Captain Wendel Volker gave no sign that Leitdorf’s insult had struck home. The fourth son of a largely undistinguished Talabecland family tree, he hadn’t expected a man like Leitdorf to be happy with his arrival. His uniform was still coated in trail-grime, and he shivered beneath his thin officer’s cloak. It was cold up on the parapet, and it had been a wet trip. Volker was young, with a duellist’s build and a boy’s enthusiasm. The latter was swiftly being sapped by the circumstances of his current posting, but, as his father had said on multiple occasions, one mustn’t complain.
‘Oh he’s not so bad, is our young Wendel. He guarded me ably enough on the road from Talabheim,’ the third man on the parapet rumbled, as he stroked his spade-shaped red beard with thick, beringed fingers. He was a big man, like Leitdorf, though his size had more to do with ample food supply than anything else, Volker thought. There was muscle there, too, but it was well padded. Despite that, he was the most dangerous of the three men on the parapet. Or, possibly, in the entire keep. ‘Able, aristocratic, attentive, slightly alcoholic… All virtues as far as I’m concerned,’ the third man went on, winking cheerfully at Volker.
‘You hardly needed an escort,’ Leitdorf said. ‘The Patriarch of the Bright College is an army unto himself. There are few who would challenge Thyrus Gormann.’
‘I know of one,’ Gormann grunted, tugging on his beard. He waved a hand and, for a moment, a trail of flickering flame marked the motion of his fingers. ‘Still, neither here nor there, all in the past, all friends now, hey?’ He scratched his nose and peered at the distant wall of bone that separated Sylvania from Imperial justice. ‘That is one fine, big wall the little flea has erected for himself, I must admit.’
‘The little flea’, Volker knew, was Mannfred von Carstein. Even thinking the name caused him to shudder. Still, on the whole, it was better than going north with the rest of the lads. He’d take the dead over daemons any day. Nonetheless, he couldn’t repress a second shudder when he looked at the distant wall. He caught Leitdorf looking at him and stiffened his spine. As terrifying as Mannfred von Carstein was, he was over there, and Leitdorf, unfortunately, was right here. Leitdorf snorted and turned back to Gormann.
‘Volkmar isn’t coming back,’ he said.
‘Did you think he would?’ Gormann asked. ‘No, he’d have torn those walls down if he’d been able. It was a fool’s errand, and he knew it.’
‘He had to try,’ Leitdorf said softly.
‘No, he bloody didn’t.’ Gormann shook his shaggy head. ‘He let his anger blind him, and now we have to muddle through without him. Stubborn old fool.’
‘Friend pot, have you met cousin kettle?’ Leitdorf asked.
Gormann looked at the knight and frowned, but only for a moment. He guffawed and shook his head. ‘I always forget that you have a sense of humour buried under that scowl, Hans.’
Volker watched as the two men – two of the most powerful, if not influential, in the Empire – continued to discuss the unpleasantness just across the border and decided, for the fifth time in as many minutes, to keep his opinions to himself, just as his mother had counselled. ‘Keep quiet, head down, ears perked, nose to the trail,’ she’d said. A hunting metaphor, of course. Big one for hunting was mumsy, big one for the blood sports and the trophies and such.
Blood had always made Volker queasy. He licked his lips and looked longingly at the jug of mulled wine that Leitdorf clutched loosely in one hand. Occasionally, the Grand Master would refill his goblet, or Gormann’s. Volker had not been offered so much as a taste. Another snub, of course. A sign of his new commander’s displeasure. Mustn’t complain, he thought.
As the wizard and the warrior conversed, Volker kept himself occupied by examining his new post from the view the parapet afforded. He’d heard stories of Heldenhame as a boy, but to see it in the flesh, as it were, was something else again.
At its inception, Heldenhame had been little more than a modest bastion, composed of a stone tower and a wooden palisade. Now, however, a century later, Heldenhame Keep was the grandest fortress in Talabecland. The old stone tower had been torn down and replaced by a castle that was many times larger, and the wooden palisade had been discarded in favour of heavy stone walls. Within the walls and spreading outwards from the castle was a bustling city, filled with noise and commerce. It was a grand sight, for all that it still bore the marks of the greenskin tide that had sought to overwhelm it the year previous.
The western wall was still under repair from that incident. Volker watched the distant dots of workmen reinforcing and repairing the still-crippled span. It was the only weak point in the fortress’s defences, but such repairs couldn’t be rushed. Volker knew that much from his studies. As he examined the wall, he saw what looked to be a tavern near it. His thirst returned and he licked his lips. ‘Worried about the western span, captain?’ Leitdorf asked, suddenly. Volker, shaken from his reverie, looked around guiltily.
‘Ah, no, sir, Grand Master,’ he said hastily, trying to recall what sort of salute one gave the commander of a knightly order. Leitdorf gazed at him disdainfully.
‘You should be,’ he grunted. ‘You’ll be stationed there. You’re dismissed, Volker. I trust you can find your quarters and introduce yourself to the garrison without me holding your hand?’
‘Ah, yes, I believe so, sir. Grand Master,’ Volker said. Leitdorf turned, and Volker, relieved and dying for a drink, scurried away.
Karak Kadrin, Worlds Edge Mountains
Ungrim Ironfist, king of Karak Kadrin, ran his thick, scarred fingers across the map of beaten bronze and gilded edges that lay before him on the stone table. The map was a thing of painstaking artifice and careful craftsmanship, and it was as lovely in its way as any silken tapestry or a portrait done by a master’s hand.
Ironfist, in contrast, was a thing of slabs and edges and could, in no way, shape or form be called lovely. Even for a dwarf, the Slayer King was built on the heavy side, his thick bones weighed down by layers of hard-earned muscle, and his face like a granite shelf carved sharply and suddenly by an avalanche. His beard and hair were dyed a startling red and, as ever, he wore a heavy cloak of dragon-scale over his broad shoulders.
His craggy features settled into a taciturn expression as he stared at the map. It wasn’t alone on the table. There were others stacked in a neat pile near to hand, and opposite them a number of metal tubes, containing statements and reports culled from every watch-post and lookout tower for a hundred miles in every direction. Ironfist had read them all and more than once. So often, in fact, that he knew what each one said by heart.
More reports were added by the day, as rangers and merchants brought word to the Slayer Keep from the furthest edges of the dwarf empire. These too Ironfist committed to memory. None of what he learned was comforting.
There was a strange murk upon the dust-winds that rolled west from the Dark Lands over the eastern mountains, and the sky over that foul land was rent by sickly trails of green, as if the moon were weeping poisonous tears upon the blighted sores that covered the skin of the world. Plagues such as the world had not seen in a thousand years were loose in the lands of men, and worse things than plagues, too. Devils and beasts ran riot in the Empire, and traders returning from Tilea, Estalia and Araby brought word that it was just as bad in those lands. The vile rat-things had burst from their tunnels in unprecedented numbers, and subsumed whole city-states and provinces in the same way they had the holds of his people so long ago.
The Badlands were full to bursting of greenskins; the clangour of the battles fought between the orc tribes carried for miles in all directions, and as soon as one ended, another began. Soon, as was inevitable, they would flood into the mountains and the lands beyond, hunting for new enemies. But this time they would do so in unprecedented numbers: in their millions, rather than their thousands.
However, that was as nothing compared to word from the north, where strange lights writhed across the horizon and arcane storms raged acro
ss the lands. Daemon packs hunted the high places and barbarians gathered in the valleys as long-dormant volcanoes belched smoke and the earth shook as if beneath the tread of phantom armies.
Ironfist had, in all his centuries, never witnessed such a multitude of troubles, all occurring at once. Bad times came and went, like storms. They washed across the mountains and faded away with the seasons. But this was like several storms, rising and boiling together all at once, as if to wipe away the world. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts of the miasma of foreboding that clung to them.
Ironfist tapped a point on the map. ‘What word from the Sylvanian border? Are the rumours true?’ he asked the dwarf sitting across from him. Snorri Thungrimsson had served at his king’s right hand for more years than could be easily counted. He was old now, and the fat braids of beard that were tucked into the wide leather belt about his midsection were as white as the morning frost on the high mountain peaks. But he still served as his king’s hearthwarden and senior advisor. It was Thungrimsson who collected and organised the diverse streams of information that came into the hold from messengers, scouts and spies, and readied it for Ironfist’s study.
‘You mean about the, ah, bones?’ Thungrimsson asked, gesturing. He grimaced in distaste as he asked it.
‘No, I mean about this year’s turnip festival in Talabheim. Yes, the bones,’ Ironfist said.
‘They’re true enough. The whole land is surrounded by battlements of bone. It’s sealed off tighter than King Thorgrim’s vaults.’ Thungrimsson traced the border of Sylvania on the map. ‘The rangers can’t find a way through, not that they tried very hard.’
Ironfist sat back in his chair with a sigh. He tugged on his beard and let his gaze drift across the high alcoves of the library, where the watery light of hooded lanterns illuminated stone shelves and pigeonholes, each one stuffed with books, tomes, scrolls and papyri. The library was one of his great pleasures, when all was said and done. It had been built carefully and over centuries, much like the rest of Karak Kadrin. ‘Well, what are you thinking, hearthwarden?’ he asked finally, looking back at Thungrimsson.
‘It is a shame about the turnip festival,’ Thungrimsson said. Ironfist growled wordlessly and the other dwarf raised his hands in a placating gesture. ‘I’m thinking that Sylvania has been a boil on our hindquarters for more centuries than I care to contemplate. Whatever is going on in there bears keeping an eye on, if nothing else. And we should send word to the other holds, especially Zhufbar. The blood-drinkers have attacked them before.’
Ironfist gnawed on a thumbnail. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to muster a throng and smash his way into that blighted land, axe in hand. There was something on the air, something that pricked at him, like a warning only half heard. There were other threats to be weighed and measured, but Sylvania was right on his hearthstone. He had been patient for centuries, waiting for the humans to see to their own mess. But the time for patience had long since passed. If the zanguzaz – the blood-drinkers – were up to some mischief, Ironfist was inclined to put a stop to it soonest.
His eye caught a golden seal on one of the more recently arrived message tubes. He recognised the royal rune of Karaz-a-Karak, the Pinnacle of the Mountains, the Most Enduring. He flicked the tube open and extracted the scroll within. He frowned as he read it. When he was done, he tossed it to Thungrimsson. ‘We’ll have to settle for keeping watch. At least for now. The Grudgebearer has called together the Council of Kings.’
Thungrimsson’s eyes widened in surprise as he read the scroll. ‘Such a council hasn’t been convened in centuries,’ he said slowly. His eyes flickered to the scrolls and maps. He met Ironfist’s grim gaze. ‘It’s worse than we thought, isn’t it?’
Ironfist pushed himself slowly to his feet. He tapped the map again. ‘It seems I’ll be able to alert my brother-kings as to the goings-on in Sylvania in person,’ he said softly.
Lothern, Ulthuan
Tyrion’s palms struck the doors of the meeting chamber of the Phoenix Council like battering rams, sending them swinging inwards with a thunderous crash. Eltharion of Yvresse winced and made to hurry after his prince.
The latter’s haste was understandable, if not strictly advisable. Then, the Warden of Tor Yvresse had never been fond of haste. Haste led to the mistakes and mistakes to defeat. A slim hand fastened on his arm. ‘Give him a moment. He’s making an entrance.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Eldyra,’ Eltharion grated, brushing the hand from his arm. He turned to glare at the woman who followed him. Eldyra of Tiranoc had once been Tyrion’s squire; now she was a warrior in her own right, albeit an impetuous one. She was a vision of loveliness wrapped in lethality. She had learned the art of death from the foremost warrior of their race, and her skill with blade, bow and spear was equal to, or greater than, Eltharion’s own, though they had never put that to the test.
‘No, you’re afraid he’s going to kill someone.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘Better to ask whether I care,’ she said pointedly. ‘The idea of our prince taking off the head of that pompous nitwit Imrik fills me with a warm and cheerful glow.’
Eltharion shook his head and followed Tyrion into the council chamber. Tyrion had interrupted the aforementioned Imrik, Dragon Prince of Caledor, in mid-speech. The Phoenix Council had been discussing the same thing they’d been discussing for months – namely Imrik’s assertion that Finubar had ceded his right to the Phoenix Crown.
The Phoenix Council had been paralysed for months by disagreement among its members and disillusionment with the current wearer of the crown. Finubar had sealed himself in the Heavenlight Tower in order to divine the cause of the recent disasters that had beset Ulthuan, at a time when his people most needed his guidance. Eltharion could not help but wonder what was going through his king’s mind; the longer Finubar sat isolated in his tower, the more that discontent spread through the halls and meeting chambers of the elven nobility. As Chrace and Cothique were overrun by daemon-spawn, and their peoples scattered or exterminated, Finubar had yet to reappear, and had, so far, allowed only one to impinge upon his solitude – Tyrion’s brother Teclis. Teclis had come out of that meeting certain that Tyrion must take command of Ulthuan’s armies.
Tyrion, however, had taken some convincing. Not that Eltharion blamed him for being preoccupied. He and his companions had only just returned from the citadel of abomination known as Nagashizzar, where they’d failed to rescue Aliathra, firstborn daughter of the Everqueen, from her captor, Mannfred von Carstein. Aliathra had been captured earlier in the year by the vampire while she had been on a diplomatic mission to the High King of the dwarfs at Karaz-a-Karak. Dwarfs and elves both had been slaughtered by Mannfred in pursuit of Aliathra, and when word reached Ulthuan of her fate, Tyrion had been driven into as wild a rage as Eltharion had ever seen.
The reason for the sheer force of that rage was known to only two others, besides Eltharion himself. Eldyra was one and Teclis the other. The three of them shared the weight of Tyrion’s shameful secret, and when he’d made it known that he intended to rescue Aliathra, Eltharion, Eldyra and Teclis had accompanied him. But the expedition to Nagashizzar had been a failure. Mannfred had escaped again, and taken the Everchild with him.
Teclis’s spies, both living and elemental, had confirmed that the vampire had taken Aliathra into the lands of men, and Belannaer, Loremaster of Hoeth, had sworn that he could hear the Everchild’s voice upon the wind, calling from somewhere within the foul demesne known as Sylvania. Failure ate at Tyrion like an acid, making it impossible for him to focus on anything else. He had been planning for a second expedition when Teclis had forced him to see sense. Now his rage at Aliathra’s fate had been refocused, and for the better, Eltharion hoped.
‘Our lands are in turmoil, and you sit here arguing over who has the right to lead, rather than doing anything productive. No wonder the Phoenix King hides himself away – I would as well, had my advisors a
nd servants shamed me as you now shame him,’ Tyrion said as he stalked into the chamber, the stones echoing with the crash of the doors. Clad in full armour, armed and flanked by the armoured forms of Eltharion and Eldyra, the heir of Aenarion was an intimidating sight. At least if you had any sense.
‘Ulthuan needs leadership. Finubar is not fit to be king. Not now, not when we are on the precipice of the long night,’ Imrik growled. He glared at Tyrion as fiercely as one of the dragons his homeland was famous for. ‘Speaking of which, where were you? First Finubar locks himself away in his tower, and then the Everqueen vanishes to gods alone know where. The Ten Kingdoms heave with the plague of ages and you, our greatest champion, were half a world away!’
‘I am here now,’ Tyrion said. He drew his sword, Sunfang, from its sheath and swept it through the air. The ancient sword, forged to draw the blood of the daemons of Chaos, burned with the captured fires of the sun. Runes glowed white-hot along its length and the closest members of the council turned away or shaded their eyes against the sword’s stinging promise. Only Imrik continued to glare, undaunted.
The End Times | The Return of Nagash Page 8