Araloth watched as a ripple of murmurs spread through the assembled ranks of the Council of Athel Loren where they sat. It was rare that Durthu spoke, and rarer still that he spoke so lucidly. More and more often these days, his mind was awash in the forest’s rage, and he spoke words of war and madness. But here was the calm Durthu of old, the wise spirit who had so often guided his folk in ages past. Araloth felt a twinge of sadness as he watched the ancient tree-spirit speak. The forest was dying, glade by glade, rotting from within and falling to the madness that had poured forth from the Vaults of Winter. Soon enough, if it was not halted, Durthu would join many of his kin in either decay or madness. And that would be a terrible moment indeed.
Araloth pushed the thought aside and concentrated on Durthu’s words. ‘But as in those days, there will be a price for the forest’s aid, Everqueen of Ulthuan,’ Durthu said, his ageless eyes fixed on the proud figure of Alarielle. She stood before the council, bound in chains of leaves and vines, as was customary.
The Everqueen lifted her chin and said, ‘I know nothing of these events, revered ancient, but whatever your price, know that I will pay it willingly and in full.’ Her voice possessed a liquid musicality to it that, in other circumstances would have seemed the epitome of beauty to Araloth. But now, he could hear the sadness that tainted its harmonies, and the desperation that had driven its owner to this point.
At her words, the trees of the glade seemed to sigh, though whether in sadness or triumph, Araloth couldn’t say. Nor did he wish to guess. The forest had a mind of its own, one that no elf could attempt to fathom, not if they wished to remain sane.
Durthu receded back into his place. Having said his piece, the Eldest of Ancients had fallen silent. The bargain had been struck, and there was nothing more to be said. The Council was quick to act. One of them stood and met Araloth’s gaze. ‘You heard?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ Araloth said. He knew what was coming next, for it was the only reason that he would have been summoned to witness what had just occurred.
‘You, Lord of Talsyn, and champion of the Mage Queen, will assemble a host to pierce black Sylvania, and lend our cousins aid in their rescue attempt.’
‘I will,’ Araloth said, simply. Nothing more needed to be said. His mind was already hard at work on the logistics of such an undertaking. Axe Bite Pass would be the quickest route. They would head north, through Parravon. There would be dangers aplenty, but he had little doubt that it could be done. He would request volunteers. He would not order any to follow him into such a place.
The chains of vines and leaves fell from the Everqueen as the audience ended. Two of the Mage Queen’s handmaidens, Naestra and Arahan, waited to take Alarielle to the place of reckoning, where her part of the bargain, whatever it was, would be fulfilled. Araloth did not envy her the task to come. She glanced at the handmaidens, and then strode towards him. ‘My daughter,’ she said.
‘I will do all that it is in my power to do for her,’ he said quietly.
‘As will I,’ she said, looking into his eyes. She took his hand and squeezed it. He felt a shock as something passed between them. When she released his hand, he saw that she had pressed a locket into his palm. He looked at her questioningly.
‘It will lead you to my daughter,’ she said. ‘Let us hope, for the sakes of those we love, that you reach her in time.’
EIGHT
Castle Sternieste, Sylvania
Mannfred felt a hum of satisfaction ripple through him as he watched Arkhan take in the room, and its treasures. There, the lecterns that held the damned tomes of Nagash. Nine, now, rather than the seven they had been, thanks to Arkhan.
And amidst them sat the Crown of Sorcery, pulsing softly with its weird light. Arkhan stood before the crown, and reached out a hand. Mannfred was possessed by a sudden urge to rip him away from it, but he wrestled the feeling down. It would not do to start a fight. Not now.
From above, the vargheists growled warningly. They hissed and snarled as the liche ran his fingers over the crown, but fell silent at Mannfred’s gesture. Arkhan traced the wicked iron points that topped Nagash’s crown, and then let his hand drop. He did not look at Mannfred when he said, ‘You have the Claw as well.’ It wasn’t a question.
Mannfred crossed his arms and smirked. ‘Indeed.’
‘Where?’
‘Not here,’ Mannfred said.
Arkhan turned. ‘Even now, you do not trust me.’ The liche cocked his head. ‘You are wise, in your generation.’ He turned towards the prisoners. ‘I thought you enjoyed their escape attempts. Why torture them?’
The prisoners hung in their chains, broken and beaten. They stank of death now, as much as anything else in the castle. Their flesh had been gouged and burned and flayed, and all remaining armour had been stripped from those who wore it. They had been crippled and hobbled, and hovered on the brink of death. Only Mannfred’s sorcerous artifice kept them from tipping over entirely into the void. Mannfred strode past Arkhan and wrenched up Volkmar’s head. Of the nine, only the old man and Aliathra were still conscious. The vampire looked at the elf woman. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved silently. He wondered whether she, like the nature priest, had slipped at last into madness. Or worse, into damnation like Morgiana.
Volkmar glared defiantly up at him with exhausted, pain-clouded eyes. Mannfred leaned close, drinking in his captive’s pain and helplessness. ‘Because the time for games is done. If you can do as you claimed, then it is time to put away childish things and get to work,’ he said, staring at Volkmar. He leaned close to the old man. ‘Don’t you agree, Volkmar? Aren’t you tired of this never-ending game of ours? Don’t you want to see it end, finally, once and for all?’
Volkmar hawked a gobbet of bloody spittle into Mannfred’s face. Mannfred released the old man’s head and stepped back. He wiped the spittle from his face and smiled. He felt no anger at the gesture. It was nothing more than the defiance of a peasant on the block. He looked at Arkhan and gestured. ‘Well – I allowed you in here for a reason, liche. Tell me… Which one?’
Arkhan picked his way carefully across the blood-stained floor, and he gazed at each of the nine in turn. His hell-spark eyes lingered on the elf woman for a moment, and Mannfred felt himself tense, though he could not say why. Arkhan motioned to the unconscious form of the Myrmidian knight, Blaze. ‘You were correct, earlier. This one. His blood is powerful, but not as much as that of the others. It is diluted, and thus perfect for our purposes.’
Mannfred nodded slightly. ‘As I suspected.’
‘You have already assembled much of what is required. But we still lack three things.’ Arkhan turned. ‘Three items tied to the Great Necromancer’s death. All lie within reach of Sylvania, and all require but the proper application of force to acquire. Neither guile nor cunning will be necessary. Luckily for you,’ Arkhan said.
Mannfred twitched. He closed his eyes and fought to control his temper. Arkhan was baiting him, but he would not give the liche the satisfaction. ‘I know all of this, you black-toothed hank of gristle. What I do not know is how you intend to help me acquire them.’
‘I told you – the secret is in the blood,’ Arkhan said, motioning to the floor. ‘The true question is, how are we to divide the work to come?’
Mannfred ran his hands over his bare head. ‘Ah, well, there I think is my contribution. Before your – ah – timely arrival, I was already concocting stratagems for that very purpose. Heldenhame is too obvious a target, and too close. If we strike there first, our enemies will surely know that we have escaped the cage they made for me. For us,’ Mannfred said. ‘I suggest we divide our forces. You came close to acquiring Nagash’s staff, Alakanash, from La Maisontaal Abbey once… Best you succeed this time.’
Arkhan didn’t react to his dig. ‘And the Fellblade?’
‘Not far from here, as you said. My spies have brought word that it is in the possession of the skaven somewhere in Mad Dog Pass, as you yourself are likely already
aware.’
Arkhan inclined his head. ‘And you will acquire it?’
‘I will.’ Mannfred gestured down at the map. ‘We will depart via the western border, I think. It will give you the quickest path into Bretonnia, and me the quickest into the Border Princes. Speed is of the essence, but it will still take us most of the year. I suggest that we save Heldenhame for our coming out party, as it were.’
Arkhan looked down at the map. He looked up. ‘Agreed. It will take me some time to prepare. A few days, no more than that.’
‘Excellent. It will take me that long to see to raising a proper host, to carry us in style to our respective destinations.’ Mannfred spread his hands. And to ensure that you return on your shield, rather than behind it, ally-mine, he thought. ‘If you were capable of drinking, I’d raise a toast to you, oh mighty Arkhan.’
‘And if I had any interest in drinking with you, Mannfred, I would accept. Go, you may leave me here. I must attune myself to your sorceries and find the right strands to pull and those to cut.’ Mannfred hesitated, and Arkhan gave a rasping laugh. ‘Fear not, vampire. Leave your dogs to guard me, if you wish. Summon ghouls or assign your pantomime Templars to stand sentinel over me, to ensure that I do not steal your treasures. I care not.’
Mannfred bowed shallowly. ‘You cannot fault me for being overcautious, Lord Arkhan. Allies, in my experience, are as the shifting sands – untrustworthy as a matter of course. But you shame me with your generosity of spirit, and courtly manner. I leave you, sir, to do as you must. And I go to do as I must.’ Mannfred swept his cloak up about him and turned and left.
As he stalked through the corridors of Castle Sternieste, Mannfred forced aside the worries that gnawed at him. He didn’t trust Arkhan, but he had little choice at this juncture. As old and as learned as he was in the arts of sorcery, Arkhan was older still. The liche had likely forgotten more about magic than Mannfred would ever be able to learn. He had been present at the birth of necromancy, and he was as good as Nagash’s will given form.
But that wouldn’t save him, once he’d outlived his usefulness.
Something yowled, and he paused. He looked up and saw Arkhan’s detestable cat slinking through the ancient support timbers above. It glared down at him with milky-eyed malevolence, fleshless tail twitching. Mannfred’s eyes narrowed. Was it watching him – spying for its master? He raised his hand, ready to blast it from existence, when something stopped him. He caught a glimpse of a massive, gaunt shape, twitching and flickering with witch-fire, out of the corner of his eye, like a giant squatting to fill the corridor behind him, and he whirled with a snarl. But there was nothing there. No giant and no shadow, save his own.
When he looked back up, the cat had vanished.
Mannfred looked around once more, and then continued on his way. He soon arrived at the high garden that he had made his war chamber for the coming campaign. He could not say why he had done so; he had rarely visited the high garden in all the months he had made Sternieste his home.
And do you remember why you avoided coming to Sternieste? Vlad purred softly. This was my garden, wasn’t it? Where I held my councils of war, in that golden age between conquest and damnation, while Sylvania was still to be won. I am honoured that you have chosen to honour my memory in such a way, my most attentive student.
Mannfred stopped. He ran his hands over the crown of his head. He had had hair once, a luxuriant mane of hair, the hue of a raven’s wing. He had been beautiful, and proud of that beauty. But after rising from the sump of Hel Fenn, he had shaved his head. His return was a rebirth. In death, he had been purged of old failings and faults, and vanity was discarded with the rest. Or so he’d thought.
Really, though, it had been to mark himself as different to Vlad. Vlad, with his icy mane and aristocratic mien; Vlad who held to the noble traditions of a long-gone empire – including the superstition that councils of war should be held in the open air, beneath the eyes of the gods so as to gain their favour.
Mannfred felt a chill course through him. Was that why he had been drawn to Sternieste, to the garden? Was he unconsciously imitating Vlad?
How many of Nagash’s detestable tomes did I gather again? One or two, surely. Your initiative in that regard is impressive, I must say. Then, you never did know how to quit while you were ahead, did you? Vlad laughed.
No, no, he had chosen Sternieste for the strategic advantage it provided. And the garden… Well, few others even knew it existed, which made it the ideal spot to confer with his subordinates without danger of eavesdroppers.
Am I so poor an example, then? Vlad whispered.
‘You’re dead. You tell me,’ Mannfred muttered. Vlad’s laughter accompanied him into the garden, where the inner circle of the Drakenhof Templars sat or stood, arguing loudly amongst themselves. Well, Anark and Markos were arguing, which had become an annoyingly regular occurrence. The two vampires snarled and cursed at one another, and Mannfred thought they might come to blows. He paused, waiting, amused now, his previous uncertainties forgotten.
‘Oh very good,’ he said, after the spectre of violence had passed on, thwarted. ‘I do so enjoy a spirited debate. I hope it was about something important.’
‘He refuses to acquiesce to my authority,’ Anark growled. Elize had one hand on his shoulder and her other pressed flat to Markos’s chest.
‘When you show me a reason to respect the puerile demands that flutter from your flapping lips, perhaps I will,’ Markos snapped.
Mannfred sighed and strode between them. Elize retreated as Mannfred’s hands snapped out and his fingers fastened on the throat of either vampire. Unliving muscle swelled as Mannfred hauled them both up and off their feet and into the air. ‘This debate, while amusing, is most assuredly moot, my friends. The only authority here to which you must acquiesce is mine own.’ Point made, he dropped them both. Anark, with a beast’s wisdom, scrambled away. Markos sat and glared, rubbing his throat. Mannfred ignored him.
‘The liche thinks that he can shatter the mystic cage that holds us,’ he said, pushing aside the flicker of anger that accompanied those words. ‘Out, all of you. Rouse the barrow-legions and draw the souls of the cursed dead from the stones where they sleep. The muster of Sternieste marches to war, and I would have every muck-encrusted bone and ragged shroud ready. Go, fly, rouse my army,’ Mannfred said, sweeping out a hand.
Markos and the others filed out of the garden. But before Elize could follow them, Mannfred stopped her. As he did so, he noticed that her pets hesitated. Brute and shadow, Anark and the Crowfiend. Anark hesitated more obviously, waiting like a loyal hound. The Crowfiend lurked outside the entrance to the garden, as if he were only stopping to admire the mouldy tapestries that dangled from the walls there. Mannfred looked at Elize and she motioned delicately to Anark. He turned and left, visibly reluctant. The Crowfiend drifted away a moment later, silent and seemingly unconcerned.
‘The loyalty you inspire in your get awes me, Elize,’ Mannfred said. He clasped his hands behind his back and strode towards the tree. ‘Do I inspire the same devotion in any creature?’
‘I am your loyal servant, my lord,’ Elize said softly.
‘So you have shown again and again, sweet cousin.’ Mannfred glanced at her. ‘You are one of the rocks upon which my foundations stand.’ He looked away. ‘We are sallying forth from this besieged province, cousin, and I would have the Drakenhof Templars in the vanguard.’
‘We have ever stood at the narrowest point, my lord,’ Elize said.
‘That point, I’m afraid, is going to become narrower still.’ He lifted a hand, and spoke a single, shuddering syllable. The air thickened and the light dimmed, as if a fog had settled over the garden. ‘There,’ Mannfred said. ‘Now we can speak freely with one another, without curious ears eavesdropping. Anark will accompany Arkhan into Bretonnia.’
‘Bretonnia,’ Elize repeated. She hesitated, and then nodded. Mannfred had not told his inner circle just what he was after, but he had n
o doubt that the brighter sparks among them had already guessed. ‘Are you certain now is the time, my lord?’
‘Was that a question, or a suggestion?’ Mannfred asked. ‘Arkhan’s usefulness is finite. Can your pet be trusted to do this thing for me, sweet cousin?’ Mannfred asked, looking up at the tree. It seemed to be flourishing anew, its limbs growing gnarled and strong, as if it were feeding on the mortal energies of the dead things gathered at Sternieste. He traced the jagged contours of its crumbling bark with a finger.
‘He can, my lord,’ Elize said.
‘You sound confident.’
‘In Anark’s strength and willingness? Yes, cousin, I am. I chose him for those qualities.’
Mannfred smiled. ‘Ah, cousin, my cousin, you were ever the darling of dear, sweet, mad Isabella’s eye, in those glorious times now gone to dust and memory. She relied much on you, in those final days, while Vlad was occupied with the war.’
Elize said nothing, but silence was as good an answer as anything she might have chosen to say, to Mannfred’s way of thinking. He glanced over his shoulder at Elize, studying her. ‘You were alone among her handmaidens in your practicality and – dare I say it? – your sanity. A mind second only to my own, I have often said.’
‘Have you, my lord? I have never heard you say such about anyone,’ Elize said mildly. Mannfred raised his brow in surprise. Elize was normally quite circumspect. He expected such comments from Markos, but Elize…
‘You are worried, then,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘Should I send another of your creatures? The Crowfiend, perhaps? Erikan of Mousillon,’ he continued, and his smile turned feral as a brief look of consternation crossed her perfectly composed features. ‘Oh yes, I smelt the stink of that particular demesne on him, the poor boy. He is the last surviving pup of the Cannibal Knight of Mousillon, of infamous memory, isn’t he? The Bretonnians burned that lot in their sewer palaces. The Cannibal Knight, his princess of Bel-Aliad, and their squalling retainers. Royalty, that one, at least insofar as the Bretonni judge these things. He has no idea, of course, and I shall not tell him.’ He crossed the space between them and caught her chin. ‘That shall be my gift to you, hmm? From one loving cousin to another.’ He lifted her chin, so that her eyes met his. ‘Shall I send him instead of Anark, perhaps? Or both together?’
The End Times | The Return of Nagash Page 16