The End Times: The Return of Nagash

TWENTY-TWO

‘It is almost time,’ Arkhan said as he joined Mannfred in the garden. Mannfred didn’t turn around. Instead he continued to examine the worm-pale tree, whose blossoms had sprouted, flowered, and now drifted across the garden like snowflakes. He was reminded slightly of the cherry orchards of far Nippon, and the colours of their blossoms as they swirled in a breeze. There had been a beauty there that even he recognised.

‘This tree has somehow blossomed, despite being quite dead,’ Mannfred said. He plucked a fallen blossom from his pauldron and held it up. ‘They smell of rot, and of grave mould. Is that a sign, do you think?’

‘Perhaps the land is telling you that it is ready for the coming of the king,’ Arkhan said. He held Alakanash, Nagash’s staff, in one bony hand. He leaned on it, as if tired. ‘Or perhaps it is merely a sign of things to come.’

Mannfred popped the blossom into his mouth and smiled. ‘A parody of life. A good omen, I should say.’ He turned to Arkhan. ‘I can feel it as well as you, liche. The winds of death are blowing strong. Geheimnisnacht will soon be upon us.’ He cocked his head. ‘Where is it to be, then? I suppose it’s too much to hope that here will do, eh?’

‘I have located the site. A stone circle.’

‘This is Sylvania,’ Mannfred said. He gestured airily. ‘We have many stone circles.’

‘East of the Glen of Sorrows,’ Arkhan said.

Mannfred smiled. ‘Ah, the Nine Daemons. Legend says that those aren’t stones at all, you know, but the calcified bodies of daemons, imprisoned for eternity by the whim of the Dark Gods.’ He plucked another blossom from the tree and sniffed it. ‘Are you developing a sense of humour in your old age?’

‘Legends do not concern me. Those stones sit upon a confluence of the geomantic web. The winds of magic blow strongly about them.’

‘Legends might not concern you, but our enemies should,’ Mannfred said. ‘My spies–’

‘Your spies are your concern, as are our enemies,’ Arkhan said. He tapped the ground with the staff. ‘My concern is with our master.’

‘Your master,’ Mannfred spat. He calmed. ‘But you are correct. They are my concern. This is my realm, after all, and I will deal with them as I see fit. And you, my friend, will see to the preparations for our eventual triumph.’ He smiled unctuously. ‘Do not hesitate to ask, should you need any help in your preparations. My servants, as ever, are yours.’

‘Of course,’ Arkhan said. The witch-fires of his eyes flickered slightly and he inclined his head. Then, without a word, he turned and departed. Mannfred watched him go. His smile thinned, turning cruel. He turned back to the tree.

‘Well?’ he asked.

Elize stepped out from behind the tree, her hand on the pommel of the basket-hilted blade sheathed on the swell of one hip. She’d been there the entire time he’d been speaking with Arkhan, listening. ‘He’s planning something,’ she said.

Mannfred laughed. ‘Of course he is, gentle cousin. We have come to the end of our journey together, after all. Our paths diverge, come Geheimnisnacht and what was begun at the Valsborg Bridge will at last be finished.’ He looked at her. ‘What else?’

‘He’s already begun transporting the artefacts. Three wagons of bone and tattered skin left by the main gate not an hour ago, accompanied by those desert-born dead things he summoned from those blasted canopic jars of his.’

‘And the sacrifices?’

‘They are still in their chamber,’ she said, leaving the obvious question unspoken.

Mannfred shrugged. ‘Let him take them, if he wishes. The ritual protections I wove about our fair land have grown so thin and weak that they are no longer necessary in that capacity. It is past time we disposed of them.’ He gestured flippantly. ‘Now, what of our visitors, sweet cousin?’

Almost every eye and ear in Sylvania was his to command. He knew the size and composition of each of the forces that had, in the past few weeks, begun to encroach on his realm, but he thought it best for Elize to consider herself useful, and so had left the particulars of scouting out the invaders to her.

Other than Nictus, she was one of the last of Vlad’s get remaining in Sylvania. One last link to the old order. He had considered dispatching her soon after his return from the Border Princes for what he suspected was her part in exacerbating Markos’s regicidal tendencies. He had reconsidered after seeing how she had defended Sternieste in his absence. Such loyalty was to be rewarded, and such commitment to his cause was to be husbanded against future treacheries. She made a fine castellan, and a fine Grand Mistress of the Drakenhof Order.

Elize cleared her throat. ‘A force of men and elves approaches from the east,’ she said. ‘They crossed through the wall of bone a few hours ago, and are marching towards Templehof.’

‘Our old friend Leitdorf and the hounds of Ulthuan, come to punish me for my many transgressions against their respective empires,’ Mannfred said. He clasped his hands behind his back and examined the tree, watching the blossoms flutter in the cold breeze that coursed through the garden. He had known that the war in the north would only occupy the men of the Empire for so long. And after Nagashizzar, he had expected another rescue attempt on behalf of the Everchild from the High Elves. But given the way their island nation was currently beset by daemons and dark kin alike, he was surprised that they had sent the forces they had.

‘There are beastmen in the Hunger Wood,’ Elize went on. ‘The herd is undisciplined, but it’s enormous – it eclipses all of the other invaders combined. It’s as if something – or someone – has browbeaten every filthy pack of the brutes within several leagues into joining together.’

‘Yes, and I’ll bet Arkhan knows who,’ Mannfred said. He rubbed his palms over his skull, considering. The identity of Arkhan’s be-winged nemesis was obvious in retrospect. He had long heard the stories of the enigmatic creature known as the Dark Omen; the beast was a lightning rod of sorts for its primitive kin, drawing them together to do the will of the Chaos gods. In this case, their desire was plain. Arkhan was right – the Dark Gods were intent on stopping Nagash’s resurrection. He lowered his hands. ‘Still, it’s of little matter who’s behind it. They’re here and we must see them off. Who else comes uninvited to my bower?’

‘More elves, from the south-west,’ Elize said.

Mannfred’s eyes narrowed. ‘Athel Loren,’ he murmured. ‘Arkhan was nearly taken by them, as he crossed the Grey Mountains. Krell moved to lead them away, costing us his strength in this, our hour of need.’

‘We do not need a mere wight to defend our ancestral lands, cousin,’ Elize hissed.

‘Krell is no more a mere wight than I am a mere vampire,’ Mannfred said, scratching his chin. ‘He is a weapon of Nagash, as Arkhan is. One of his oldest and best. How large is their host?’

‘Infinitesimal,’ Elize said dismissively. ‘It is barely a raiding party.’

‘Nonetheless, we must take care. Elves are always dangerous, no matter how few they are,’ Mannfred said. He raised his fingers and ticked them off one by one as he spoke. ‘Men, elves, beasts, yet more elves and… Who am I forgetting?’

‘Dwarfs,’ Elize said. ‘A throng, I think it’s called. Coming from Karak Kadrin.’

Mannfred closed his eyes and hissed in consternation. The dwarfs were the only invaders who truly worried him. The warriors of Athel Loren were too few, the beasts too undisciplined, but the dwarfs were neither. For a century he had stepped lightly around Ungrim Ironfist, and taken care not to antagonise either him or his folk. Now, it seemed as if all of that was for naught. ‘The Slayer King is at our gate,’ he murmured. ‘Tch, where is he stumping, then?’

‘Templehof,’ Elize said tersely. ‘I think that they are attempting to join forces with Leitdorf and the Ulthuani.’

‘That… would be unfortunate,’ Mannfred said. He stared at the tree, thinking. None of this was surprising, though the timing was problematic. Still, he had prepared for this from the beginning. Everything had led up to this point. He had known the moment that he had kidnapped the Everchild, the moment he had seceded Sylvania from the shambolic Empire, that he would eventually face an invasion from one quarter or another. Now, at last, on the eve of his certain triumph, his enemies were making their final stab at stopping him.

He took it as a compliment, of sorts. All great men could be judged by the quality of their enemies, and after all, wasn’t it the sad duty of every new empire to eradicate those older, stagnant empires that occupied its rightful place before it could take the stage?

He plucked another blossom from the tree. ‘When I was but a headstrong youth, with more bloodlust than sense, a warrior came to my city. He was a terror such as no longer walks this world, thankfully. We called him “the dragon”. He taught me much about war, and the waging of it, and despite our… falling out some years later, I am grateful to him.’ He smiled slightly. ‘His folk often waged wars on multiple fronts, so fractious was their land. Division and conquest, he said, were as good as the same thing. When your enemies converge, you take them apart one… by… one.’ As he spoke, he began to shuck the petals from the blossom. ‘Men are like water. They can be redirected, contained and drained away with the proper application of tactics and strategy.’ He held what was left of the blossom out to her.

She stared at it for a moment, and then looked at him. ‘You have a strategy, cousin?’

‘Oh many more than are entirely necessary for the conflict to come, I assure you.’ He dropped the denuded blossom. ‘Our task is simplified by our goal – we are buying time for the inevitable.’ He pointed at Elize. ‘We must peel them away, one by one. And here is how we shall do it…’

Hans Leitdorf stared morosely over his shoulder at the distant and now crumbling edifice of bone and sorcery that had, until a few hours ago, barred his path into Sylvania. It had begun to collapse, even as had the walls of Heldenhame so many months ago, but it had still required sorcery to clear a path for his army. Luckily, his new allies had provided a certain amount of aid in that regard.

He surreptitiously examined the silvery figures as they studied the territory ahead from a nearby rocky knoll. Three of them – two in the ornate and delicate-looking armour characteristic of Ulthuani nobility, and the third in flowing robes of blue. All three carried themselves with the haughty surety of their folk, an arrogant confidence that no human could hope to match.

That it had come to this was a sign of the times, in Leitdorf’s opinion. Dark times made for strange allies, as Thyrus was wont to say. Thinking of Gormann brought back memories of those terrible, final days at Heldenhame, after the undead assault had melted away.

He remembered finding Weskar’s head, mounted on the butt of a spear that had been stabbed point first into the centre of the castle courtyard. He remembered the blood that slopped thickly down from the battlements, and the gory remains of the castle’s defenders, heaped carelessly where they had fallen. He and Gormann had personally cleansed the bestial filth from the upper barracks and towers, burning and killing those shrieking vargheists that had not fled with Mannfred.

During the cleansing of the castle, they’d discovered that the vaults of Heldenhame had been torn asunder and scoured by sorcery. Ancient treasures, gathered from Araby in the time of the Crusades, had been melted to glittering slag as a sign of Mannfred von Carstein’s disdain. There was no way to tell if anything had been taken, though Gormann had had his suspicions. Leitdorf had found them hard to credit at the time, but as the year wore on, and he had seen the current state of the Empire for himself, he had begun to believe.

Worse even than the desecration of his order’s citadel had been what happened afterwards – as he had readied his surviving forces to pursue von Carstein back into his stinking lair to accomplish what the Grand Theogonist, Sigmar bless and keep his soul, could not, a massive herd of foul beastmen had blundered through the line of trees only just recently vacated by the undead. The children of Chaos had thrown themselves at the newly breached western wall with no thought for the consequences.

The battle that followed had done little to assuage the fury Leitdorf had felt at the time, or indeed still felt. It had, however, gone much better than the first. A single charge by Leitdorf and his vengeful knights had sufficed to set the howling rabble to rout. When the beastmen had been thrown back, he had seen that the defences were repaired. Then, leaving Captain Volker in command of the forces of Heldenhame, Leitdorf, Gormann and a handful of knights had ridden for Altdorf, looking to procure reinforcements.

The journey had been nightmarish. Beastmen ran wild across Talabecland and Reikland, despite the efforts of the knightly orders who hunted them relentlessly. Every noble, innkeeper and merchant with whom Leitdorf spoke whispered of darker monstrosities than just beasts lurking beneath the trees, and of villages and towns obliterated by fire from the sky. Doomsayers and flagellants were abroad in ever-swelling numbers, agitating the grimy, plague-ridden crowds that clustered about every temple however large or small, begging for respite from gods who seemed deaf to even the loudest entreaty.

Things had been little better in Altdorf. Karl Franz had played his usual games, stalling and refusing to commit himself openly, and Leitdorf had waited for an audience for three days before being informed that the tide had turned for the worse in the north. It seemed as if Balthasar Gelt’s magics had proven as useless there as they had in Sylvania, and the Emperor had ridden north to inspect the war effort personally, along with the Reikmarshal. Gormann had ridden out after them, to see what aid he might provide, leaving Leitdorf to scrape up what additional troops he could for the long march back to Heldenhame.

That was when he had met the elves.

Leitdorf felt a begrudging respect for Karl Franz’s politesse even now – he had arranged events so that two annoyances satisfied one another, at no cost to himself or the war effort in the north. It even placed both him and the elves in the Emperor’s debt, for having done so. Each had what they sought, more or less. Awkward compromise was the soul of diplomacy, or so Leitdorf had been assured by men who knew more of such things.

Leitdorf and his new allies had ridden out that night. As they reached the eastern border of Sylvania, the silvery host of Ulthuan had been joined by the full might of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood. A mightier host Leitdorf could not conceive of. Nonetheless, such a joint effort came with its own particular difficulties.

The elves were cautious to the point of hesitation, or so it seemed to him. For a race that moved so swiftly and gracefully, they seemed inclined to tarry overmuch for Leitdorf’s liking. Irritated, he spurred his horse forward to join the elves on the knoll. His horse whinnied at the smell of the griffon, which crouched nearby, tail lashing. The great brute hissed at him as he drew close, and his hand fell to his blade instinctively. All three elves turned to face him as his fingers scraped the hilt.

‘Stormwing will not harm you,’ the woman, Eldyra, said, her voice high and musical. She spoke in an archly precise and archaic form of Reikspiel, and the harsh, jagged words sounded odd coming from her mouth. She was a princess of Tiranoc, he recalled, though he knew little of the distant island home of the elves, and so could not say what the human equivalent might be. A countess, perhaps, he thought.

‘If he tried, it would be the last thing he did, I assure you,’ Leitdorf growled, eyeing the beast warily. The elf woman smiled, as if amused.

‘I have no doubt,’ she said. ‘Are your men rested?’

‘Rested?’ he repeated, feeling as if he had missed some vital part of the conversation.

‘We stopped to allow them to rest. Humans are fragile, and lacking in endurance,’ the older elf, Belannaer, said, as though he were lecturing a particularly dense child.

‘Are we?’ Leitdorf asked, through gritted teeth. ‘My thanks. I was not aware of our limitations, or your consideration for such.’

‘I could make a list, for you, if you like. For future reference,’ Belannaer went on, seemingly oblivious to Leitdorf’s growing anger. Then, maybe he was. Sigmar knew that Leitdorf was having trouble reading anything on the marble-like faces of the Ulthuani… Maybe they had a similar difficulty with human expressions. The thought didn’t allay his anger, but it calmed him slightly.

‘That won’t be necessary. We are ready to continue on, when you are,’ Leitdorf said, addressing the third of them, the grim-faced elf prince called Eltharion. The Prince of Yvresse was plainly the leader of the expedition, yet he had not spoken one word to Leitdorf in their travels to date. Nevertheless, Leitdorf suspected that the prince could speak and understand Reikspiel well enough. He was beginning to get the impression that Eltharion resented the indignity of having to ally with men. It was all the same to Leitdorf, in the end. As long as Sylvania was a smoking ruin by Geheimnisnacht, he could indulge the elf’s pettiness.

‘Excellent,’ Eldyra said. Her eyes sparked with humour. ‘We were just discussing whether we should slow our pace so that the dawi have time to reach– What was it called again?’

‘Templehof,’ Leitdorf said. He tugged off his glove with his teeth and reached into his cuirass to retrieve a map. He tossed it to Eldyra, who caught it gingerly, as if it were something unpleasant. ‘A foul little town, located on a tributary of the Stir. It’s not far from Castle Sternieste, which is where the vampire is currently skulking, if the survivors of the Grand Theogonist’s ill-fated crusade can be believed.’ He cocked his head, considering. ‘It might be wise. Ungrim is going to be fighting his way west, through the heart of this midden heap of a province. Von Carstein will be throwing every corpse between Vanhaldenschlosse and Wolf Crag at the dwarfs, if he’s smart.’

‘And is he?’ Eldyra asked.

Leitdorf laughed bitterly. ‘Oh he’s a cunning beast, that one. But he’s still a beast. And we have him trapped in his lair.’ Which was true enough. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Gelt’s wall of faith seemed to still be intact. Objects of veneration still hung in the air like a chain of holiness about the borders, shining a clean light into the murk of Sylvania. Still, he hoped Gormann was giving the weedy little alchemist an earful of it, wherever they were.

‘Yes, very inspired that,’ Belannaer said idly, looking at the horizon. ‘I would not have expected a human mind to grasp the complexities of such an enchantment. It was crude, of course, but that cannot be helped.’

‘No, it cannot,’ Leitdorf said, biting off the rest of his reply. The worst of it was that he didn’t think that the elves meant to be insulting. They simply assumed he was too thick to tell when they were being so. Well, all save Eldyra. The elf woman shook her head slightly and rolled her eyes. Leitdorf grunted. Unnatural as her beauty was, she nonetheless made him wish he were a few decades younger, and less cautious. ‘And no, we should not. Templehof lies in the shadow of Castle Templehof, which has long been claimed by Mannfred. It is a centre of power for him, which is why I chose it for our meeting place.’

‘You wish to make our intent clear to him,’ Eldyra said, after a moment. She nodded and her odd eyes flashed with understanding. ‘We will take it, and show him what awaits him.’

‘It is a waste of time,’ Eltharion said.

Leitdorf was surprised. The elf’s voice was no less musical than Eldyra’s, but it was filled with contempt. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘We care nothing for centres of power, or clarity of intent. All that matters is rescuing the one we came for. Let the stunted ones catch up with us, if they can.’ He looked at Leitdorf. ‘We are not here to subjugate your lands for you, human.’

‘No, of that I am quite aware, thank you,’ Leitdorf snapped. The griffon hissed again, but he ignored it. ‘What are you here for then? You still haven’t even mentioned the name of the one you are supposedly here to rescue.’

‘Such is of no concern to you,’ Eltharion said bluntly. He looked away.

‘You are right. It is of little concern to me. But we are allies, and such things should be shared between allies,’ Leitdorf said. He longed to swing down out of his saddle and drive his fist into the elf’s scowling face. ‘I have fought these devils for longer than any other. We must take their places from them. We must burn their boltholes and dens. Otherwise they will vanish again and again, and the object of your mission with them.’ He looked hard at Eltharion. ‘I appreciate your desire for haste – I share it myself – but we need the dwarfs. Sylvania must be put down, once and for all, for the good of all of our peoples.’

Eltharion didn’t respond. Leitdorf felt himself flush, but before he could speak, Eldyra handed the map to Belannaer and spoke to Eltharion in their own tongue. It sounded strange and off-putting to Leitdorf’s ear. He hoped she was speaking on his behalf. Eltharion ignored her, but she persisted, fairly spitting words at him. Belannaer held up the map and unrolled it. He looked at the land ahead and then back at the map. He looked up at Leitdorf. ‘This is Templehof here?’ he asked, tapping a place on the map.

Leitdorf nodded. ‘Yes. As I said, it’s close to our destination. It will make an adequate staging area for the assault to come,’ he said. ‘We’re only a few days away.’

Belannaer nodded and handed him the map. The mage said something to the others. He spoke sharply and hurriedly. Eltharion made a face and shook his head. Leitdorf looked around in frustration. ‘What is it?’ he barked.

Eldyra looked at him. ‘Belannaer says that the route you’ve chosen is dangerous. There are many…’ She trailed off and made a helpless gesture, as if trying to pluck a word from the air.

‘Sepulchres,’ Belannaer supplied.

‘There are many sepulchres and places where the dead rest uneasy on this route,’ Eldyra said. Leitdorf laughed.

‘This is Sylvania,’ he said. ‘The whole province is an affront to Morr. Dig anywhere and you’ll find a layer of skulls beneath the soil. The trees are nourished by mass graves, and every town is built on a burying ground.’ He leaned over and spat, trying to clean the foul taste of the air out of his mouth. ‘If we get to Templehof, we can more readily defend ourselves for when Mannfred inevitably rouses the dead to stop us.’

‘It is better to delay or stem the tide, than merely weather it,’ Belannaer said. ‘I can seal or cleanse these places as we march.’ He looked at Eltharion. ‘We are but a small force, Warden of Tor Yvresse, and in enemy lands. Think of the fate you inflicted on Grom, Eltharion. Haste did not save the greenskin from the death of a thousand cuts.’

‘Grom?’ Leitdorf muttered. The only creature he knew of by that name was a historical footnote. He peered at the elves, suddenly all-too aware of the vast gulf of time that sat between them. How old were they? He pushed the thought aside. He didn’t want to know. ‘Most of what you’re talking about is near Templehof, if not actually within its boundaries. As I said, it is a centre of power for our enemy. Taking it from him will weaken him considerably.’

Eltharion looked at him for long moments. Then, with a terse nod, he said, ‘Templehof. But we will not wait long. If we have finished cleansing the place before the stunted ones arrive, they shall have to catch up.’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Leitdorf said.

TWENTY-THREE

Count Alphonse Epidimus Octavius Scaramanga Nyktolos of Vargravia, Portmaster of Ghulport and its waters, hunched low in his saddle as he urged his terrorgheist to greater speed. Around him, several more of the great, bat-like corpse-beasts flew, the sound of their wings echoing like thunder. Fellbats and rotting swarms of their normal-sized cousins kept pace. Every so often, Nyktolos would catch sight of a screeching vargheist amidst the swarms and even a single bellowing varghulf, as the latter lurched awkwardly through the air. It had taken him nearly a day to rouse the denizens of the deep caves, but he thought he had managed to drag forth every flapping thing and night-flyer that made its home there.

It was an odd sort of army, this, but he had commanded worse in his peculiar career. There had been the time he had led a force of brine-soaked zombie sea turtles against the harbour guard of Tor Elasor. Or that incident with the mimes. Nyktolos shuddered and looked down. The vast expanse of Hunger Wood spread out below him like a shroud of green, and he could hear the crude drums and horns of the army marching through those woods.

Lord Mannfred had tasked him with the eradication of two of the invading forces currently assailing the heartland. It was a job that Nyktolos was more than capable of accomplishing, but he nonetheless felt a certain concern.

He had learned early on that the best way to survive the continuous cycle of incessant purges and inevitable betrayals that marked one’s entry into the inner circles of the von Carsteins was to become part of the background. Show no ambition, and rarely offer more than an amusing bon mot, as the Bretonnians put it. If that failed, stand around looking stupid, busy or stupidly busy. In truth, it wasn’t much different than being a mortal aristocrat. The von Carsteins were vicious but the von Draks had been monsters.

Below, the trees cleared momentarily, and he saw the galumphing, hairy shapes of beastmen. They were still following him, as they had been since his first attack several days ago. It had taken no great effort to antagonise the creatures. His forces had struck again and again at the flanks of the great herd before retreating ever eastwards, and drawing the beasts away from the Glen of Sorrows and the Nine Daemons.

Nyktolos hawked and spat. He could feel the world grinding to a halt, deep in the marrow of his bones. The sky boiled like an untended cauldron and the earth shuddered like a victim of ague. He wasn’t a learned man, but he knew what it meant well enough. Still, the lessons of his wild youth held – stay in the background and stay alive, or as close to it as a vampire could get. Markos and Tomas and Anark had all made that mistake. They’d thought of themselves as main characters, when really they were only bit players in the story of another. Well, he wouldn’t make that mistake.

No, he would play his part to perfection. And at the moment, that part was as a distraction. The beastmen composed the largest group of invaders, and were thus the most dangerous. They could be beaten in open battle easily enough, but it would take time and effort better spent elsewhere. If, however, the brawling mass could be redirected at another of the invading armies – say, for instance, the disciplined throng of Karak Kadrin – then they could leave them to it, and get on with more important matters.

A day before he had encountered the buzzing mechanical contraptions the dwarfs called gyrocopters, and swatted them from the sky with little difficulty. He’d lost a terrorgheist and more than a few fellbats in the process, but the dwarfs had been too few and too slow. He still recalled how one of the doughty little creatures had made a terrific leap from the cockpit of his machine, axe in hand, even as a terrorgheist crushed it. The dwarf had gone right down its gullet, hacking away in a most amusing fashion. Well, amusing right up until the terrorgheist had exploded.

Nyktolos shook his head, banishing the memory. He wanted no part of the dwarfs and their explosives and cannons, thank you all the same. Better to let them vent their petty grudges on more deserving targets.

Down below, horns wailed and the beastmen slowed in their tramping. That wouldn’t do. The dwarfs were still several leagues away, and marching towards Templehof. Nyktolos clucked his tongue and set his spurs to his mount. ‘Come, my dear. It is feeding time, I expect,’ he said as the terrorgheist shrieked and dived down towards the trees. The rest of the swarm followed him, screeching and chittering. Nyktolos drew his sword as the terrorgheist crashed through the canopy and landed atop a squalling centigor. Several more of the snorting quadrupedal beastmen charged towards Nyktolos, who flung himself from his seat with a yowl. He chopped through a hairy midsection as he landed, separating the centigor’s top half from its lower body.

Quicker than thought, Nyktolos spun and blocked a club that would have dashed his brains across the forest floor. The centigor reared, and Nyktolos slashed open its belly as he ducked aside. The beast fell with a squeal. Beastmen rushed headlong out of the trees, covered in bats, and the terrorgheist lunged forwards, making a meal of two of the closer ones.

Nyktolos killed another, opening its throat to the bone with a casual flick of his blade. More creatures poured out of the trees. He surged amongst them for a moment, like a tiger amongst goats, killing them with wide sweeps of his sword and his own talons. Then, satisfied that he had regained their attentions, he leapt back onto the terrorgheist and swatted it between the ears with the flat of his blade. ‘Up, you great, greedy beast! Up!’

The giant bat-thing heaved itself up into the air with an explosive shriek, tearing apart the forest canopy as it clambered into the sky. Nyktolos guided the creature in a low swoop across the tops of the trees. ‘Follow me, little beasts. Your playmates await you!’

Malagor roared in fury as his herd rampaged out of control through the forest. They were going the wrong way and there was little even he could do about it. The horde was driven by its primal appetites. The cloven-hoofed warriors had left a trail of devastation in their wake, burning and pillaging a path right into the heart of Sylvania, and Malagor felt little impetus to control their baser urges, so long as they kept moving in the right direction.

What lay at the end of their trail was a mystery even to him. He knew only that though he was the truest of servants, he had failed to fulfil the desires of the Dark Gods three times. Three times Arkhan the Black had slipped away from him, and three times Malagor had given chase. He had pursued the bone-man across the world, from mountain to forest to plain and back again, and always, always the dead-thing escaped. With each failure, the whispers of his gods had grown in volume, until he thought his brain would be pounded to mush inside his vibrating skull. But they had not punished him, as he’d feared they might.

The Dark Gods knew that even though he was their truest child, his kin were less so. They were too wild to ignore their primitive urges and too feral to be organised for long. His failures had been no fault of his, but a weakness in the tools he’d been gifted. The gods knew this, and they whispered their endearments to him, urging him towards Sylvania. As he’d driven what was left of his horde after the debacle at Heldenhame into the lands of his enemy, more and more beastmen emerged from the forests and submitted to his will. By the time he’d reached Sylvania’s northern border, and the crumbling wall of bone that protected it, the tumult of his horde could be heard for many leagues in all directions.

It had been a simple enough matter to gain entry after that, between his magics and the brute strength of his followers. They’d poured into Sylvania like a flood, following the pull of the Dark Gods. Now, however, that pull was being disrupted yet again by his followers’ bestial instincts. No matter how many he killed, order could not be restored and they still pursued the flapping abomination that had harried them for some days.

It attacked and retreated, drawing his followers ever further away from their true goal, playing on their bloodlust and stupidity. He’d come close to killing the vampire more than once, but the creature was almost as slippery as Arkhan. It avoided open battle, and seemed content to bloody his flanks and slip away, just out of view.

Malagor flew over his loping warriors, easily dodging through the twisted woodland, his frustration bubbling away inside him. If he could get ahead of them, he might be able to head them off. That hope died a quick death, however, as he exploded out of the trees and saw what awaited him in the open ground beyond.

Arrayed about an irregular circle of standing stones the colour of freshly spilled blood, was a force Malagor recognised easily, though he’d never seen them before. Gold-topped standards rose above a wall of shields, and the air was cut by the stink of gunpowder. Malagor rose into the air, his black wings flapping, and tried to understand what he was seeing.

There were dwarfs ahead, thousands of them. Their numbers were nothing compared to those of his followers, but they should not have been there, and certainly not arrayed for battle. It made no sense – why were the stunted ones here? Was this part of the Dark Gods’ plan? Or was it something else?

As he tried to come to grips with it, he heard the first of his followers burst through the tree line. The big gor, a chieftain called Split-Nose, snorted in incredulity as his watery, yellow eyes fixed on the distant shieldwall. Then he brayed and raised the axe he held over his head. Malagor growled in realisation. He had to stop them. If he failed again, there would no next chance.

‘No,’ he roared, and fell out of the sky like a rock. He crashed down onto Split-Nose and crushed the gor’s broad skull with the end of his staff. He swung the staff like a club, battering another beastman off his hooves as they began to straggle through the trees in small groups. ‘No! Go back – Dark Gods say go back!’

A bellow greeted his cry and the ground trembled beneath his feet. A moment later an enormous doombull smashed a tree into splinters with its gargantuan axe as it charged out of the forest. Its piggy eyes were bulging redly with blood-greed, and slobber dripped from its bull-like jaws as it charged forward. Malagor bleated in anger as he thrust himself skywards, narrowly avoiding the doombull. Minotaurs, centigors and beastmen followed it. It was as if some great dam had been cracked, and a tide of hair and muscle flowed out, seeking to roll over everything in its path.

Malagor could only watch as his lesser kin charged towards the dwarf shieldwall, heedless of anything save their own desire to kill, defile and devour that which was in front of them. He could feel the displeasure of the Dark Gods beating down on him, and with a strangled snarl, he flung himself after his followers, eager to drown out the voices of the gods in the noise of slaughter.

‘Come on then, scum! Come kiss my axe,’ Ungrim Ironfist roared hoarsely. His voice was almost gone, and his limbs felt like lead. Nevertheless, he and his bodyguard of Slayers bounded out from amidst the dwarf shieldwall as the pack of bellowing minotaurs and bestigors charged towards the dwarf lines stationed around the blood-red standing stones. From behind him, volley after volley of cannon fire tore great, bloody furrows in the ever-shifting ranks of the children of Chaos, but the hundreds who died only served to make room for those who thundered in their wake. The air shuddered with the roar of the guns and the maddened braying of the horde, as it had for days.

‘I’ll crack your skulls and gift my wife a necklace of your teeth,’ Ungrim shouted, as he ploughed into a mob of bestigors like a cannonball wrapped in dragonscale. He lashed out with blade, boot and the brass knuckles on his gloves. ‘Hurry up and die so your bigger friends can have a turn,’ he snarled, grabbing a bestigor by the throat. The beast bleated in fury and struck at him with a cut-down glaive, but Ungrim crushed its throat before the blow could fall.

Momentarily free of opponents, Ungrim clawed blood out of his face and looked around. The beastmen had flowed around the Slayers and smashed into the shieldwall, where many were thrown back in bloody sprays. Thunderers loosed destructive volleys at point-blank range over the shoulders of clansmen as minotaurs hacked at their diminutive opponents, stopping only to gorge upon the fallen. Skulls were cracked, and blood ran in thick streams across the lumpy ground.

Ungrim hesitated. All around him, Slayers were fulfilling their oaths as they savaged the belly of the enemy horde, and part of him longed to hurl himself even deeper into the fray alongside them, axe singing. But he was a king as well as a Slayer, and a king had responsibilities. He spat a curse and lifted his axe as he started back towards the dwarf lines. He picked up speed as he ran, and he smashed aside any beastman who got in his way without slowing down.

When the Imperial herald had come to Karak Kadrin so many weeks ago, Ungrim hadn’t been surprised. It was just like the Ulthuani to go running to the humans when the dawi weren’t feeling charitable. Given what he’d learned at the Kingsmeet the year before, and what tales his own folk brought east, from the border country, it wasn’t difficult to see that something foul was brewing in Sylvania. Despite the fact that the thought of helping the feckless elgi sat ill with him, Ungrim had decided to set an example, to show Sylvania and the world, including his fellow kings, that the dwarfs were still a force to be reckoned with. Over the numerous and vociferous complaints of his thanes, he had gathered his throng and marched west. He had made arrangements to meet Leitdorf, the Imperial commander, at Templehof. His siege engines and cannons had easily shattered the petty defences the Sylvanians had erected – walls of sorcerous bone were no match for dwarf ingenuity and engineering – but his progress had slowed considerably as they reached the lowlands.

Dead things of all shapes and sizes had come calling, and the throng had been forced to shatter one obscene army after the next. A necklace of vampire fangs rattled on the haft of his axe, taken from the masters of each of those forces. But it wasn’t just the living dead that attacked his warriors. Even the land itself seemed determined to taste dwarf blood – bent and maggoty trees clawed at them as yellowed grasses clung to their boots and sucking mud tried to pull them down. But the dwarfs had trudged onwards, until they’d reached the standing stones where they now made their stand.

They’d heard the cacophony of the horde from leagues away, and Ungrim, knowing what the noise foretold, had ordered cannons unlimbered and the oath stones placed, as the Slayers sang their death songs and his clansmen gave voice to prayers to Grimnir. Three times they’d driven the beasts back, and three times the creatures regrouped and charged again, as if the scent of their own savage blood on the air only served to drive them to greater ferocity.

Again and again and again the beasts had thrown themselves at the shieldwall of Karak Kadrin. Though it was almost impossible to tell, thanks to the sunless skies overhead, Ungrim thought that the battle was entering its second day. The dead were piled in heaps and drifts, and the dwarf lines had contracted more than once, shrinking with their losses.

Ungrim bounded over a fallen centigor and launched himself at a towering bull-headed monstrosity that was hacking at the shieldwall. It was larger than any of the others, and it stank of blood and musk. He gave a triumphant yell as his axe sank into the thick muscles of the minotaur’s back. The monster bellowed in agony and twisted away from its former opponents. Ungrim was yanked off his feet and swung about as the minotaur thrashed, but he clung to his axe grimly. He reached out with his free hand, grabbed a hank of matted hair and hauled himself up towards the creature’s head. ‘You’ll do, you oversized lump of beef,’ he roared. ‘Come on, let’s see if you can kill a king before he boots you in the brains.’

Ungrim tore his axe free in a spray of blood and chopped it down, hooking the screaming minotaur’s shoulder. He snagged one of its horns and drove his boot into the back of its skull. The minotaur reared and clawed for him, trying to drag him off. Ungrim hung on, anchored by his axe, and continued to kick the beast in the head. It wasn’t particularly glorious, as tactics went, but they were good, tough boots, and the creature’s skull was bound to give before his foot did. It caught hold of his cloak and began to yank at him, and Ungrim lost his grip on his axe. Flailing wildly, he caught hold of the brute’s horn with both hands and, with a crack, he snapped it off.

The minotaur wailed and tore him from his perch. It smashed him down and so powerful was the blow that he sank into the soil as all of the air was expelled from his lungs. Drool dripped into his face as the minotaur crouched over him, its hands squeezing his barrel torso. Unable to breathe, Ungrim rammed the broken horn into one of the beast’s eyes. It reared back with a scream. Ungrim tried to rise, but it smashed him from his feet with a wild blow. Dazed, he glared up at the monster as it loomed over him. Then, there was a roar and the minotaur’s head vanished in an explosion of red. It toppled over.

‘Och, are you dead then, yer kingship?’ a voice shouted.

‘Damn you, Makaisson,’ Ungrim spluttered as a burly Slayer dragged him to his feet. ‘What’s the meaning of cheating me out of a perfectly good death?’

‘Was that yers, then? I hae noo idea, yer kingship,’ Malakai Makaisson said. A pair of thick goggles, liberally spattered with blood, covered his eyes, and he wore a peculiar cap, with ear flaps and a hole cut in the top for his crest of crimson-dyed hair. A bandolier of ammunition for the handgun he carried in one gloved hand crossed his barrel chest, and a satchel full of bombs dangled across it. As Ungrim watched in consternation, the engineer-Slayer grabbed one of the bombs, popped the striker-fuse and slung it overhand into a mass of confused beastmen.

‘Stop blowing all of them up!’ Ungrim roared. He kicked and shoved at the minotaur’s body as he tried to retrieve his axe. If he didn’t get his hands on it quickly, there was every likelihood that Makaisson would blow up the lot of them.

‘What? I cannae hear you, what wi’ the bombs,’ Makaisson shouted as he lit and hurled another explosive. ‘They’re loud, ya ken.’

‘I know,’ Ungrim snarled. He tore his axe free in a welter of brackish blood and shook it in Makaisson’s face. ‘Why aren’t you with the artillery?’

‘Beasties are falling back, ain’t they?’ Makaisson said. ‘They’ve had enough, ya ken?’

‘What?’ Ungrim turned and saw that the engineer-Slayer was correct. The beastmen had broken and were fleeing into the trees, as if the death of the giant minotaur had been a signal. Behind them, they left a battlefield choked with the mangled and half-devoured bodies of the dead. The throng of Karak Kadrin had control of the field.

But, as he looked at the battered remnants of his once-mighty army, Ungrim was forced to come to the conclusion that though they had won the battle, they had lost this particular war. As he moved through the weary ranks of his warriors, his mental abacus tallied the losses – with a sinking heart, he saw that almost eight in ten of them had fallen in the battle. Though they’d won a great victory – perhaps the greatest victory in the annals of Karak Kadrin against the foul children of Chaos – they had failed their allies.

He looked west. Part of him longed to push on, but there would only be death for his remaining warriors if the march continued. Perhaps Kazador had been right after all. What purpose had his march served, save to cast his warriors into the teeth of death? He had a feeling, deep in his bones, that he was going to need every warrior who remained in the coming days. And that meant he had to save those he could. He had to return to Karak Kadrin, and ready himself for whatever came next.

He closed his eyes, and felt the old familiar heaviness settle on him. Then he opened them and pointed his axe at Makaisson, who was filling his pipe nearby. He shouted, startling the Slayer into dropping his tobacco. ‘On your feet, Makaisson! You just volunteered to go west and see if you can find the manlings and the elgi before they move on. They need to know that we’re not going to make our appointment.’

‘Me?’ Makaisson said.

‘You,’ Ungrim said. He smiled thinly. ‘Consider it your reward for saving my life.’

‘Oh, my sweet Kalledria, you do this old beast the greatest of honours,’ Alberacht Nictus said as the rag of filthy silk drifted towards him through the dusty air of the crumbling tower. He extended a talon, snatched it out of the air and brought it to his nose. ‘See how she teases me, lad? She was ever a woman of passion, our Queen of Sorrows,’ he said, glancing at Erikan. ‘Much like our Elize, eh?’

Erikan stood back warily, his gaze darting between the hunched, bulky shape of Nictus and the hovering, ghostly shade of the banshee that faced him, her hellish features contorted in a ghastly parody of affection. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said.

‘Ha! Do you hear him, love? He denies what is obvious even to the blind and the dead,’ Nictus chortled as he threaded the silk rag through his hair. ‘Hark at me, whelp, you are her Vlad and she your Isabella, or I am a Strigoi. She will have you before the century is out, my lad, see if she does not.’

‘Elize has no more interest in me, old monster,’ Erikan said, sidling around the banshee. ‘She never did. Only in her schemes and games.’

‘Ha, and what do you think you are, boy, but the culmination of both?’ Nictus asked slyly. He watched the other vampire’s face assume stone-like impassivity and grinned. He had been there the day Elize had brought the scrawny little ghoul-pup into the fold, and he had seen then what both of them now insisted on denying.

Shaking his shaggy head, he looked up at Kalledria. She had been a beautiful woman once, during the reign of Sigismund. Now she was nothing more or less than malevolence given form. Her skull-like features were surrounded by a halo of writhing hair, and she wore the gauzy tatters of archaic finery. Innumerable spirits floated around or above her, all dead by her hand. There were hundreds of them, and they crowded against the cracked dome of the tower roof, their ghostly shapes obscuring the ancient, faded mural that had been painted on the underside of the dome oh so many centuries ago.

Nictus laughed. He remembered that mural well, for he’d stared up at it often enough, in his youth. He’d visited the tower often, on behalf of Vlad. Kalledria had always been welcoming. Some stories said that she had been sealed away in the tower that her shade still inhabited, but he couldn’t remember if those were the true ones or not. His mind was like a storm-tossed sea, and his memories were like helpless vessels caught away from safe harbour. Whatever her origin, he’d always thought her loveliness personified. He extended his other claw, the edges of his wings dragging on the floor. ‘Oh, my sweet, you have done so well. You have collected so many new souls for your harem,’ he gurgled as she drifted towards him, her ghostly fingers wrapping about his claw.

The hovering souls above were not merely men, but wood elves now, as well. She had taken them in the dark and the quiet of the forest, while her honour-guard of blood-hungry spectres had shadowed the others, snatching those who strayed too far from the host that even now impinged on the sovereign soil of Sylvania. She had drawn the invaders off course, and deep into the Ghoul Wood, just as Lord Mannfred had planned.

‘Oh, my lovely lass, how you do chill these crooked bones of mine,’ he said, trying to brush her fingers with his lips unsuccessfully. Some days, she was more solid than others. Her other hand passed through his face, and her mouth opened in a soft sound, like the cry of a dying hare. ‘And your voice is as lovely as ever. Music to my ears, oh my beauteous one…’

‘Master Nictus,’ Erikan said softly. Nictus turned, annoyed.

‘What is it, boy?’

‘They are here,’ the other vampire said, one hand on the hilt of his blade. He stood near the tower’s lone window, staring down into the trees below.

Nictus sighed. He could hear the sounds of battle, now that he was paying attention. Elven-forged blades clashed with poisonous claws beneath the dark canopy that spread out around the tower. The elves had corralled one of Kalledria’s servitors and traced the ancient tethers of dark power that bound the spirit to its mistress. He looked up into her hollow eyes. She had been banished before, his dark lady, and had always returned. But this time…

He was not as observant as he had once been. The weight of his centuries of unlife rested heavily upon him, and there were days where he wanted nothing more than to slip into the red haze of a varghulf and drift from kill to kill. No more plots and schemes, no more betrayals or fallen comrades. Only sweet blood and the screams of his prey. But he could feel the long night stirring deep in the hollow places of him now. Lord Mannfred, impetuous and haughty, was dredging something up out of its sleep of ages, and the world would crack at its rebirth. The Drakenhof Templars would be at the forefront of the war that was sure to follow, and so would Alberacht Nictus, broken-down old beast that he was. He had sworn an oath to the order, and his word was his bond, for as long as he remembered it.

‘We must go, my love,’ Nictus said, reaching up to not-quite touch Kalledria’s writhing locks. ‘You will do as you must, as will we.’ Her mouth moved, as if in reply, and her ethereal fingers stroked his jowls briefly, before she turned and floated upwards, trailing her harem of spirits. Nictus watched her go, and then moved to join Erikan at the window.

Beneath the trees, elves and ghouls fought. There was nothing orderly about the battle. The participants fought as individuals, and the combat swirled about the sour glen below. One of the wood elves drew Nictus’s attention. He was a lordly sort, clad in strange armour and a cloak the colour of the autumn leaves, wearing a high helm surmounted by a stag’s antlers. He wielded his blade with a grace and skill that Nictus knew even a vampire would be hard-pressed to emulate. That one was more trouble than he was worth, Nictus suspected. He stank of strange gods and even stranger magics.

‘Should we take him?’ Erikan hissed. His eyes were red as he watched a ghoul lose its head to the elven lord’s blade.

‘That is not our task, boy,’ Nictus said. He peered up at the sky. ‘Come, the Vargravian will be here soon, to take us to the Glen of Sorrows. Let Kalledria deal with the elves in her own fashion, eh? A woman’s fancy, and all that.’

Araloth, Lord of Talsyn, spun about, his sword trailing ribbons of red as he sent ghouls tumbling into death. He danced among the cannibals, avoiding their claws and striking them down in turn. It was a mercy, of sorts. Grubbing in graves was no sort of life for a thinking creature. He sank down into a crouch, his cloak settling about him, and spitted a charging ghoul. The beast grasped his blade and gasped out its life, its eyes wide in incomprehension. Araloth rose to his feet, jerking the blade free as he did so.

From somewhere far above him, he heard the shriek of his hunting hawk, Skaryn. Then he heard the chanting of the spellweavers, as they sought to bind the monstrous spirit that had plagued them so much in recent days.

He felt a pressure on his chest and grasped the locket the Everqueen had given him. It hummed urgently, pulling them ever towards the captive Everchild. But there were matters that needed dealing with before they could continue. Dead grass crunched behind him and he pivoted, his blade sliding upwards. The ghoul split apart like rotten fruit as his sword tore through its body. More of the grey-fleshed cannibals loped out of the trees, swarming like flies to a corpse.

‘Protect Keyberos and the others,’ he shouted, as his warriors retreated before the onrushing ghouls. ‘They must be given time to seal the beast in her lair.’ He glanced back at the small group of spellweavers who yet remained. Clad in dark robes, their flesh marked by savage tattoos, the mages flung every iota of the power that was theirs to command at the spectral creature that had emerged from the crumbling tower at the centre of the glen. Surrounded by a host of wailing spirits, the banshee drifted towards the spellweavers, her mouth open in a scream, which only Keyberos’s magics kept the other wood elves from hearing and succumbing to.

Of the ten spellweavers who’d volunteered to accompany him on his mission, only four remained now, including Keyberos. Three had died in the attempt to discover the lair of the creature their fellows now confronted, and three more had gone mad. Now those who remained pitted their magics against the fell power of the thing that had stalked Araloth’s warband since they’d crossed the border into Sylvania.

Blood-hungry spirits had shadowed the wood elves’ every step since they’d crossed the Corpse Run. Scouts had vanished into the dark woods never to return, or else were found strewn across the trail ahead, their bodies drained of blood. Terrible dreams of long-dead kin and courts of dancing corpses had haunted the survivors, and an unlucky few had been lost to those night-terrors, never to awaken again.

Those who remained were as tense as drawn bowstrings, their faces pale with something Araloth was unused to seeing on the faces of the warriors of Athel Loren – fear. He could not feel it himself, for fear had no purchase on his heart, thanks to his connection with his goddess and the gift she had shared with him the day that she had crossed paths with a callow lordling and made him into a hero. Since that day, he had shared a portion of her prophetic gift, and was blessed with the ability to see hope in even the most perilous of days.

But now, he saw nothing ahead save darkness. It did not frighten him, for all things ended, even his folk and their works, but it did make him more determined than ever to complete his mission. If the darkness awaited them, then it would not be said that the Lord of Talsyn had gone into it a failure. He would wring one last victory from the world or die in the attempt. Hope cost nothing, and it could be purchased on the edge of a blade.

His warriors arrayed about him, Araloth met the undisciplined charge of the ghouls. His blade licked out, glowing like a firebrand. Blood soaked the thirsty ground, and bodies tumbled upon one another in heaps as the warriors of Athel Loren reaped a toll from the inhabitants of Ghoul Wood. The ghouls were driven back again and again, but they always returned with slavering eagerness as their monstrous hunger overcame their natural cowardice.

A shrill sound rose up behind him. Araloth glanced back and saw a spellweaver topple over, black smoke rising from his eyes, nose and mouth. The banshee thrust herself forwards, as if she were trying to fly through a strong wind. Keyberos gestured, and the soil at his feet began to shift and shuffle. Vines and strong green shoots burst out of the seemingly dead ground. The nearby trees shed their withered bark and bent pale, strong branches down. Wailing spirits were brushed aside as branches and vines began to encircle the banshee. Some blackened and disintegrated as she tore at them, but others caught her insubstantial form somehow.

A second spellweaver stumbled, her hands pressed to her ears. She screamed and pitched forwards, her body turning black and crumbling to ash as she fell. The air reverberated with a faint hum, as the magics that contained the banshee’s wail began to crumble. Any moment now, he suspected that the creature would break free of Keyberos’s magics and launch itself at the hard-pressed wood elves. ‘Any time now, Keyberos,’ he shouted.

‘Keep your eyes on your own prey, Araloth,’ the spellweaver snarled, his fingers curling and gesturing. More vines and branches shot towards the struggling banshee.

A wash of foetid breath alerted Araloth to the wisdom of Keyberos’s words, and he turned. His sword separated a lunging ghoul’s jaw from its head. He used the crook of his arm to hook its throat as it stumbled past, and broke its neck before flinging the body aside. As it fell, the remainder broke and fled, scampering away with simian-like cries of dismay. A moment later, he felt a rush of noisome air and a clap of thunder. He spun, his sword raised to fend off an attack from the banshee.

His eyes widened as he took in the large cocoon of vines, bark and leaves that hung suspended above the ground. Steam rose from the mass, wafting up into the sunless sky. Keyberos sat on his haunches, his hands dangling between his knees and his head bowed. The other spellweaver sat nearby, her face covered in sweat and her eyes hollow with grief. Keyberos reached out and gripped her shoulder for a moment. Then he pushed himself to his feet and looked at Araloth. ‘It’s done.’

‘Will it hold?’

‘For as long as this forest lives,’ Keyberos said, his thin face twisting into an expression of grief. ‘Which will not be long, I think. Sylvania is dying, Araloth. I can feel its death rattle echoing through me.’

‘All the more reason for us to hurry,’ Araloth said. Keyberos gave him a look of dismay, and Araloth caught the back of his head. He brought his brow against the spellweaver’s in a gesture of brotherly affection. ‘We must press on, my friend. If for no other reason than I would not have the lives we have already spent in pursuit of this goal wasted.’

He caught the locket and held it up, so that all of his warriors could see it. ‘This is a promise, my brothers. A promise we made to our cousin, the Everqueen of Ulthuan. She has sworn to aid our queen in her hour of need and we must do all that we can to earn that oath. Even unto death…’ He trailed off, as he realised that no one was looking at him. Even Keyberos was looking away, at something that even now approached them through the trees.

Somehow, the moon had broken through the darkness above, and its silvery radiance illuminated the form of a slender elf woman, who moved towards the weary warband through the dark trees. The Ghoul Wood seemed to sigh and draw away from her, as if her presence pained it. She was paler than death, but beautiful beyond measure, and clad in robes that gleamed with starlight.

Araloth gave a great cry of joy. He knew her face, and her name – Lileath – echoed through him like the voice of a lover. He raced towards his goddess, all weariness forgotten, ignoring the cries of his fellows. She caught him, and began to speak before he could even begin to compose a greeting.

Her words were not things of sound, but rather fragments of memory, thought and image, which coalesced across the surface of his mind, showing him what had been, what was, and what must be.

Araloth could not say for how long they stood, minds and souls intertwined, but the moment passed and he knew then what she had come for, and what he had to do. He stared at her in disbelief, his every warrior’s instinct rebelling. ‘Is there no other way?’ he asked.

Lileath shook her head and held out her hand. Reluctantly, he placed the locket into it. With no sign of effort, the goddess crushed it and flung the shimmering dust into the air, to create a portal of purest starlight before him.

Araloth turned. Keyberos took a step towards him. ‘What does it mean? What is she here for?’

Araloth glanced back at Lileath, squared his shoulders and said, ‘The Everchild’s fate is written, my kinsmen. And we have no power to change it.’ As the elves raised their voices in protest, he held up his hand. ‘But there is a task for us elsewhere. On a distant shore, a great battle will be waged and the warriors of Athel Loren must go and wage it. Lileath intends to take me there. Any who wish to follow may. There is no shame to those who do not.’

Keyberos looked around at the gathered warriors, and then smiled sadly. ‘I think you know our answer, Araloth. We followed you this far. And one battle is as good as the next.’

Araloth smiled, turned and took Lileath’s outstretched hand. There was a flash of light, and the host of Athel Loren passed from Sylvania and mortal sight.

‘Five leagues,’ Mannfred murmured, as he watched the dead fall upon the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood. He stood on the edge of the vast garden of Morr, which occupied the southern edge of the village of Klodebein, and leaned on the hilt of his sword. ‘Five leagues between him and his allies.’ He glanced at Elize, his eyes wide in mock surprise. ‘Not even my doing. His own impatience brought him here. I merely seized the moment,’ he said with some bemusement. ‘Would that all our enemies were so foolish, eh, cousin?’

‘One could argue that any who choose to invade Sylvania on the edge of winter are prone to foolishness,’ Elize said. She sat atop her horse, and looked past the tombs that crowded the garden, to where the ramshackle houses of Klodebein sat. Mannfred followed her gaze. He could hear the terrified communal thudding of the hearts of the inhabitants as they waited out the massacre occurring just past their walls. Barely a quarter of the living population of Sylvania yet remained, most in villages like this, close to the Stir. He’d wondered for a moment if the folk of Klodebein might try and warn the knights of the danger they were riding into, but instead they hid in their homes, waiting for it all to end and the never-ending night to become silent once more. He smiled and turned his attention back to the battle.

He’d have thought a seasoned campaigner like Leitdorf would know better than to lead his column through what amounted to a very large graveyard in Sylvania, but then maybe wearing all of that armour gave some men an inflated sense of invincibility. Or maybe it was Leitdorf’s infamous impatience in action. It was that same impatience that had seen him leave Heldenhame Keep undefended, and it had finally got him killed. Or so Mannfred intended to ensure.

When his scouts had reported that the joint force of knights and elves had left Templehof, he’d thought perhaps that they were planning on attacking Sternieste. Or worse, they’d somehow discovered his plan for keeping their allies at bay, and were rushing to the aid of the dwarfs at Red Cairn. Instead, they’d begun to march slowly through Sylvania’s heartlands, making for the Glen of Sorrows. That alone would have been enough to prompt Mannfred into taking action; Arkhan had not yet completed his preparations for the Geheimnisnacht ceremony, and if their enemies reached the glen before then, everything they had accomplished until now would be for naught.

Luckily, Leitdorf and his ironmongers had ever so obligingly ridden right into the jaws of a trap. As the knights rode through the closely packed tombs of the garden of Morr, the vargheists Mannfred had roused from a nearby well had struck. The Klodebein Brothers had betrayed Vlad at the Battle of Fool’s Rest, and they and their equally treacherous sister had been sealed in their coffins at the bottom of the village’s well since Konrad and Mannfred had run them to ground in the days following their disastrous ambush. The centuries had not been kind, but it had built in them a ferocious hunger, which they duly vented on the hapless knights.

As the newly freed vargheists revelled in a maelstrom of blood and death, Mannfred gestured and incited the death-magics that had long since seeped into the tombs and graves of the garden. As the first blindly clutching hands thrust upwards through the damp soil, Mannfred turned to Elize. ‘How long do you think it’ll take them to realise there’s no escape?’

‘A few minutes, if ever,’ Elize said. ‘Men like these do not admit defeat easily. The original Drakenhof Templars went to the grave assured of eventual victory, if you’ll recall.’

‘Would you care to place a wager, dear cousin?’

‘What would we wager?’ Elize asked carefully.

‘I’m sure we can think of something,’ Mannfred said, and laughed. His mind stretched out, awakening the dead in the sparse forest that surrounded Klodebein. Soon there were hundreds of shambling cadavers filling the garden, attacking the already embattled knights with worm-eaten fingers, brown, broken teeth and rusted blades. Soon there were ten corpses for every knight, and Leitdorf’s warriors began to die.

A vargheist shrieked, drawing Mannfred’s attention. He recognised Hans Leitdorf as the latter smashed his shield into the monster’s face, rocking it back. The vargheist reared, wings flapping, and Leitdorf rammed his sword through its throat.

‘Von Carstein!’ Leitdorf roared, twisting in his saddle to face Mannfred. He spurred his horse into a gallop, and several knights followed him, smashing aside any of the dead that got in their way.

‘Oh dear, he’s seen me. Whatever shall I do, cousin?’ Mannfred asked.

‘You demean yourself with such flippancy,’ Elize said softly.

Mannfred looked up at her. ‘Do I? How kind of you to let me know, cousin. Wherever would I be without your words of wisdom?’

Elize continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Leitdorf has killed many of our kind, cousin. Do you recall Morliac? Or the Baron Dechstein? What of the Black Sisters of Bluthof? They were von Carsteins, cousin, and Leitdorf slew them all. You would do well not to underestimate him.’

Mannfred laughed. ‘You sound like someone I used to know.’

‘Did you listen to her?’

Mannfred didn’t answer. His amusement faded as he watched Leitdorf gallop towards him. Elize was correct, whether he wished to admit it or not. After Volkmar, Leitdorf was his greatest foe in the region, and he had expected to feel a certain sense of satisfaction at his destruction. Instead, he felt… nothing. Annoyance, at best. He should have been at the Nine Daemons, overseeing Arkhan’s preparations. Instead, he was wasting valuable time dispatching a fool. He was so close to ultimate victory that he could taste it, and he was as impatient for Geheimnisnacht as Leitdorf was to get to grips with him.

The ground shook as Leitdorf drew closer. Mannfred watched him come, impressed despite himself by the mixture of bravado and stupidity that seemed to drive men like Leitdorf. Had he ever been so foolish? He glanced at Elize, and knew that she would say ‘yes’. She had seen him at his worst, skulking in Vlad’s shadow and scheming away against his kith and kin. Neferata too would have agreed with that assessment, he suspected. Then, the Queen of the Silver Pinnacle had never been shy about sharing her opinion on things that did not concern her.

Mannfred shook the thoughts aside. What Elize or even Neferata thought of him mattered little enough, and would matter not at all come Geheimnisnacht. He stretched out a hand and drew up the skeletons that slumbered beneath the ground at his feet. They rose in shuddering formation, and at a twist of his hand, they formed a tight phalanx immediately before him, directly in Leitdorf’s path. Timeworn spears of bronze were levelled at the approaching knights.

Leitdorf raised his sword and bellowed in defiance as he and his order struck the phalanx. The air rippled with the screams of men and horses as the impetus of the charge carried them onto the spears and in some cases, beyond. Leitdorf was thrown from his saddle as his steed collapsed, a spear in its chest. The Grand Master of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood was thrown deep into the ranks of skeletons. He crashed through them, but was on his feet with remarkable speed for one who ought to have been dead from a broken neck at the very least.

Mannfred watched as Leitdorf waded through the ranks of bleached bone, his sword flashing as he fought to reach his prey. Spears sought and found him, but he refused to fall. Mannfred found himself enraptured by the spectacle. Leitdorf’s face was not that of a berserker, or a man driven insane by fear. Rather, it was the face of one determined to see his desires fulfilled, regardless of the cost. Mannfred could almost admire that sort of determination. For a moment, he considered swaying Leitdorf to his way of thinking. Vlad had always been fond of that – turning foes into, if not friends, then allies. A brave man was a brave man, he’d always said.

Then, Leitdorf broke free of the phalanx, and his blade chopped down, narrowly missing Mannfred’s face. Mannfred sprang back, a snarl on his lips. From behind him, Elize said, ‘I told you.’

‘Yes, thank you, cousin,’ he spat. He brought his blade up as Leitdorf, wheezing like a dying bull, staggered towards him. ‘Anything else you’d like to add? No? Good. Shut up and let me have this moment, at least.’ He extended his sword towards Leitdorf in a mocking salute. ‘Well, old man, is this it then? Come to die at last?’

‘The only one who’ll die tonight, vampire, is you,’ Leitdorf said hoarsely.

Mannfred brought his blade up. ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ He crooked his fingers in a beckoning gesture. ‘Come, Herr Leitdorf… One last dance before the world ends, eh?’

TWENTY-FOUR

Eldyra looked up at the dark sky. Morrslieb and Mannslieb waxed full and bathed the world in an unpleasant radiance. She leaned back in her saddle and fingered the pommel of the runeblade sheathed on her hip. She said a silent prayer of thanks to Tyrion for all that he’d taught her. She’d used every ounce of skill and every swordsman’s trick she’d learned in the days since they’d found what was left of Leitdorf, hanging from a tree south of the gutted and stinking ruin that had been the village of Klodebein.

She felt a pang of sadness as she thought of her mannish ally. She hadn’t known him long, or well, but Leitdorf had seemed a good sort as far as humans went. But he had been as impatient and reckless as men invariably proved to be.

They’d lost the dwarfs as well – Ungrim’s throng had not made the rendezvous. Belannaer had cast a spell of far-seeing and discovered that the throng had come into conflict with the largest beast-horde Eldyra had seen this far from the Wastes. She couldn’t tell whether Eltharion was pleased or disappointed. He was no dwarf-friend, but even the Warden of Tor Yvresse could see that that their nigh-hopeless quest had become a suicidal one.

Nonetheless, they had not turned back. The Stormraker Host had fought its way through every obstacle Mannfred von Carstein had placed in its path – snarling packs of dead wolves, swarms of ghouls, shrieking spectres, and vampire champions clad in armour reeking of the butcher’s block. Eldyra had taken the heads of more than a few of the latter, including a particularly stupid creature who had dared to challenge her to single combat.

Belannaer, guided by Aliathra’s silent song, had guided them at last to this place, where the final fate of the Everchild, and possibly the world, would be decided. ‘To think that it all comes down to such an uninspiring place,’ Belannaer murmured from beside her. The mage stood on the edge of the slope looking down into the immense crater, at the centre of which lay their destination: nine great standing stones, arrayed on a bubo of rock and soil. And spread out around it, in all directions, was the vast and unmoving army of the dead. Eldyra doubted that they could have defeated that army even with the aid of the men and the dwarfs.

‘You would prefer Finuval Plain?’ Eldyra asked.

‘As a matter of fact – yes,’ Belannaer said. ‘The air here is thick with the stuff of death. It is their place, not ours, and they have the advantage in more than just numbers.’

‘Then we shall have to fight all the harder,’ Eltharion said. They were the first words he’d spoken in days. He sat atop his griffon, his fingers buried in the thick feathers of the creature’s neck. He leaned forward and murmured soothingly to the restive beast as it clawed at the hard ground impatiently. Eltharion’s face might as well have been a mask, for all the expression it showed.

Eldyra thought that somewhere beneath that impassive mask, the Grim One blamed himself for Leitdorf’s death. The man had tried several times to convince Eltharion to move faster, but he had been rebuffed every time. Eltharion had thought speed secondary to ensuring that their path was clear of potential enemies.

He had dispatched Eldyra to cleanse dozens of ruined mansions, abandoned villages and ancient tombs. And with every day, Leitdorf had grown more and more impatient, until at last he had simply given up trying to nudge his allies along and marched on ahead, to his death. Eltharion had said nothing either way. He’d shown no emotion when they found Leitdorf’s body, and he hadn’t mentioned the man’s name since.

If Eltharion had a fault, it was that he was arrogant enough to think that the world was balanced on his shoulders. Eldyra had always wondered if that strange arrogance was the common bond he shared with Tyrion and Teclis. Heroes always thought that the world would shudder to a halt if they made a mistake.

Then, given what they’d seen recently, maybe they were right.

‘Then perhaps it is time to tell them what we are fighting for,’ Eldyra said softly. Belannaer’s eyes widened. Eltharion didn’t look at her. None had known the identity of the one whom they sought to rescue, save she, Eltharion and Belannaer. They had hidden that information from their own folk, as well as the men and the dwarfs, for fear of what might happen were it to be known. For long moments, Eldyra thought Eltharion might refuse.

Then, as if some great weight had settled on him, he sagged. ‘Yes,’ he said.

And he did. Once a decision was made, Eltharion would not hesitate. Eldyra watched from her horse as the warriors of Tiranoc and Yvresse mustered on the edge of the crater, and Eltharion, standing high in his saddle, addressed them. He spoke long and low, with deliberate plainness. Rhetoric had no place here, only the plain, unvarnished truth.

Eldyra watched silently, wondering what the result would be. She wasn’t afraid to admit, to herself at least, that the Ulthuani had no more love of truth than their dark kin. The world coasted on a sea of quiet lies, and the truth was an unpleasant shoal best avoided.

Eltharion finished.

For a time, the assembled host might as well have been statues. Then, one warrior, a noble of Seledin by the cut of the robes beneath his armour, swept his curved blade flat against his cuirass in the ancient Yvressi salute. ‘Iselendra yevithri anthri,’ he said. ‘By our deaths, we do serve.’

As Eldyra watched, the salute was echoed by every warrior in turn. Eltharion stared, as if uncertain how to respond. She nudged her horse forwards to join him and drew her blade. She laid the flat of it over her heart as she gazed at him. ‘You heard them, Grim One,’ she said.

The briefest hint of something that might have been a smile rippled across his face. ‘Yes. I did.’ He drew his own blade and laid it against his cuirass as he hauled back on Stormwing’s reins. The griffon, never one to miss a moment to spread its wings, clawed at the air with a rumbling screech. ‘Iselendra yevithri anthri,’ Eltharion shouted. ‘For Yvresse! For Tiranoc! And for Aliathra! Let us bring light into this dark place!’ He pulled Stormwing about and the great beast leapt into the air with shrill roar.

And with an equally thunderous noise, the Stormraker Host marched to war.

‘By Usirian’s teeth, look at them,’ Mannfred hissed. He laughed and spread his arms. ‘Look at them, my Templars! Look upon the pride of Ulthuan, and know that we have come to the end of this great game of ours. Our enemies lie scattered and broken, and only this last, great gasp yet remains.’ Despite his bravado, Mannfred recognised the warrior leading the elves – Eltharion the Grim, whom he had faced in the battle beneath Nagashizzar two years before. Of all the warriors of Ulthuan, only Tyrion worried him more.

He and the Drakenhof Templars stood or sat astride their mounts in the lee of the Nine Daemons. The ancient standing stones sat atop a bare knoll, overlooking the Glen of Sorrows. Nothing grew on the knoll, and even the raw, dark soil looked as if it had been drained of every erg of life. At the foot of each of the standing stones, one of the nine Books of Nagash had been placed, and Arkhan the Black moved amongst them, awakening the power of each eldritch tome with the merest tap from Alakanash, the staff of the Undying King.

The prisoners had been gathered amongst the stones, broken and unawares. All save Volkmar were unconscious, for Arkhan had been insistent that the old man be awake for what was coming. Mannfred was only too happy to acquiesce to that demand. He turned from the new arrivals and stalked to where Volkmar was held by a pair of wights. The old man cursed weakly and made a half-hearted lunge for the vampire. Mannfred caught his chin and leaned close. ‘They are too late to save you, old man. The heat of a black sun beats down on you, and the end of all things stirs in your blood. Do you feel it?’

‘I feel only contempt, vampire,’ Volkmar croaked.

‘That particular feeling is mutual, I assure you.’ Mannfred looked past Volkmar. A scarlet light had begun to pulse deep within the standing stones, and he hesitated, momentarily uncertain. Now that the moment was here, was he brave enough to seize it? He shook himself and looked at Arkhan. The liche stood before an immense cauldron, which had been set at the heart of the stone circle. More wights stood nearby, holding the other artefacts: the Crown of Sorcery, the Claw of Nagash, the Fellblade, and the Black Armour. ‘Well, liche? Are you ready to begin?’ Mannfred asked.

‘I am,’ Arkhan said. He set the staff aside and hauled the first of the sacrifices up by his hairy throat. The Ulrican stirred, but he was too weak to do anything more. Arkhan drew his knife as he dragged the priest towards the cauldron. ‘Do not disturb me, vampire. I must have complete concentration.’

Mannfred was about to reply, when the winding of horns made him turn. The elves struck like a thunderbolt from the dark sky, singing a strange, sad song as they came. They drove deep into the ranks of the mouldered dead, fine-wrought steel flashing in the ill light emanating from the Nine Daemons. The elven mages, led by one in startlingly blue robes, who surmounted the battlefield atop a floating column of rocks, wrought deadly changes upon the withered vegetation of the glen, urging it to vicious vibrancy, and roots, briars and branches grasped and tore at the dead.

Mannfred lashed his army with his will, driving them forwards against the invaders. The reeking ranks closed about the elves, trapping them in a cage of the seething dead. Rotting claws burst from the sour soil, clutching at boot and greave, holding elves in place as rusty swords and broken spears reaped a bloody harvest. Mannfred flung out a hand. ‘Crowfiend! Summon your folk to war!’

Erikan threw back his head and let loose a monstrous shriek, which bounced from standing stone to standing stone and shuddered through the air. As his cry was swallowed by the clangour of war, monstrous ghoul-kin, larger than their packmates scurrying about their legs and broader than ogres, hurled themselves into battle, trampling the dead in their eagerness to get to grips with the living. Bowstrings hummed and spears thrust forward, catching many of the beasts, but not all of them, and elves screamed and died as poisoned claws tore through silver mail and the flesh beneath.

Mannfred turned as scale-armoured steeds and swift chariots punched through the leftmost ranks of his army. Elven riders gave voice to rousing battle cries as they swept over the dead in a crash of splintering bone. Skeletons were ground to dust and ancient wights were burst asunder and freed from their undying servitude by the force of the thunderous charge. Mannfred cursed.

‘Nothing for it now,’ Count Nyktolos said. The Vargravian drew his blade. He looked at Mannfred. ‘Do we charge?’

‘Not all of us,’ Mannfred said. He looked at Elize. ‘Guard the liche,’ he said softly, so that only she could hear. ‘Arkhan’s treachery will come at the eleventh hour. If he should try anything, confound him.’

‘Do not worry, cousin,’ Elize said. She blew an errant lock of crimson hair out of her face. ‘The day shall be ours, one way or another.’

‘Good,’ Mannfred said. He climbed into the saddle of his skeletal steed and looked about him, at the assembled might of the Drakenhof Templars. A surge of something filled him. A lesser man might have called it pride. These were the greatest warriors in Sylvania, the backbone of all that he had built. It was fitting that they would be the blade that earned him his final victory. ‘Know, my warriors, that this day is the first day of the rest of eternity. This day is the day we drag a new world, screaming and bloody, from the womb of the old. Your loyalty will not be forgotten. Your heroism will be remembered unto the end of all things. Now ride,’ he shouted. ‘Ride for the ruin of the living and the glory of the dead!’ He drew his blade and extended it. ‘Ride!’

And they did. Hell-eyed nightmares snorted and shrieked as night-black hooves tore the sod, and a wall of black-armoured death descended into the glen with Mannfred at its head. As he rode, he tried to gather the skeins of magic about him for an incantation, but found that the currents of sorcery shifted in his grasp, as if to thwart him. He knew at once that it wasn’t merely the fickle nature of the winds of magic that prevented him from weaving his spells. His eyes were drawn to the distant figure of the elven mage on his dais of floating rock, and he snarled. He was too far away to deal with the creature himself, but was he not the master of every dead thing?

Mannfred reared back in his saddle and let slip a guttural howl, and the air above him was suddenly thick with the ragged shapes of spectres and ghosts. The spectral host shot towards the distant column of floating rocks. They flowed over the mage’s bodyguard of Sword Masters like a tide of filthy water, chill fingers stretching towards the mage. The mage flung out his hands, and cleansing fires roared to life, surging in all directions. It left the living untouched, but the dead were consumed utterly. Spirits burst into clouds of ash, and zombies blazed like torches. Soon, the elves were surrounded by a ring of fallen, blackened corpses.

Mannfred laughed, despite the failure of his minions to kill the elf. They had served their purpose regardless. The elf mage had been outmanoeuvred, and his obstruction of Mannfred’s sorcerous undertakings faltered as he was forced to see to his own defence. Mannfred seized the moment, and swept out his sword, carving an abominable glyph on the quivering air even as he urged his mount to greater speed. All across the battlefield, the newly dead began to twitch to life. Whatever losses his army had suffered would be replaced within moments.

Yet he could feel the elf-mage attempting to undo what he had just wrought. He gnashed his teeth and jerked his steed about. He raised his blade and the strident shriek of a horn sounded from behind him as the Drakenhof Templars wheeled about and formed up around him with supernatural discipline. It was time to deal with the sorcerer personally. Mannfred chopped the air with his blade.

As one, the Drakenhof Templars charged.

Arkhan did not bother to bid Mannfred a fond farewell. The battle did not concern him. He drained the blood of another of the sacrifices into the cauldron, and reflected on the days to come. He did not know what awaited him come Nagash’s return, but he did not fear it, whatever it was. He hurled the body aside and chose the next.

Behind him, the vampire made little sound as she drew her basket-hilted blade from its sheath. Arkhan heard it regardless but did not turn around. ‘Do you think that he will thank you, woman?’ There was a grim sort of humour to it – Mannfred, ever alert to treachery, had placed as Arkhan’s guard the least trustworthy member of his entourage.

‘At this point, what Mannfred does or does not do is of little concern to me, liche,’ Elize said. The spurs on her boots jangled softly as she strode towards him, the blade held low by her side. She stepped over the bodies of the previous sacrifices, where Arkhan had flung them – the Shallyan, the Ulrican, the Ranaldite. He held the last of the preparatory sacrifices over the bubbling cauldron, his knife to the dead-eyed young man’s throat.

‘I was not speaking of Mannfred,’ Arkhan said, as he drew the knife across the waiting flesh of his captive. The young priest of Morr gave a gurgling moan as his life’s blood ran out to join that of the others bubbling in the belly of the cauldron. When he was satisfied that it had been drained to the last drop, Arkhan let the body fall, careful that no blood should splatter on him. The consequences of even a small drop touching him would be disastrous.

Elize stopped. ‘Erikan will thank me, when he comes to his senses. Ennui is but a passing madness – a flaw in his blood. I will draw it from him, when this madness is past, and I will make him know his proper place.’

‘How like a woman, to think that only she knows what is best for a man,’ Arkhan rasped.

‘How like a man, to think that a woman does not know what is best for him,’ Elize said. ‘Are you going to try to stop me, old bag-of-bones, or are you content to watch as I bring your plan to an untimely end?’ She raised her sword to Morgiana’s neck. The Fay Enchantress’s eyes flickered and she tilted her head back.

‘Do it,’ she hissed. ‘Kill me, before it’s too late.’

‘Quiet,’ Elize snarled. She met Arkhan’s gaze without flinching. ‘Well, liche… Try your hand, if you would. You will get no second chance.’

‘Do it, and damn the world to madness and ruin,’ Arkhan said, his knife dangling loosely in his grip. ‘If Nagash does not rise, the world burns. And you will burn with it, whatever your schemes and plans.’

‘And if he does rise, what then? Servitude and eventual oblivion? No, I’ll not accept that,’ Elize said. ‘Better to be consumed by the fire, than to suffer a puppet’s fate.’

‘Fate is a mocker,’ Arkhan said. ‘A woman once told me that. Like you, she refused to surrender to Nagash. She told me that there are no certainties, save those you make for yourself. I still do not know if she was right or wrong.’ He looked down at the cauldron. ‘Nagash will rise. The world will shudder. But the sun will still come up tomorrow. Sylvania will still be here, and Bretonnia as well. But if he does not rise, the sun will go dark and Sylvania will be consumed in fire, blood and Chaos. These are my certainties.’ He raised his hand and pointed to the battle raging outside of the Nine Daemons. ‘That is yours.’

Elize glared at him suspiciously for a moment, and then glanced back in the direction he’d indicated. The battle was a maelstrom of carnage; elves and vampires both lost their hold on eternity as two lines of knights crashed into one another. ‘I don’t see what–’ she began.

‘There,’ Arkhan said. ‘The Crowfiend fights alone against a hero of Ulthuan. A woman who has fought daemons and worse things than any suicidal blood-drinker.’

Elize turned back to face him, her eyes narrowed to crimson slashes. ‘You lie,’ she hissed. ‘No elf can kill him. I trained him myself. He is better with a blade than any among the order.’

‘Will he win, you think? Or will she take his head, as she has already taken the heads of those who fought beside him? Will your cannibal prince stand alone… or will you go to his aid one last time?’ Arkhan continued, as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘If he dies, he dies,’ Elize snarled.

‘Then why do you hesitate?’

He knew what she would do before she did. He had seen such looks before, in other places at other times. Some people possessed a pragmatic ruthlessness of spirit that outstripped even Nagash’s histrionic malevolence. Vampires were often blessed with this quality, if they survived long enough. The drive to see their goals through at any cost. They would lie to themselves, rationalising that obsession into entitlement.

But some could only go so far.

Some went to the edge of that night-dark sea and then turned back.

Elize lowered her sword, turned and sprinted away, towards the battle.

‘Run fast, little vampire,’ Arkhan said, as he turned to the Fay Enchantress. ‘We come to it at last, Morgiana.’

‘She was right, you know… Better the fire than the dust,’ Morgiana whispered, her eyes closed. ‘Better death than what is coming.’

‘And you shall have it, I swear to you. Your spirit will not rise at his command or mine,’ Arkhan said, drawing her to her feet. ‘You shall be dead, and will suffer no more.’

‘Do you promise?’

Arkhan hesitated. Then, he nodded. ‘I do.’

‘Why?’

‘It seems some small touch of mercy yet remains to me,’ he said.

Morgiana smiled as Arkhan cut her throat.

Overhead, the dark sky turned ominous as strange clouds began to gather. Screeching spirits swarmed about the stone circle. The wind began to howl, like a dying beast. Turning from Morgiana’s body, Arkhan gestured, and his wights dragged Volkmar to his feet.

‘Do what you will, corpse, but Sigmar will have you, in the end,’ the old man spat. ‘Your bones will be splintered by his hammer, and the dust he makes of you scattered on the wind.’

‘I am certain he shall, and it will,’ Arkhan said. ‘You were born for this, you know. All of your years and deeds are the foundation of this moment. The blood that flows in your veins is the same as that of your god. It is the blood of the man who destroyed Nagash, and set the world on its current course.’

Volkmar’s eyes widened. Arkhan gestured, and the wights began to place the Black Armour upon the old man. Volkmar struggled and screamed and cursed, but he was too weak to break the grip of his captors. He called down the curses of his god on Arkhan’s head. Arkhan looked up, waiting. Now would be the time for Mannfred’s enchantment to fail at last. If this were a children’s story, that is how it would go. When nothing happened, he looked down at Volkmar. ‘Nothing. Proof enough that destiny holds us all in its clutches, I’d say. This was always meant to be. This moment is an echo of a promise of a thought cast forward through a thousand-thousand years. And we must all play our part.’

The last clasp was tightened and the armour was attached. Volkmar sagged beneath its awful weight as the wights stepped back. Arkhan gestured, and a pile of iron chains, discarded when the prisoners were killed, rose at his command, clinking and rattling. The chains rushed forward and ensnared Volkmar, binding him and dragging him to his feet again. Arkhan motioned towards the cauldron, and the chains rose into the air, carrying Volkmar with them. As they deposited him feet-first into the cauldron, Arkhan reverentially lifted the Crown of Sorcery up and placed it upon the old man’s bloodstained brow.

Volkmar moaned, and his eyes rolled up in his head. Arkhan could hear the crown’s whispers start up as the voice of Nagash murmured in the old man’s mind. Arkhan retrieved Alakanash and began to chant the ritual of invocation and awakening.

Elize sprinted across the battlefield, moving quicker than any black steed from the stables of Drakenhof. She swept her blade out, cutting down anything, living or dead that sought to bar her path. Erikan had been with the Templars. She had seen them charge before she made her move to stop the ritual, and she saw that the elves had met the assault at full gallop. Now the centre of the glen was a whirling melee of screaming horses, splintered shields and falling bodies.

She charged into the melee, her blade sweeping the life from an elven knight as the warrior rose up in front of her. She saw the Drakenhof banner, flapping in an unnatural breeze, and knew that that was where Mannfred was; and where he was, Erikan and the other members of the inner circle would be as well.

She caught sight of Nyktolos a moment later, duelling with an elven knight, his too-wide jaws agape in laughter. Nictus hurtled through the air on leather wings, plucking enemies from the saddle and dashing them to the ground, mangled and broken. And there, beneath the banner, Mannfred and Erikan, fighting back to back. But even as she caught sight of them, she saw a flash of painful light as the Drakenhof Templar bearing the battle standard fell. The source of the light was a sword, held in the hands of an elf woman, who leapt into the air while the standard fell, her blade clutched in both hands.

Mannfred turned, but too slowly. The blazing sword swept down, searing the air white in its wake. And then Erikan was there, parrying the blow. He and the elf swayed back and forth, their blades ringing as they connected. Elize fought her way towards them through the press of battle, Arkhan’s words ringing in her head.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. All of her hopes and dreams and schemes turned to ash and char, consumed by the fire that drove her forward towards the man that she loved. And it was love, for all that it was built on hate and blood and deception. Perhaps that was the only kind of love available to creatures like them. Love was the reason she had schemed to bring him back in the only way she knew how, to show him that he still needed her, that he belonged with her. And she had failed. All of her lies and deceptions had done nothing save drive him even further away from her, down a dangerous path.

She bashed an elf to his knees and chopped down on him. As she jerked her blade free, she saw Erikan lose his blade and snatch up the Drakenhof banner to fend off his opponent. The elf hacked down through the standard pole as he tried to block her blow. Her sword scraped against his cuirass, and he fell.

‘No!’ Elize howled. She flung herself towards the elf, her lean frame moving like quicksilver. The elf woman pinned Erikan to the ground and raised her blade. Elize intercepted the blow and rocked the woman back with a wild slash. ‘He’s mine,’ she snarled, extending her blade. She glanced down at Erikan. His eyes were closed, and his cuirass had been split open by the blow that had felled him. Dark blood welled up from within it, and he lay limp and unmoving. Elize turned her attentions back to her opponent as the elf woman spat something in her native tongue.

Elize studied her, sizing up her opponent. Her armour was battered and her robes torn and stained. But her face was composed, with no sign of weariness or fear. Her sword was steady. She lunged smoothly, and Elize was hard-pressed to parry the blow. They circled one another, feeling each other out.

They crashed together a moment later, like lionesses fighting over a kill. The elf woman was strong, surprisingly so, and more vicious than Elize expected. Even Cicatrix hadn’t been as ferocious. She was forced to give ground, step by step.

Something caught her foot and she slid backwards. Her legs were tangled in the tatters of the Drakenhof banner and she almost laughed at the foolishness of it. She fell, and her sword was jolted from her hand. The elf lunged, blade raised.

Then, something dark rose up behind her and smashed into her, bearing her to the ground with a roar. Elize scrambled to her feet, snatching up her sword. Erikan had his fangs sunk into the elf woman’s neck, and he tore her sword from her grip and flung it aside. She screamed and tore a dagger from her belt. The blade caught him in the chest and he staggered, clawing at its hilt. The elf woman sank down to one knee, a hand clasped to her throat. Her eyes were dull with pain as she scrabbled for her sword. Elize stepped on it and pressed the tip of hers to the elf’s throat. She tensed, ready to thrust it home.

Somewhere behind them, Elize heard a monstrous roar and the earth trembled. She felt a wave of excess magic wash over her. Then something was dropped to the ground beside her. She looked down and saw a blackened corpse, clad in the burned remnant of blue robes. ‘My thanks, sweet cousin. You gave me the respite I needed to deal with that pestiferous mage,’ Mannfred said from behind her.

‘One moment more, and I’ll add another to your tally,’ she snarled. She made to ram her blade home, when she felt Mannfred’s hand on her shoulder.

‘No, I think not. This one has spirit. Most elves are nothing more than trembling knots of vanity and fragile ego, but this one is something… wilder, I think,’ Mannfred purred. ‘She killed several of your fellow Templars, and nearly killed you both as well.’ He stepped forward and crushed the charred skull of the dead mage. As the elf woman tried to get to her feet, Mannfred slapped her to the ground. She did not get up. He looked at Elize. ‘I leave her in your tender care, sweet cousin. You and the Crowfiend can finish what you started with her. Be gentle, I beseech thee.’

A moment later, his smile faded. His face twisted in an expression of panic and he clutched at his head. Elize felt something like a wasp’s hum in her head, but as soon as it had sounded, it faded. ‘What was that?’ she spat.

‘Nagash,’ Mannfred snarled. He sprang past them, running flat out back towards the Nine Daemons. As he ran, his skeletal steed seemed to appear from nowhere, galloping beside him. Without pausing, Mannfred reached up and swung himself into the saddle. Elize watched him go, and then turned back to Erikan. Count Nyktolos had joined them, and Nictus as well. Both vampires looked as if they had waded through a sea of blood, and the former had plucked the blade from Erikan’s chest. He held it up. ‘Barely missed his heart. He has the luck of a von Carstein, if not the name,’ he said, grinning.

‘He’ll live, child,’ Nictus gurgled comfortingly. ‘He is tough, your ghoul-prince.’

Elize sank down beside Erikan and caressed his cheek. He looked at her. ‘W-why did you come for me?’ he croaked.

‘Fool,’ she said gently. ‘No one leaves me. Especially not you.’ She leaned forward and kissed him. She could taste his blood and that of the elf woman. She sat back on her heels and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she looked back towards the Nine Daemons. The winds about the stones had reached a howling crescendo, and the stones themselves glowed with an eye-searing light. Whatever was happening there, it was too late for her to do anything about it. It was up to Mannfred now. She looked back down at Erikan and smiled sadly.

‘Freedom is overrated, my love,’ she said, and kissed him again.

Mannfred rode madly towards the Nine Daemons, his fangs bared in a snarl. Elize had failed him. He would punish her later, her and her pet. But for now, he had to reach the stone circle before Arkhan completed the ritual. Nagash could not be allowed to return unfettered.

So intent was he on his destination that he barely noticed the shadow that swept over him. A moment later, pain tore through him as large talons pierced his armour. Mannfred flung himself forwards, over his mount’s neck, and hit the ground hard. He rolled across the hard-packed earth as his mount came apart around him, showering him with bones and bits of flesh. As the dust cleared, he saw Eltharion’s damnable griffon swooping towards him like an immense, spotted bird of prey. Its shriek cut through his skull and he jerked his sword from its sheath as the elf’s lance dipped for his heart.

Mannfred snarled and ducked. The lance point skidded over his pauldron and tore through his cloak as he lunged upwards to meet the griffon’s descent. His blade smashed through its furry ribcage and the great beast shrieked in agony. It tore away from him, knocking him from his feet with a flailing talon, and crashed into the ground right at the foot of the slope upon which the Nine Daemons stood.

Mannfred, bloody-faced, sprang to his feet and loped towards the fallen beast. As he reached the creature, Eltharion rose, battered but unbowed. He spared a single, inscrutable glance for his fallen mount, and then he extended his blade towards Mannfred. ‘You’re in my way,’ he said.

Mannfred grinned. ‘So I am, elf.’

Eltharion strode forward. ‘I haven’t got the time for you today, beast. It would be best if you walked away, and lived to fight another day.’

‘Make time,’ Mannfred spat. Here was a creature whose arrogance rivalled his own, and he found himself stung by the sheer gall of the elf. How dare they invade his lands and presume to treat him as anything less than what he was! He interposed himself as the elf charged towards the Nine Daemons.

Two blades, one forged by the greatest artisans of an empire long since fallen, the other by the mightiest civilisation to ever walk the world’s white rim, came together with a sound like the roar of tigers. Mannfred stamped forward and shrieked, a war-cry not heard in the world for ages undreamt of slipping instinctively from his lips. Eltharion made no sound, and his face betrayed no effort as he met the vampire’s blow and blocked it.

Mannfred moved quicker than he ever had before in the entirety of his accumulated centuries. He moved faster than the human eye could follow, so fast that his flesh was rubbed raw by his speed. Nonetheless, Eltharion parried every blow with a grace that stung Mannfred’s eyes. Every blow save one. Mannfred gave a hiss of satisfaction as the tip of his blade slid across the elf’s arm, slicing easily through armour and cloth to bite the flesh beneath. Eltharion staggered, and a second blow sawed at his side, tearing at his cuirass. Mannfred laughed as the sweet smell of elf blood filled his nostrils. ‘Death, warrior – death is all that you’ll find here. Death and an eternity of servitude after.’ He circled Eltharion and continued to spew taunts. ‘You’ll be my bodyguard, I think. I’m running short on those, thanks to you. Would you like that, elf? I’ll let your mutilated husk lead my legions when I burn the pretty white towers of your people and make them my chattel.’

He’d hoped to provoke the elf. To spur him into attacking wildly, and without concern for his own wellbeing. Instead, the elf came at him with a chilly meticulousness. He parried Mannfred’s next blow and the edge of his blade came close to opening the vampire’s throat. Eltharion fought with machine-like precision, every blow calculated for maximum effect and minimum effort. If he hadn’t suddenly found himself on the defensive, Mannfred would have been impressed.

He realised, as they traded blows, that for the first time in a long time he was the less-masterful combatant in a duel. For too many years, he had relied upon old skills and sheer brute strength, but here, at last, was an opponent whom he could not simply overmatch.

A blow from Eltharion’s sword tore open his cuirass and sliced through the flesh beneath. A second blow smashed into Mannfred’s forearm with hammer-like precision, shattering bone and shearing muscle to leave the limb hanging from a single agonised strand of muscle. Mannfred howled and staggered back, clutching at his wounded limb, his sword lying forgotten in the dust. The world spun around him, and he could see all of his hopes and dreams turning to ash before him.

‘No,’ he hissed. ‘No! I’ve fought too long, too hard to be beaten now, by you!’ he roared as he flung out his good hand. Deathly magics coalesced in the air before the grimly advancing elf, forming into a sextet of black swords. Eltharion weaved through the blades, parrying their every blow.

Mannfred, crouched on the slope, watched the elf fight his way through the blades. The sable swords had only been a distraction. They would fade in moments, leaving Eltharion free to attack again. He had only moments in which to act. Ignoring the pain of his mangled arm, he summoned the energy to unleash a bolt of raw, writhing magic. He rose on unsteady legs, the scope of his world narrowed to Eltharion’s graceful form. If he could kill the elf, it would be done. He extended his hand, black lightning crackling along his forearm and between his curled fingers.

But before he could unleash the spell, he heard a guttural snarl. A heavy body lunged across the slope, trailing blood and feathers. The griffon’s beak snapped shut on his extended arm, its talons smashing into his chest and thigh. Mannfred screamed as he was borne to the ground by the monster’s weight. It was no consolation that his spell had killed the creature as it struck it.

‘No! Damn you, no!’ Mannfred screamed, pleading with fate as he tried to extricate himself from the dead animal’s claws and beak. ‘No! Not now! Eltharion – face me, damn you!’ he shrieked as Eltharion started up the slope with only a single backwards glance. ‘Eltharion,’ Mannfred wailed, squirming beneath the corpse of the griffon.

Eltharion strode towards the standing stones, seemingly gaining strength with every step. As he reached them, light crackled between them. Mannfred cackled weakly. Of course Arkhan had cast some defensive enchantment, of course!

His cackles died away as Eltharion raised his sword in a two-handed grip and thrust the sword into the mystical barrier. The magic crackled and spat, writhing around the blade like a thing in pain. The runes upon the elvish blade glowed as red as coals, and then Eltharion pushed his way into the ring of the Nine Daemons.

With an agonised snarl, Mannfred freed himself from the dead griffon, leaving behind more flesh and blood than he liked to think about. Bleeding heavily, he staggered up after the elf and, with a last surge of strength, he pounced at the gap the elf had made.

He was too slow. He struck the mystic barrier and staggered back. Wailing spirits whirled about him as he pounded his now-healed fists against the barrier. He saw Eltharion toss away his smoking and melted blade.

Arkhan had his back to the elf, standing before the cauldron, one hand wrapped in the golden tresses of the Everchild, forcing her head and torso over the cauldron’s rim. In his other hand, he held his knife in preparation for slashing her throat, as he had with all of the other sacrifices. In the centre of the cauldron, Volkmar hung limp in a mystical web of chains.

Eltharion lunged with a roar worthy of his slain mount. Arkhan released his captive and spun. Eltharion slammed into him, his hands closing about the liche’s bony neck. Arkhan glared at the elf. ‘Release me, warrior.’ Eltharion slammed him back against the cauldron as if to snap the liche in two. ‘Very well. I have no more time for mercy.’

Arkhan’s hands snapped up and caught the elf’s wrists. Instantly, a cloud of rust billowed up from Eltharion’s vambraces. As Mannfred watched, the entropic curse consumed him. It rippled across metal and flesh with equal aplomb, warping and cracking armour as it withered flesh. The elf’s hair turned white and brittle, and his flesh took on the consistency of parchment, but he did not release his hold on Arkhan. To the last, his gaze held the liche’s.

Then, with barely a sigh, Eltharion the Grim, Warden of Tor Yvresse, burst apart in a cloud of dust.

Arkhan staggered back, the witch-lights of his eyes flashing with something that might have been regret. Mannfred began to pound on the barrier anew as Arkhan turned back and jerked Aliathra to her feet. He reclaimed his dagger. ‘My father will destroy you, liche,’ she said. Mannfred was impressed. There was no fear in her voice, only resignation.

‘Your father is already dead, child. My allies have seen to that.’

‘Allies? What allies?’ Mannfred shouted. ‘Arkhan – let me in!’

Arkhan ignored him. He looked at Aliathra as she said, ‘For all of your power, you know nothing.’

‘We shall see,’ Arkhan said. He glanced at Mannfred. ‘Stop striking my barrier, vampire. It’s becoming annoying.’

‘Let me in, you fool,’ Mannfred snarled. His mind probed at the sorcery that protected the stones, trying to find a weak point. He had to get in there.

‘Why? So that you can try and subvert this moment for your own ends? No – no, I think not. You have played your part, and admirably so, vampire. Do not ruin it now with petty antics.’ Arkhan stepped forward and dragged Aliathra towards the cauldron. She struggled for a moment, then pressed her hands against the liche’s chest. Arkhan threw up a hand as a white, painful light flared suddenly. He recoiled as if burned, and then swung the elf maiden towards the cauldron. ‘What have you done, witch?’ he rasped.

‘You’ll find out,’ she said.

Arkhan hesitated, staring at her. Then, with a dry rasp of anger, he cut her throat.

As her blood spilled into the already bubbling cauldron, Arkhan began to speak. The words had a black resonance that caused the air to shudder and squirm, as if in fear. Mannfred began to pound on the shield again, howling curses at the heedless liche as he continued to chant.

As Mannfred watched in mounting frustration, Arkhan placed his knife against one of Volkmar’s wrists and, with a single, efficient motion, severed the hand. Volkmar screamed and writhed in his chains. Arkhan, still chanting, lifted the Claw of Nagash and pressed it forcefully against the Grand Theogonist’s pulsing stump.

Volkmar’s screams grew in pitch and volume, spiralling up into the tormented air to mingle with the unpleasant echoes of Arkhan’s chanting. Arkhan stepped back and snatched up Alakanash. He lifted the staff high and tendrils of dark magic burst from the stump of the Claw. The tendrils writhed about Volkmar’s arm and burrowed into the old man’s abused flesh. Volkmar screamed and shook in his chains, convulsing with a suffering that even Mannfred had trouble imagining.

He took no pleasure in the old man’s pain, though he might have, under different circumstances. He slid down, suddenly weary, as the tendrils began to expand. As they grew, they lashed and flailed and spread across Volkmar’s frame, winnowing into him and leaving only a cancerous mass of dark magic in their wake. Soon, the only thing of Volkmar that Mannfred could see were his eyes, bulging in agony.

Then, there was nothing save the mass, which swelled like an abominable leech as it feasted greedily on the blood in the cauldron. Chains snapped as the mass thrashed about, drawing sparks from the stones around it. It continued to swell as Arkhan held the Fellblade extended, point-first towards the cauldron.

Arkhan spat words like arrows, piercing the air with the hateful sound of them. The Fellblade rose from his hand as if plucked by invisible fingers. It hung in midair for a moment and then, with a loud crack, it shivered into a thousand steaming fragments, which swirled about the mass like tiny comets before striking it and burrowing into its surface.

Outside the circle, Mannfred hunched closer to the stones as the wind picked up, and the howling of the spirits grew deafening. The stones trembled and glowed with daemonic fire. Thunder rolled across the sky above, and he screamed in pain as the enchantment he had laid across the land – his land – was torn asunder. Something vast and terrible descended into the stone circle with a volcanic sigh.

His head was filled with fiery wasps, and his bones felt as if they would tear from his flesh to join the maelstrom swirling about inside the circle. His heart swelled and wrenched in his chest, and he crawled forward as the spell that had barred him entry shattered like glass. Something spoke in a voice that echoed through his mind.

‘YOU HAVE DONE WELL, MY SERVANT.’

Nagash.

It was the voice of Nagash and it tore through him like a blade, cutting through his arrogance, his ambitions, his hopes and his vanities. Mannfred shuddered in his skin as he crept towards the cauldron. He felt sick, as though a great pressure had settled on him. He knew then that his dreams had only ever been that – dreams. Arkhan had been right, in the end. There was no controlling what had come back into the world. What now spoke in a voice like sour thunder. ‘THE GREAT WORK CAN BEGIN.’

He saw that Arkhan had prostrated himself and he could not stop himself from doing the same. He bent low, hoping that the thing that now gazed at him with eyes as deep and as empty as a hole in the world could not sense the bitterness in his heart.

‘DO YOU SERVE ME?’ Nagash asked, looking down at him.

Mannfred von Carstein closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he croaked, ‘I serve you… master.’