Konrad ran at the nearest ravens, scattering them.
They swooped low overhead, cawing, cawing, ceaselessly cawing: he is coming…
Immoliah Fey struggled to rally her own zombies while hissing incantations to raise Kantor’s dead from the dirt of the field, but the vampires had turned on them.
The dead were destroying themselves. All the living had to do was bear witness.
“Kill them. Kill them all!” Konrad raged, running around the battlefield like a madman possessed, flapping his arms at the black birds.
Skellan allowed himself a satisfied smile.
The forces of the living rallied, given new strength by the sight of their enemy’s collapse.
They brandished swords and spears, and charged into the mud of the field, stumbling and falling, and picking themselves up to charge on, their war cries terrible to hear.
True death came to the dead on the field that day.
Konrad stopped, frozen in the act of strangling a raven.
Out of the bloodshed and devastation of Grim Moor strode a face from his past, a ghost.
“Konrad killed you,” he said, even as the bird broke in his hands.
Jerek von Carstein stood before him.
At his side were two grim faced dwarfs and the boy-man, Helmar, clutching his father’s sword, Runefang.
Fighting raged around them, the living banishing the dead.
Skellan moved to stop the dwarf, Kallad. Beside him Grufbad shook his head.
“Out of my way, ugly, this is between me and the man that killed my father.”
“Kill him!” Konrad yelled, but to his horror, he saw Skellan shake his head.
“You have to own the consequences of your own actions, Konrad,” Skellan said, grinning. “Looks to me a lot like the world has come to pay you back.”
“You say no? Konrad will kill you if Konrad must, you will die just the same, little man.” The Blood Count reached down for the wyrm-hilted blade at his side, but it wasn’t there. It was inside the pavilion, beneath the table. His anger swept him away. “Konrad has no need of steel!” He threw himself at the first dwarf, Kallad, who met his charge head on, butting his head full into Konrad’s face. Rage deadened all feeling. Konrad lashed out, clawing at the dwarfs face. The dwarf took it without flinching.
Konrad felt fire, in his chest, and looked down to see the blade of a huge double-headed axe buried in his chest.
His scream, as the dwarf yanked the axe clear, was terrible to behold.
His scream, as the dwarf slammed the axe home a second time, was worse.
But still he didn’t fall. He caught the dwarfs axe and hurled it away, backhanding a massive blow across the side of Kallad’s temple. He roared, pure animalistic rage, and then felt arms take him. He couldn’t break the grip. He writhed and twisted and shrieked but there was no way out of these bonds.
Kallad stepped up again, ready to cleave skull from shoulders but Helmar stayed his hand.
“He killed my father as well, dwarf. I would finish this. For me, for my people.”
Kallad looked at the young warrior. There was something in the young pretender’s face that told him he needed it more, to find peace, than Kallad did. “Aye, lad, justice is done whoever lands the blow. Do it.” The dwarf stepped back.
Helmar stood over Konrad while Grufbad held him down.
He raised the Runefang…
Konrad’s vision blurred. He saw Skellan. He saw the ghost of Jerek. He saw Immoliah Fey dead at his feet, the wolf holding her heart in his fist. He saw the dwarf.
His legs buckled beneath him.
All around, the ravens mocked him. He saw them everywhere, a murder of black birds, and in their eyes, he saw the true source of his betrayal, and knew at the last that he had been undone by one of his own.
“Konrad is betrayed,” Konrad breathed, darkness closing over him. He reached out for the wolf, for his truth speaker.
He never felt the blow that claimed his head.
EPILOGUE
Grim Moor
Kallad Stormwarden stood over the corpse of the Blood Count.
He had his revenge. He had justice for his father. He had retribution for his people. And yet… and yet he felt nothing.
There was no satisfaction in delivering death. He was hollow.
“Time to leave this place,” Jon Skellan said, and seemed to unfold his crippled body. He stretched and bent, manipulating his muscles. He drew himself to his full height, forcing his leg to obey him. He gasped, pressing his shoulder back into place. His arm still showed the rigor of atrophy and his face bore all the marks of mutilation from Jerek’s beating, but his bearing was powerful once more as he shook off his helpless disguise. “I am not one for lost causes, eh wolf? I delivered my end of the bargain, now you deliver yours.” He turned to leave and then stopped. “You did well, dwarf, surprisingly well. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you. Go back to your hole in the ground. The greatest of them all is coming. You do not want to be here when he returns.”
Ravens settled on Skellan’s shoulder, one on his left, one on his right, and though the wind tore away their mocking cries, he could have sworn he heard a name:
Mannfred.
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[Von Carstein 02] - Dominion Page 31