There was no sound, only fury. No flames, only incredible, irresistible heat. Bone and rusty armour fused into indeterminate slag as the heat washed over the ranks of the dead. Bleached bone turned black and then crumbled to fragments of ash as Gormann began to stride forward, encased in a bubble of devastation. The bubble shimmered and began to grow, as if every skeleton consumed by it was a log added to a fire. Tendrils of flame exploded outwards from his palms at Gormann’s merest gesture, and consumed the dead in a maelstrom of fire and smoke.
Leitdorf looked up as one of the enemy catapults fired at the wizard. Without looking up, Gormann raised his hand and his fingers crooked like claws. The cackling fireball slowed in its descent and finally stopped right above its intended target. Gormann gave a great, gusty laugh, wound his arm up and snapped it forward, like a boy hurling a stone. The fireball careened back towards its point of origin, and the catapult and its crew were immolated instantly.
More catapults fired, and Gormann slammed his staff down. The fireballs jumbled before him like leaves caught in a strong wind. He raised his staff and they followed the motion of it. With a sharp gesture, he sent them hurtling back the way they’d come. Gormann turned as smoke rose from the tree line behind him and called out, ‘Well? What are you waiting for, Hans? Get to work.’
Leitdorf laughed and signalled his trumpeter. Another note, and two unengaged brotherhoods galloped towards the tree line and the remaining artillery pieces, crushing any skeletons who tried to bar their path underfoot.
The catapults fell silent a few moments later, and he allowed himself to feel a flush of victory. The battle had been costly, but he had done it. He made to call out to Gormann when the wind suddenly shifted. The breeze, which had played across the city all morning, increased in speed and strength, becoming a roaring gale. The sun faded as dark clouds gathered, filling the sky. Instinct made him turn in his saddle.
The clouds were thickest and darkest around Heldenhame Keep. ‘No,’ he said, in disbelief. The enemy had got past them, somehow, some way, and they were in his city. He thought of Weskar, and the few men he’d left on the walls and knew that they would not be enough, brave as they were. ‘Sound the retreat,’ he snarled to his trumpeter, jerking his horse about and driving his spurs into its flanks. ‘We have to get back to the city – now!’
But as he said it, he knew it was too late.
The vargheists went first, as was their right and their duty. They hurtled down from the teeth of the storm onto the battlements of Heldenhame Keep, unleashing a frenzy of blood-soaked death upon the men who manned them. Handguns flamed, and here and there, a bat-like shape plummeted with an animal wail. But such occurrences were few and far between. The remaining vargheists took the fight across the battlements and into the passageways and barrack-rooms of the towers, drawing defenders after them into a nightmarish game of cat and mouse, just as Mannfred had intended.
Astride his steed of twisted bone and leathery wings, Mannfred watched the battle unfold with a cruel smile. His strategy had worked to perfection. Leitdorf and his cursed knights had been unable to resist the bait Arkhan had dangled before them, like meat before a lion. They had denuded the castle of defenders, and he intended to make them pay for that error in blood. ‘You thought me caged, Leitdorf? There is no cage built or conjured that can hold me!’ he roared, spitting the words down at the battlements as his mount swooped over them.
Well that’s simply not true, now is it?
Mannfred grimaced. Even here, amidst the fury of the storm, Vlad haunted him. Or perhaps not Vlad. Perhaps something else, something worse. He shook his head. ‘I say what is true. I make my own truth, ghost. Go haunt Arkhan if you wish to play these games. I grow tired of them and you.’
Clouds billowed around him, and he could almost see the outline of a face, the same face he’d glimpsed so many months ago in the garden, and from out of the corner of his eye many times since. It smiled mockingly at him and he snarled in annoyance. Vlad’s voice was loud in his head, as if the long-dead Count of Sylvania was right behind him. This isn’t a game, boy. It’s a warning from a teacher to a student – do you remember that night? The night it all began, the night I opened the Book of Nagash and set us on this path? Do you remember what I said then?
Mannfred twitched and tried to ignore the voice. At his unspoken command, spectral shapes descended through the storm or flowed up through the rocks of the castle. These were the ghosts of madmen, warlocks, witches and worse things, conjured by his skill and impressed into his service by his will. He felt their cruel desire to abate their own sufferings by inflicting pain and death, and encouraged it. At a thought, they swept into battle with those who still manned the walls and artillery towers, killing them in droves. Such things could not be harmed by mortal weapons and as such made effective shock troops.
I asked you a question, little prince… Maybe you didn’t hear me. Or maybe you are afraid to answer…
‘I am fear itself, old man. I cause fear, I do not feel it,’ Mannfred hissed, watching as the defenders of Heldenhame died in their dozens. He longed to join the battle, to drown out Vlad’s needling voice in blood and thunder, but he had to be patient. He could not risk himself, not now. He was too close to victory.
He could feel the Black Armour calling to him as the other artefacts had. It longed to rejoin them, and he could hear its whispers in his mind, imploring him to come and find it. Luckily, he didn’t have to. That was what the ghosts and vargheists were for. They would locate the armour, and when they had, he would strike.
You see it, don’t you? Or are you so blinded by ambition that you cannot temper it with common sense? Vlad hissed. What did I tell you? Answer me!
Mannfred closed his eyes and ground his fangs together. ‘You said that Nagash was not a man, but a disease that afflicted any who dared use his works. A pestilence of the mind and soul, infecting those who sought to use his power.’ His eyes opened. ‘And maybe he is. But just as he used a plague to wipe the Great Land from the ledger of history, I will use him to clean off the world and remake it in my image. His Great Work shall be superseded by mine, and I shall do what you never could – what Ushoran and Neferata never could. I will seat myself on the throne of the world and rule unto eternity. My people will worship me as a god and I shall serve them as a king ought,’ he said. ‘I have waited so long for this moment. I shall wait no more.’
Then you will be broken on his altar, as Kemmler was. As Arkhan is, so shall you be, my son, Vlad said, softly.
‘I am not your son,’ Mannfred shrieked, bending forward in his saddle, his eyes glaring at the clouds about him.
But you might have been. Now you are… what you are, and I am dead. Yet still, you conjure me to beseech me for my advice, as a son would. I am you, boy. I am your wisdom, your wariness given voice. In this moment, you know that you can still escape the trap that yawns before you. You can still be free of the shadow of Nagashizzar and its legacy, Vlad said intently. Only now, it wasn’t Vlad’s voice he heard, but his own. His own thoughts, his own worries and suspicions given shape and voice.
‘I am free,’ he said.
The words sounded hollow.
In his head, something laughed. Not him, not Vlad, but something else. Something that had shadowed him since he’d returned from the muck and mire of Hel Fenn. He closed his eyes, glad that he had left the Drakenhof Templars to safeguard Arkhan.
Freedom is an illusion, his voice murmured. Power carries its own chains. But you can slip this one now… Run. Retreat… Go anywhere else. Fly to the farthest corner of the world until its reckoning. Live out what remains of these final days as your own master. Leave Nagash to rot in whatever hell holds him. Just… leave.
‘I will not die,’ Mannfred said. ‘I shall not die. I shall not perish a beggar. I was born for greatness…’
Your mother was a concubine. You would never have ruled your city of jewelled towers and tidy streets, and you know it, his voice said. You were born
and you died and you returned. You have ever meddled and sought to control the uncontrollable, and what has that brought you, save strife and madness?
‘I am not mad. Konrad was the mad one, not me!’ he shouted.
Then why are you talking to yourself? Why pretend it was Vlad’s ghost haunting you when it was your own fear? Run, fool. Fly from here. Leave everything behind. Do not die again for a fool’s dream!
Down below, there was a flash of light. Aged blades, blessed long ago, blazed like torches as the castellans of the castle rallied. The blessed weapons drove back the confused spirits, cutting their ethereal flesh. It was time for Mannfred to take a hand, if he still wished for victory.
Did he still wish it? That was the question. Some part of him, wiser perhaps than that to which he’d given voice, screamed that it was already too late, that he was being pulled in the wake of a black comet that could not be stopped from reaching its destination. An undercurrent of laughter greeted this and he looked up, trying to read the future in the skeins of the sorcerous storm clouds he had summoned.
He saw the moments of his life, spread across the tapestry of the wind-wracked sky. Every scheme and hope and mistake. A life lived in pursuit of one overriding goal.
If he gave it up now, what was he? What could he ever be?
The voices fell silent. The laughter faded. Determination replaced hesitation.
‘It is not the dream of a fool. It is not a dream at all, but destiny. I was born to rule, and I shall, one way or another,’ he said as he raised his hand. At his gesture, two massive shapes cut through the swirling storm clouds and dropped down into the castle courtyard below with twin shrieks so piercing that every window, goblet and mirror in the structure shattered all at once. The two terrorgheists had no fear of the blessed weapons that some of the defenders wielded. Driven by a ravenous hunger that could never be sated, the two beasts knuckled and lurched their way across the courtyard, snagging swordsmen and handgunners, and dragging the screaming men into their decaying gullets.
Mannfred’s mount touched down on the blood-washed stones a moment later. He could feel the song of the Black Armour trilling through his mind, washing aside his suspicions and fears. He would not die again. He would triumph and stride the world like a colossus. Still in his saddle, he turned as one of the terrorgheists squalled.
He saw a limping knight duck under a flailing wing and bring his sword around in a brutal two-handed blow, which shattered the beast’s malformed skull. As the creature collapsed in a shuddering heap, the knight extended his blade towards Mannfred in challenge. ‘You shall defile this place not one second more, vampire. So swears Rudolph Weskar.’
‘I’d be inclined to worry, if I had any idea who you were,’ Mannfred said, leaning back in his saddle. He laughed. ‘Well… come on. Some of us have a schedule.’
Weskar charged. And men followed him, knights and swordsmen. A desperate rabble, making their last stand. Mannfred was only too happy to oblige them. He kicked his steed into motion and rode to meet them, drawing his sword as he did so. He gave a mocking salute with the blade as he met them. Then, with barely a flicker of effort, he took Weskar’s head. His next blow cleaved through two of the knights, his sword ripping through armour and flesh with ease. For a moment, he crested a wave of violence as he took out his frustration and worry on the men who sought to bring him down.
He slid from the saddle as the last of them fell. The castle echoed with the sounds of horror and butchery as those defenders who yet lived fought on against his servants. He ignored them all, his eyes fixed on the great iron-banded doors that marked the entrance to the castle’s vaults, where his prize sat waiting for him to come and fetch it.
Nagash would rise, and the world would kneel at last to its rightful ruler.
TWENTY-TWO
Castle Sternieste, Sylvania
‘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 remai
ning 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?’
The End Times | The Return of Nagash Page 33