The End Times | The Return of Nagash

by Josh Reynolds

  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

  Glen of Sorrows, Sylvania

  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!’