As it happened, he had managed to lead what was left of his warband past the undead at the entrance to Mad Dog Pass, while the charnel horde was otherwise occupied with the Iron Claw orcs. The greenskins hadn’t been faring particularly well, the last Snikrat had seen. He decided not to mention it. Clan Mordkin and the Iron Claws had waged a war for control of the pass for decades, and Feskit respected their strength inasmuch as he respected anything. If he knew that they had been beaten, he might decide to abandon the lair, rather than fight, and Snikrat’s continued survival hinged on the latter.
‘Hrr,’ Feskit grunted. He sat back, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. Snikrat tensed. He glanced at the armoured stormvermin, who crouched or stood arrayed about Feskit’s dais, ready to lunge forward to slaughter at their claw-leader’s command. The Mordrat Guard were Feskit’s personal clawband and they were loyal to a fault, thanks mostly to Feskit’s generous patronage, which ensured that they saw little in the way of actual combat while claiming the bulk of the loot. Feskit was too smart to risk them in open combat, where they couldn’t protect him from treacherous rivals, or, in certain cases, each other. They were also indolent, lazy and far from as skilled as most thought them.
Snikrat knew all of this because he had, once upon a time, been the commander of the Mordrat Guard. He had profited from Feskit’s indulgence, and then, when he had climbed as high as he could, he had made the obvious decision. Granted, it had been the wrong decision, and it had ended with him flat on his back and Feskit’s teeth in his throat, but it had seemed obvious at the time. Snikrat rubbed his throat nervously. Feskit had spared him that day, though he’d never said why.
Snikrat thought – Snikrat hoped – that it was because Feskit was canny enough to know that he was getting old, and that if Clan Mordkin were to continue to flourish, it would need a suitable skaven to lead it. A magnificent skaven, a great warrior and cunning to boot. But that skaven had to prove himself worthy of Feskit’s patronage. He had to acquire victories, follow orders and serve the clan in all those ways that most skaven simply could not, whether due to their inherent untrustworthiness or simple weakness.
As Feskit stroked his whiskers, deep in thought, Snikrat surreptitiously took in the gathered chieftains. Those Feskit considered the most loyal sat near the dais, surrounded by their bodyguards. The rest were scattered throughout the great cavern or hadn’t been invited. There were more than a dozen missing. Some were likely still out plundering the Border Princes, he suspected. Which was just as well – more opportunities for him. He needed to reclaim his place at the foot of the throne, if he was to have any chance of successfully challenging Feskit a second time. He scratched at his throat again. Unless Feskit simply had him executed.
A sudden, discordant clamour of bells echoed through the caverns. The upper tunnels had been breached, Snikrat knew. A wave of relief washed aside his worries. He’d timed his return perfectly. Death shrieks drifted down from the vaulted roof of the cavern, slithering through the numerous flue holes that marked the rock. They echoed and re-echoed about the cavern, and a nervous murmur swept through the gathered chieftains. Snikrat, who was already far too familiar with the enemy even now bearing down on them for his liking, shivered slightly.
Feskit glared at him. Then he waved a paw at the knot of trembling slaves who cowered at the foot of his throne. ‘Bring me my armour and weapons.’ He gestured to the black-clad gutter runners who lurked nearby, waiting to carry forth Feskit’s decrees to all of the small clans within his realm. ‘Summon the conclave of chieftains. The burrow must be defended.’ His eyes found Snikrat again, and his lips peeled back from his fangs. ‘It is lucky that you returned when you did, Snikrat. Where would I be without my greatest champion?’
Snikrat stood, his chest swelling. ‘Snikrat the Magnificent lives only to ensure the greater glory of Clan Mordkin, mighty chieftain,’ he said.
‘Of that I am certain, yes-yes,’ Feskit said. He flung out a paw. ‘Go then! Defend our lair from these intruders, Snikrat. Prove yourself worthy of my faith, yes,’ he chittered.
Snikrat hissed in pleasure and whirled, gesturing to the gathered chieftains. ‘You heard our most merciful and wise clan-leader! Gather your warriors and war engines. Awaken the beasts,’ he snarled. ‘It is time to drive these dead-things from the lair of Mordkin!’
Quenelles, Bretonnia
Anthelme slumped in his saddle, aching, exhausted beyond all measure, burdened by tragedy and fear alike. Nonetheless, the newest, and perhaps last, Duke of Quenelles led his companions north, to war.
He closed his eyes as he rode. His cousin’s face swam to the surface of his thoughts, and he banished it with a curse. He had failed Tancred. It hadn’t been for lack of trying, but it had been a failure regardless. At the battle’s height, his steed had been struck with terror and had fled, taking him with it. By the time he’d brought the beast under control, Tancred was dead, and his muster shattered and shoved aside by the undead host as it made its way north.
Anthelme had made his way to Castle Brenache, where he’d found Fastric Ghoulslayer and Gioffre of Anglaron and the rest of the Companions of Quenelles attempting to rally the remaining knights. Their joyful greetings as he’d ridden shame-faced into the castle courtyard had torn his heart worse than any blade. They’d thought him dead; he wished that were so. More, he wished that Tancred were alive and that he had fallen in his cousin’s place.
Instead, Quenelles was his, and the weight of it felt as if it would snap his spine. The province was in ruins – beset by beastmen and worse things. Calls for aid came every hour, and Anthelme was inundated with inherited troubles. He did not know what to do. Would the defences of the abbey hold, or would aid be required? He had sought the counsel of the Lady of Brenache, the Dowager of Charnorte. She had warned Tancred so many months before, and he’d hoped that she might help him now. And she’d tried.
Her scrying had proven a troublesome affair, marred by what he could only describe as daemonic interference. Anthelme shivered in his saddle as he remembered how the clear waters of her scrying bowl became as dark as a storm cloud, and leering faces formed in the ripples. Fell cries had echoed from the stones and the Lady’s voice had been drowned out by the laughter of the Dark Gods.
He had been ushered from her chambers then, with a promise that she would find an answer for him, and for three days she took neither food nor drink. Her chamber had rocked with the sounds of madness – strange laughter, scratching on the stones and foul smells that lingered in the corridors of the castle. The knights began to mutter that the Lady had deserted them – why else would Tancred have fallen? Why else would the realm be beset by so many enemies at once?
As Anthelme sat and waited for the Lady Elynesse to come out of her room, knights had demanded that he ride out to face one foe or another. Anthelme refused them all, though it hurt him to do so. Some knights left, sallying forth alone to confront the horrors that afflicted their ancestral lands. Others stayed, their natural impetuousness tempered by the memory of Tancred’s fall.
On the third day, their patience was rewarded. Lady Elynesse staggered from her chambers. The Lady’s voice had at last pierced her fevered dreams, and given her a dire warning to pass on – if Anthelme did not go to La Maisontaal, Bretonnia itself would fall.
‘Stop thinking,’ a voice said, rousing Anthelme from his reverie.
‘What?’ he asked. Gioffre of Anglaron grinned at him, and slapped him on the back, causing his mail to jingle.
‘I said stop thinking so hard. You’re spooking the horses.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense.’ Anthelme looked around.
‘No, but it got you to pay attention, didn’t it?’ Gioffre said. ‘We’re but a day’s hard ride from the abbey, and you look as if you’d rather be anywhere else.’
‘It’s not that,’ Anthelme said quickly. Gioffre laughed.
‘Oh I know. Anthelme, you are a true knight, as was Tancred. I fought beside you during Mallobaude’s
rebellion, remember? I know that you are no coward. Just as I know that you only fear failure.’ He smiled. Gioffre wasn’t especially handsome, but his face became almost pleasant when he smiled. ‘We will not fail. Troubadours will sing of the day the Companions of Quenelles sent the dead back into the dark, and saved Bretonnia.’ He clapped Anthelme on the shoulder. ‘Now, heads up.’ He pointed upwards. ‘The Ghoulslayer and his flock of overgrown pigeons are back.’
Anthelme couldn’t resist a smile. Gioffre had a distaste for the winged stallions that Fastric Ghoulslayer and his fellow pegasus knights rode. Anthelme suspected that it had less to do with the fact that he felt the surly beasts were unnatural, and more to do with their habit of befouling the ground beneath them as they swooped through the air. Horse dung wasn’t pleasant, especially when it was coming at you from above, and very quickly.
‘Ho, Duke Anthelme,’ Fastric shouted as his steed swooped lazily through the air. The pegasus whinnied as it descended, and it tossed its head and trotted arrogantly towards Anthelme and Gioffre. Their own steeds snorted and pawed the ground as the beast fell into step with them. Normal warhorses didn’t get along with pegasus, even at the best of times. Gioffre’s stallion nipped at Fastric’s steed, and the former planted a fist between his mount’s ears. ‘Keep that bad-tempered nag of yours under control, sirrah,’ Fastric said.
‘It’d be easier if that beast of yours didn’t provoke the other animals,’ Gioffre said.
Before the old, familiar argument could begin again, Anthelme said, ‘What news, Ghoulslayer?’
‘Beasts,’ Fastric growled. ‘Hundreds of them. They’re moving north, but much more slowly than us.’
‘Has Arkhan the Black made common cause with the creatures, do you think?’ Gioffre asked. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that creature, frankly.’
Anthelme frowned. ‘They’ve been following us for days. If they were allies, wouldn’t they have attacked us by now? Even creatures like that should have no difficulty in divining our destination.’ He thought briefly of the beast-herd that had led Tancred into the ambush that had cost him his life, and wondered if this was the same one, before dismissing the idea. There were dozens of such warbands prowling the province now. ‘No,’ he said, straightening in his saddle. ‘No, they’re scavengers. They’re following us in hope of an easy victory. Well, let them. All they’ll find is death.’
He twisted in his saddle and looked back at the column of knights that followed him. Standards of every design and hue rose over the assembled force. Warriors from every province and city were counted amongst the Companions of Quenelles, and for a moment, just a moment, Anthelme felt the shadow that had been on his heart since Tancred’s death lift. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked at Fastric. ‘He would be proud,’ the older knight murmured. ‘As are we all. Where you lead, Anthelme, Duke of Quenelles, your Companions will follow.’
Anthelme nodded brusquely. ‘Then let us ride. La Maisontaal Abbey is in need of defenders, and I would not have it said that the Duke of Quenelles fell short in his responsibility.’ He kicked his horse into a gallop, followed by Gioffre. Fastric set spurs to his steed and the pegasus sprang into the air with a neigh.
Horns blew up and down the column, and the Companions of Quenelles hurtled north.
La Maisontaal Abbey, Bretonnia
Theoderic of Brionne growled in satisfaction as the line of shields buckled, but did not break. ‘Hold, you filthy pigs,’ he rumbled as he watched the peasants resist the undead advance. ‘Hold.’ The peasants did not love him. He knew this, and accepted it as a consequence of his position. But if they did not love him, they at least feared him, and they would do their duty, dreading the price of failure.
Tancred had cautioned him against meeting the enemy in open battle, should they arrive in his absence. The dead could not be smashed aside so easily, he’d said. But Tancred hadn’t heeded his own advice, and now, if the message his cousin had sent was to be believed, his body was somewhere out there in that lurching horde.
It was almost enough to make him doubt himself. The newly christened Duke of Quenelles had sent riders from Castle Brenache, where he was taking the counsel of the Lady Elynesse, the Dowager of Charnorte. The riders had only just managed to outpace the dead, and they had brought word of Tancred’s fall and of Anthelme’s intention to ride to La Maisontaal’s aid with the Companions of Quenelles. Anthelme had advised him to retreat behind the abbey walls, and to hold the dead back, but not to meet them in pitched battle.
A sensible plan; behind the walls, the muster of La Maisontaal could more readily rely upon the magics of the three sisters of Ancelioux. At the thought of the trio of damsels, he glanced towards the shieldwall, where they stood, clad in shimmering damask and furs against the chill of evening. He knew little of the women, and what he did know, he didn’t like.
It was rare to have three daughters chosen by the Fay Enchantress, as poor Evroul of Mousillon had, and even rarer to see them after the fact. It hadn’t been a happy reunion, by all accounts – Evroul, unlucky in fortune as well as family, had chosen the wrong side in the civil war, and his own daughters had killed him. Nonetheless, their magics would come in handy in the battle to come, he thought.
Anthelme’s advice aside, Theoderic had no intention of waiting for rescue. Right or wrong, he was a man of tradition. The darkness was not to be feared, or avoided. It was to be confronted head on, and smashed aside with blade and lance. Under his command, the garrison at La Maisontaal was more active than it had been, even under Tancred’s father. It was larger, with more men than had ever before manned its walls.
As soon as his scouts had reported the host approaching the cleared plains before the abbey he had sworn on the tatters of his honour to guard, he had known that the moment he had been seeking since he had given up his ancestral lands and titles had arrived. Before him was a chance for redemption, a chance to atone for the failings of mind and body that had tarnished his family name.
‘This… is a glorious day,’ he murmured. He looked around at the knights who surrounded him. Anticipation was writ on every face, and their horses shifted impatiently, as eager as their riders to be at the charge. He knew that similar looks would be on the faces of the knights waiting for his signal on the opposite flank.
He rose up in his saddle and lifted his axe over his head. On the other side of the field, a horn crafted from the tusk of a great wyrm wailed. Theoderic knew that horn, and the man who wielded it – Montglaive of Treseaux, slayer of the wyrm Catharax, from whose cooling corpse he had hacked the tusk he had made into his horn. Montglaive commanded the right flank, as Theoderic commanded the left. As the horns on the right sounded, so too did the horns on the left, and Theoderic felt his soul stir.
He was not a man for speeches, inspiring or otherwise. It was not in him to rouse or incite, but he knew that something must be said. He felt the weight of the world’s attention on him. The air vibrated with some inescapable pulse, some fateful pull, which sharpened his attentions and tugged at his heart. He might die this day, but he would not be forgotten. He would not be remembered as a sozzle-wit or a failed knight, but as a hero. As a champion of the Lady, and of the realm. Songs would be sung, and toasts raised, and the name of Theoderic of Brionne would stand through the ages to come.
That was all he had ever wished.
‘This is a glorious day!’ he roared, spreading his arms. ‘We honoured few stand between holy ground and a black host, and the Lady stands with us! Our fair land writhes in pain, assaulted by daemon, outsider and ill-roused corpse. But we few stand here, to prove not simply our courage, or our honour, but that though all Bretonnia is besieged, hope has not yet forsaken the realm eternal! Hope, which echoes in the rattle of swords and the thunder of hooves! Ride, defenders of La Maisontaal! Ride, knights of Bretonnia! Ride and sweep the enemy before you – ride for the Lady and the world’s renewal!’
All around him, his knights gave a great shout, and then thrust back th
eir spurs and joined the battle, Theoderic at their head. The ground shook as the pride of Bretonnia hurtled towards their enemy, lances lowered.
Theoderic bent forward over his charger’s neck. He carried no lance, but instead wielded his axe. The weapon was his only reminder of who he had been, before his disgrace. He had carried it in glory and in folly, and he would not be parted from it save in death. Its blade had been anointed in the holy font of La Maisontaal, and as it spun in his grip, it began to shine with a blessed light.
The darkness retreated before him, and he could see the dead where they stumbled, mindless and remorseless. To him, in that moment, they were a sign of all that had afflicted Bretonnia. He raised his axe, roared out an oath and struck out as his steed smashed into the flanks of the dead and pierced them like a spear. His axe licked out, shining like a beacon, and took the head from a zombie.
Then the rest of the knights struck home, and the twelfth and final battle for La Maisontaal Abbey began in earnest.
FOURTEEN
Mordkin Lair, the Border Princes
Markos von Carstein did not consider himself unduly ambitious. Indeed, he liked to think of himself as something of an idealist. Vlad had been an idealist, and Vlad was his model in most things. Vlad was a paragon, the vampiric ideal made flesh. The King of Blood, the Emperor of Bones, his ghost was tangible in every speck of Sylvanian soil.
Markos bent away from the thrusting spear, and flicked his wrist, bisecting the squealing ratman’s skull with his sword. He twisted in his saddle, chopping another in half, and swatted away a smoke-filled globe with the flat of his blade, sending it tumbling back towards the skaven who’d thrown it. It shattered and the skaven died, choking on its own blood.
The End Times | The Return of Nagash Page 24