. He looked down at Alarielle. There was no telling why she had collapsed, but he thought it likely had to do with the eruption of a daemonic portal so close to the heart of Athel Loren. As the Incarnate of Life, she was tied body and soul to the living world. The opening of such a portal would have felt much like a red hot blade being driven into her flesh.

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up in horror as another bloodthirster dropped towards he and Alarielle. His exhaustion forgotten, he raised a hand and hurled a bolt of cerulean lightning at the daemon. The creature roared as the bolt struck home, but it did not fall. It landed on the dais, the ancient white wood cracking and warping beneath the touch of its hooves. The beast loomed over him, reeking of blood and offal. He thrust his staff forwards, calling forth more lightning.

The bloodthirster shrieked and stomped up to him, hacking at him with its axe. The blow smashed into the dais, narrowly missing him. Teclis tumbled backwards. Before he could get to his feet, the axe was descending on him again. Hastily, he interposed his staff, knowing that it wouldn’t protect him even as he did so.

The axe halted, bare inches from him. The bloodthirster gave a strangled cry as it staggered back. Teclis’s eyes widened as he saw thick tendrils of plant life coil about the beast’s wings, legs and arms. And beyond it, he saw Alarielle on one knee, her palm pressed to the dais. The wood buckled and ruptured as more roots thrust through it and snagged the struggling daemon. The creature bucked and thrashed, snarling, but for every tendril it ripped free, more tightened about it.

‘This is my domain, beast,’ Alarielle said, as she rose to her feet, ‘and you are not welcome here.’ She made a fist, and the bloodthirster screamed as the roots suddenly burrowed into its flesh. As its roars reached a crescendo, she opened her hand, splaying her fingers. A moment later, the bloodthirster convulsed and then was torn apart by the flailing roots. As chunks of daemon pattered down, Teclis climbed to his feet.

‘Alarielle, I–’ he began.

‘Quiet,’ she said. She turned and surveyed the ruin that had been made of the glade. Her features contorted into an expression of grief and anger. ‘The forest is screaming. It is caught in a nightmare which does not end. It must awaken,’ she snarled. ‘Do you hear me? Awaken.’ She raised her hands, and swept them out as she spoke. ‘Awaken and fight!’

And before Teclis’s disbelieving eyes, it did.

It happened swiftly. At first, there was only the sound. Deep and sonorous, it was akin to the rumble of a distant avalanche. Then, all around the glade, trees began to move, their roots tearing free of the clammy ground as their bark flexed and twisted into half-remembered shapes. In ones and twos the ancient guardians of Athel Loren were jarred awake by the cry of the Everqueen. The ground shook with a fury unseen since the days before the coming of the elves as the forest began to move.

Ponderous at first, and then faster and faster, the gnarled feet of the newly awakened treemen thudded home into the sod, propelling them into battle with the ravening daemons. They erupted from the forest on all sides, hurling themselves at the enemy with creaking roars. Bloodletters and flesh hounds alike were smashed aside or trampled underfoot and brass-fleshed juggernauts were crushed like tin as the ancient guardians of the forest roared into battle with the invaders. Daemons scattered like dead wood caught in a gale.

Teclis watched in awe as Athel Loren awoke for the first time in millennia. It was as beautiful as it was terrifying, for the forest unbound was as powerful in its own way as the Dark Gods, and equally as deadly.

Only where the treemen clashed with the bloodthirsters did their advance slow. The greater daemons were shards of Khorne’s rage made manifest, even as the treemen were splinters of the great soul of Athel Loren. Not since the first incursion of Chaos had such a battle been waged. Lesser daemons were crushed as the titans battled, and even the Incarnates were not immune to the fury of the creatures. Teclis saw Arkhan nearly swatted from the air by the wing of a bloodthirster, and a moment later, his brother was almost crushed by a toppling treeman.

A roar sounded, echoing above the din of the colossal battle. Teclis looked up, and saw a black shape, vast and terrible, dropping towards he and Alarielle. One of the treemen climbed the dais and sought to ward off the new arrival, but the ancient was no match for the newcomer. A great hammer, covered in ruinous sigils, thudded down, and the treeman’s arm evaporated into a cloud of charred splinters. As the guardian reeled, an axe hacked deep into the thick bark. The treeman fell with a groan. A moment later, its head vanished beneath the hoof of the bloodthirster as it climbed the dais to confront Teclis and Alarielle.

‘Ka’Bandha of the Third Host, Huntsman of Khorne, bids you greeting,’ the creature rumbled. ‘The Lord of Skulls has laid claim to this forest and every scalp within it, and it is my pleasure to claim them on his behalf.’ As it spoke, the creature drew closer, until it loomed over them. It raised its hammer.

‘Prepare thyselves, for thy doom is come…’

FOURTEEN

Teclis stared up at the beast, and felt fingers of dread claw at his heart. He knew the name Ka’Bandha, for it was associated with many dread prophecies and dark futures. The Huntsman of Khorne stalked his prey across the vast sea of infinity, and had last trod the world during the previous great war against Chaos, when Teclis had helped the human leader, Magnus, escape the clutches of the Blood Hunt.

As he had done then, so many centuries ago, Teclis called up the lightning and cast it into the leering face of damnation. Jagged bolts of crackling energy struck Ka’Bandha; hissing magics crawled across the daemon’s armour, and sparks played over the runic crown it wore. Ka’Bandha laughed gutturally, and bore down on them.

Two more treemen moved to cut the daemon off. They bounded up the dais with great, creaking leaps. Ka’Bandha cut down the first one without slowing, but the second caught the daemon a blow on the back with both of its fists, dropping the brute to one knee. Ka’Bandha roared and swung to face its attacker, ignoring the lightning that Teclis continued to hurl at it. The treeman caught the daemon’s thick wrists in vine-laced fingers.

For a long moment the two creatures stood almost motionless, straining against one another. Teclis knew that the contest would not last forever. Strong as the guardian was, the daemon was stronger. He reached out, trying to grasp the faint strands of Ghur which permeated the glade. Though the Wind of Beasts was not strong here, it could still be manipulated, if he but had the strength. Catching it, he sent it flooding into the treeman, giving the guardian new strength. He staggered, and Alarielle caught him.

Ka’Bandha roared in baffled fury as it was slowly pushed back by its opponent. The bloodthirster opened its fanged maw and vomited a torrent of deep and ruddy flame into the treeman’s face. The ancient guardian was consumed in moments, and Ka’Bandha ripped its arms free in an explosion of charred wood. The bloodthirster whirled on Teclis and Alarielle, burning spittle dripping from its jaws. ‘I will have your skulls for such effrontery, little elves,’ Ka’Bandha growled.

Teclis stared at the beast in growing horror. He had faced untold daemons over the course of his life, and he had bested them all. But this beast seemed resistant to everything he hurled at it. Is this it, then? he thought, as the creature’s shadow fell over him. Is this my debt come due at last? It seemed fitting – an elf could only taunt the gods for so long before they turned their full attentions upon him.

Ka’Bandha’s axe flashed down, and Teclis reacted on instinct, interposing his staff. The force of the blow drove him down, and pain thrummed through his arms and shoulders. His magics could protect him, but not for long. He glanced over his shoulder, intending to tell Alarielle to run.

The Everqueen ignored his panicked exclamation, and set her staff. The stuff of life itself writhed about her in a shimmering halo of all colours and none. Thorny vines burst from the cracked expanse of the dais and sought to snare Ka’Bandha, as they had the other bloodthirster. But unlike the earlier beast, Ka’Bandha easily tore itself free of the constricting plant life, heedless of the many wounds it caused itself.

The bloodthirster’s hammer slammed down towards Alarielle. Teclis threw out a hand, and a shimmering shield of magical energy coalesced between the Everqueen and the daemon-weapon. Teclis bit back a groan as his body began to quake with the strain of his sorcery. Ka’Bandha lifted its hammer for a second blow.

‘It speaks ill of the Lord of Skulls that his Huntsman is so easily distracted from his true prey,’ a voice called out. Ka’Bandha stepped back, and turned. Teclis’s eyes widened as Deathclaw landed heavily on the steps of the dais. The Emperor sat astride the griffon, and he gestured at Ka’Bandha with his runefang. ‘It is known that you once came for Magnus the Pious, but failed to claim him. Did your god punish you for that, beast?’

Ka’Bandha snarled. ‘Yes, I failed to claim the skull of one human emperor. But yours shall suffice as a replacement,’ the bloodthirster hissed, gesturing at the Emperor with its axe. Before it could do more than gesture, however, Deathclaw was already hurtling forwards like a feathered cannonball at the Emperor’s behest. The griffon crashed into the daemon and the animal’s beak tore at Ka’Bandha’s throat, even as its talons sank into the bloodthirster’s arms.

Teclis pulled Alarielle aside as the two creatures careened down the dais, roaring and snarling. The Emperor clung grimly to his saddle and stabbed down at Ka’Bandha with his sword. ‘Fool,’ Teclis muttered. ‘Without the power of Azyr, he’s no match for that creature.’

‘He is a fool, but a brave one. He is buying us time, and we must make use of it.’ Alarielle raised her staff. ‘I can feel Durthu – he is less than a league hence, and drawing near,’ she said. Teclis felt a chill. If there was any creature in Athel Loren which could match Ka’Bandha for pure hate, it was the ancient treeman known as Durthu. Powerful beyond measure, despite the old scars which covered its frame – a legacy of a long ago confrontation with the dwarfs – Durthu was the rage of the forest given form.

Alarielle continued, ‘Durthu will not be coming alone. We have three armies in this forest, and by now they will all know that something is occurring. We must simply hold out until they arrive.’

Teclis looked at her. ‘And how do you propose we do that?’

Alarielle didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted her staff over her head. Teclis flinched back as the Wind of Life churned about her, and he felt a hum deep in his bones as she once again called out to the forest. All across the glade, those treemen not currently engaged with the enemy began to move towards the centre of the clearing. Those already there sank their roots deep into the soil and locked their limbs, creating a living palisade.

Other treemen moved to join them, and along the way, they plucked up those Incarnates or their advisors who were not lucky enough to be riding a steed, or able to fly. Teclis saw a treeman scoop up the dwarf, Hammerson, and, ignoring the runesmith’s virulent cursing, carry him to the dubious safety of the growing bastion. Teclis grabbed Alarielle’s arm. ‘Come, we must go,’ he said urgently.

‘What of the human?’ she asked.

Teclis turned, seeking out the Emperor. He cursed as he saw that his worst fears were confirmed. Ka’Bandha had recovered from the griffon’s attack and had wounded the animal, driving it back and nearly spilling the Emperor from his saddle. Before he could move to help, however, a roiling cloud of shadow enveloped the bloodthirster. Each mote of darkness pierced the daemon’s flesh, eliciting a startled shriek of pain from Khorne’s Huntsman. As the bloodthirster staggered, flailing blindly at the shadows, Teclis saw Tyrion galloping towards the daemon, sword in hand. There was a flash of light, and the daemon screamed again as Tyrion swept past, his blade trailing a line of ichor.

Teclis gestured to the Emperor as the man glanced his way. Karl Franz hesitated, as if reluctant to leave the fight, but then nodded. He hauled on the reins, and forced his snarling mount to swoop away from its opponent and towards them. Deathclaw spread its talons and scooped the two elves up as it sped over the dais.

As they flew towards the living palisade of treemen, a crash of timber heralded the arrival of the last of Ka’Bandha’s forces. Teclis watched in horror as great engines of shimmering brass and impossible heat, all thumping pistons and fang-muzzled cannons, burst into the glade, belching fire and ruin. Treemen were torn apart by howling barrages, and the forest itself was set aflame. Alarielle writhed in Deathclaw’s grip, wracked by agony as she experienced Athel Loren’s pain as her own. The palisade shuddered around them as Deathclaw landed.

The Incarnates were still scattered, Teclis saw. A column of pulsing amethyst light marked where Nagash still fought alone, uncaring of the greater struggle. Vlad von Carstein struggled to free Hammerson from the twisted wreckage of the treeman which had been carrying the dwarf. The guardian had been struck from behind by a roaring bloodthirster, and the vampire fought desperately against the daemon. Lileath was nowhere to be seen.

With a shrill whinny, Gelt’s pegasus crashed to the ground and rolled awkwardly, kicking futilely at the daemons which clung to it. The bloodletters shrieked and hissed as Gelt, pinned beneath his thrashing steed, incinerated them with a spray of molten metal. Teclis hurried to aid the wizard. Above them, Caradryan’s firebird cut a sharp turn, as the Incarnate of Fire turned his attentions to the wave of daemons already clambering over the palisade of treemen. Teclis hauled Gelt to his feet with one hand as he sent a cerulean bolt of mystical energy smashing into a knot of bloodletters.

‘We’re out of time,’ the Emperor said, shouting to be heard over the rumble of daemon-engines and the death-shrieks of trees. ‘If we do not escape, then we have lost everything. Even if we survive the battle, the world will be doomed.’

‘What would you have me do?’ Teclis snarled.

‘Use your magic! Get us to Middenheim, while some of us can still fight,’ the Emperor said. He gestured with his sword. ‘Even a few of us might be enough to prevent the Everchosen from ending everything.’

‘I told you before, I lack the power to do that. And even if I could, such an expenditure of magic that close to Middenheim might cause the very catastrophe we seek to prevent,’ Teclis said. ‘It cannot be done!’

‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ the Emperor growled. ‘The daemons will just keep coming until this forest is ash, and us with it. We have no more time, Teclis. It must be now, or never.’

‘I – I…’ Teclis hesitated. He shook his head. He was tired. So tired. The world pressed down on him from all sides, and his mind worked sluggishly. There were so many things he had not anticipated, so many missteps he had made. What if he made another? In trying to save the world, would he only hasten its demise? He looked at Alarielle, but she shook her head, her face pale and strained. There was no help there. He tried to catch sight of Tyrion – his brother would know what to do. Tyrion was always certain of the right path.

Only he’s not, is he? He never was, a voice whispered in his head. It was always you, in the end. Your decisions, your morals, your certainties. But your cold, fathomless logic has failed you at last, just when you need it most.

The battle raged about him. He glimpsed scenes of heroism and despair as he turned, searching for some answer in the confusion. He saw Nagash stand alone and unbowed against hundreds of squalling daemons, like a pillar of black iron in a crimson sea. He saw Tyrion and Malekith, still locked in combat with Ka’Bandha. Through the thickening wall of the palisade, he saw Caradryan vault from his saddle and plummet onto the hull of one of the daemon-engines, his halberd sweeping down to pierce the brass and send a gout of cleansing flame into its interior. He saw newly arrived elves die, even as they rushed to the defence of the Eternity King. A treeman sank down, groaning, its ancient soul snuffed by the fiery barrage from a daemon-engine.

He felt a hand on his arm, and turned. Lileath, her face streaked with blood and soot, smiled gently at him. ‘There is a way,’ she said. ‘My body is mortal, but the power of a god still flows in my veins, and in my spirit. With them, you could do what must be done.’

Teclis stared at her. From behind him, he heard the Emperor mutter, ‘Innocent blood…’

Lileath laughed harshly. ‘I have not been innocent for a long time, king of the Unberogens. Neither have you, or indeed any of us. We are here at this moment because we are the only ones strong enough to withstand the storm.’ She reached up and gently stroked Teclis’s cheek. ‘I have lied, and committed treachery. I have condemned the innocent to death, and sent brave men to their doom, all to prevent the end now unfolding around us. I have done what is required, and if my heart’s blood is the key to victory, then that shall be given as well.’

‘You will die,’ Teclis croaked. He grabbed her hand.

‘We are all going to die, son of my son. It is the Rhana Dandra, the end of all stories and songs. And better I die for a purpose, than drown in horror.’

‘You are Lileath of the Moon. Your voice has guided me since I was but a child. When I try to remember my mother, it is your face I see. Your voice I hear,’ Teclis whispered. ‘Do not ask this of me, my goddess. Are my hands not stained with enough blood?’ He closed his eyes, and held tight to her hand. The sounds of battle grew dim, and seemed to fade.

‘If you truly love me, my beautiful Teclis, you shall grant me this final boon,’ she said. He saw that there were tears in her eyes. ‘I cannot feel my daughter, or my love, Teclis. I have lost everything. I would know peace.’

‘He will do it,’ the Emperor said.

Teclis released Lileath and whirled, lightning crackling about his clenched fists. ‘You do not speak for me, master of apes. If your folk had done as they were meant to do, none of this would be happening.’

‘The same might be said of yours,’ Lileath said. Teclis turned back to her, helpless. ‘He is right. There is no time. You know, in your heart, that this must be your path.’

He wanted to argue. But his words were lost in the scream of one of the guardians which made up the palisade. It was uprooted and flung back by a gout of flame from a daemon-engine, to crash down nearby, twitching and smoking. The sound of battle rolled back in on him, and he could hear it all, in its terrible glory. It was the sound of a world ending. ‘What must I do?’ he asked.

Lileath pressed a dagger into his hands and sank to her knees. ‘It cannot be swift,’ she said. ‘When my spirit flees, so too will my divinity, and any advantage you might gain with it. My death must be slow. It must be perfect.’ She caught his hand, and guided the dagger point to a spot just to the left of her breastbone. ‘There,’ she said softly. She looked at him, and smiled sadly. ‘Are you ready?’

‘No,’ Teclis rasped. Then he rammed the blade home with every ounce of strength he could muster. Lileath stiffened and moaned. He sank down to catch her as she toppled forwards. Blood stained his robes, and her breaths, shallow and rasping, were loud in his ears. The fading spark of her divinity danced across the dark of his mind as he reached out to catch it before it could flee. Several times it slipped his grasp, and he panicked. Then, he felt her hand reach up and rest on the back of his neck, and he grew calm. A moment later, a hand found his shoulder, and he heard a calm voice murmur encouragement. New strength filled him, and he hurled his mind and spirit at the slippery spark of power.

Bolstered, he seized the fading power and bound it to himself, drinking it in greedily. As it suffused him, driving aside all doubt and weakness, he felt her hand slide away, and her body shudder once, and grow cold. For a moment, his mind soared high above Athel Loren, and he could see the embattled mortals as flickering pinpricks of light, struggling against an all-encroaching ocean of darkness. The Incarnates showed more brightly still, the light of their power almost blinding. Nagash alone shone with a darkness almost as complete as that of the creatures he fought.

Teclis saw Gelt sheltering beneath a shield of gold as a bloodthirster hammered at it. He saw Nagash pluck another from the air, and crush its thick bones to powder in his unyielding grip. He saw Ka’Bandha tear his way free of the magics of Tyrion and Malekith, and Alarielle, and charge towards Vlad and Hammerson.

And he saw himself, kneeling, cradling Lileath’s body. The Emperor stood behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder, and he knew the origin of that calming voice, and the sudden surge of strength. Something lurked within Karl Franz’s frail envelope of flesh, something akin to both Lileath and the strange, fierce godspark in the man Volker, but more powerful than either. The Emperor looked up, and Teclis knew that the man could see him.

No, not the man. Karl Franz had not been a man for some time, Teclis knew. The Emperor nodded slowly, and Teclis turned his thoughts from mysteries to Middenheim. His mind and spirit stretched out, and pulled the disparate strands of the winds of magic to him. Without thinking, without even truly understanding, he began to weave them together, moving swiftly. The last spark of Lileath’s power was already beginning to fade, and the magics he’d harnessed threatened to overwhelm him.

Pain shot through him, such as he had never felt before. He worked feverishly, fighting against the pain and the fatigue that came with it. The spell he was weaving was already beginning to unravel, even as he crafted it. Desperately he reached out with his magics, and carefully gathered up the motes of light which were the Incarnates and the others and enfolded them in the tapestry of the spell. One he had to reach further for, across vast distances into the east, and it struggled mightily in his grip, but it too joined the others.

They will not be enough, he thought.

They will have to be, the Emperor’s voice replied.

Even as the man’s voice echoed in his head, the spell, at last complete, tore loose from his weakening grasp and hurtled away from him, towards the distant darkling light of Middenheim. Then, overcome at last, Teclis slumped forwards, and collapsed into darkness.

‘Wake up, elf.’

Teclis groaned. A sudden flare of pain ripped through him, and his eyes shot open. He lurched awake, a scream on his lips. He blinked back tears and looked up as a familiar figure carefully extracted his claws from Teclis’s thigh.

‘There we are. Back among the living, then?’ Mannfred von Carstein said, smiling genially down at Teclis as he licked blood off his talons. ‘I’d wager you thought you saw the last of me, eh?’

‘Hoped, more like,’ Teclis mumbled. He was not so much surprised to see the vampire as he was disgusted. After the creature’s escape, he had feared that Mannfred would turn up again at an inconvenient time. And, true to form, it seemed he had.

Mannfred laughed and kicked him. Teclis grunted in pain. ‘Where am I?’ he wheezed, after a moment. He was lying face-down on cold stone. Manacles bit into his wrists, keeping him from standing. The only light came from guttering torches placed somewhere above his head, and the air stank of blood.

‘Where do you think, elf?’ Mannfred spread his hands. ‘Can you not feel it? You are in the shadow of cataclysm itself.’ The vampire grinned. ‘Middenheim, mage. You are in Middenheim.’

‘And why are you here?’ Teclis asked. He knew the answer well enough. It was Mannfred who had started this chain of events, however unwittingly, and fate was not so kind as to deprive the beast of his final reckoning. You are here because you have no choice. None of us do. We are all caught in the storm, Teclis thought.

‘How could I not be here? To witness the end of those who so cruelly betrayed me – me, who came in good faith, with heart open and hands empty.’ Mannfred leered down at him. ‘I knew there was only one place you would come, elf. I knew, as surely as I knew Be’lakor would allow his greed to overrule his judgement.’ He sank to his haunches and caught Teclis’s chin. ‘But just how you got here, well, that was interesting… You crashed right through the roof of the Temple of Ulric, and smashed down before the throne of the Everchosen himself. I never suspected that you had that sort of power. Too bad it seems to have deserted you…’

‘Silence, leech,’ a voice rumbled. Its owner was hidden in the shadows which dominated the farthest reaches of the great chamber. Mannfred flinched and stepped aside. He bowed low, pulling his cloak tight about himself.

‘Of course, my lord. Do forgive thy most unworthy of captains for his zealotry. Mine heart was overcome with adder’s venom, and I sought to–’

‘I said be silent,’ the voice said. This time, Mannfred fell quiet. Teclis heard the rasp of armour on bone, and then, ‘Well?’

‘The elf is powerless, my lord,’ a third voice said. Teclis looked up as a hooded figure stepped out of the shadows, the twisted metal of his mask gleaming in the torchlight. His tone was obsequious, his posture locked in a permanent half-bow, and he stank of dark magic. Teclis noted with some distaste that the sorcerer held his own purloined staff and sword. ‘His magics have deserted him, as is the fate of all such false creatures.’

Despite what the creature said, Teclis was not wholly powerless, not that he planned to admit it. He could feel the presence of the Incarnates still, and felt a thrill of bitter satisfaction. He had transported some of them, at least, to Middenheim, along with many of their followers. Unfortunately, the spell had slipped from his control in the last few moments, and scattered them across the city.

Too, he could feel a new element. The Wind of Beasts was close at hand. He had feared at the time that he might have imagined its presence, but now he knew for certain that all eight Incarnates were accounted for. All eight Incarnates were in Middenheim.

‘Not entirely, I think,’ the first voice said. It sounded amused, and Teclis resisted the urge to shrink back from it. The sorcerer turned slightly to peer into the dark.

‘I told you, fool,’ Mannfred said, sneering at the sorcerer.

‘Quiet, leech, or I shall stake your body out for the crows.’ Through the shadows, past the pit of hissing, seething blood, on the throne of skulls which sat at the chamber’s far end, a heavy figure reclined. As Teclis watched, the figure rose, and the eyes within its golden helm were unreadable. ‘You have travelled a long way to die, elf,’ Archaon said. ‘But do not despair. The world shall not long outlast you.’