The End Times | The Lord of the End Times

by Josh Reynolds

  Not for the first time, Hammerson wondered if he should simply take his folk and go. They would return to Zhufbar and see what remained of it, either to rebuild or avenge it. It was a nice thought, and it kept him warm on cold nights, staring into the dark of the trees, pipe in hand without even a good fire to provide light and comfort.

  But that was all it was. If the thing must be done, let it be done well. And the dwarfs had made an oath long ago to the human thane, Sigmar, to defend his people for as long as there was an empire. And dwarfs, unlike elves, knew that an empire was made not of stone or land or castles, but of hearts and minds. Stones could be moved, land reshaped and castles knocked down, but an empire could survive anything, as long as its people still lived.

  While one citizen of the Empire yet lived, be they soldier, greybeard, infant or Emperor, the Zhufbarak at least would die for them. Because that was the way of it. An oath was an oath, and it would be fulfilled, come ruin or redemption. Even if the humans chose to throw in their lot with the King of Bones himself, the Zhufbarak would stand shield-wall between them and the ravages of Chaos until the end.

  Speaking of which, he mused, studying the giant of bone and black iron where he stood in an ever-widening circle of yellow, brittle grass. For a creature whose very existence was under threat, Nagash didn’t seem altogether concerned. Which, to Hammerson’s way of thinking, was worrying.

  Malekith obviously felt the same. He was in fine form, arguing passionately with Lileath and Teclis. Hammerson could almost admire the Eternity King, if he hadn’t been a deceitful, backstabbing kinslayer. Kings had to be harder than stone, and colder than ice, at times, and Malekith was both of those and no mistake. But too much cold, and even the hardest stone grew brittle.

  He heard a hiss from Volker, and glanced at the knight. The white-haired man was staring hard at Nagash. Hammerson looked more closely at the liche and saw that the creature was stirring. One great claw rose, and silence fell over the glade. ‘YOUR FEAR IS WITHOUT CAUSE,’ the liche said. His voice spread through the glade like a noxious fog. ‘THE WORD OF NAGASH IS INVIOLATE. AND NAGASH HAS SWORN TO FIGHT FOR THIS WORLD.’

  Hammerson shuddered. The liche’s voice crept under your skin like the cold of winter, and fastened claws in your heart. He wasn’t alone in feeling that way. The Incarnates stared at the creature the way birds might regard a snake. Malekith reacted first. ‘Any betrayer would say the same, if it suited his interest,’ the Eternity King rasped, glaring down at Nagash from his dais. Nagash stared at the elf, as if sizing him up. Then he inclined his head.

  ‘INDEED. AND SO I OFFER A GIFT, AS TOKEN OF MY INTENT.’

  Malekith laughed. ‘A gift offered by one such as you can hardly be considered proof of anything. I know, for I have used the same trick to great effect more than once.’

  ‘I HAVE WRONGED YOU. YET THE INITIAL OFFENCE, THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN, WAS NOT AT MY INSTIGATION,’ Nagash grated. If a skeleton could look amused, Hammerson thought, then Nagash was it. The wide, fleshless rictus seemed to grow wider still, less a smile than a tiger’s grin. ‘THE EVERCHILD’S DEATH WAS NOT MY DOING.’

  Teclis flinched as the words rolled over the glade. He closed his eyes. He could feel the heat of Tyrion’s rage beginning to build. Nagash’s words had stoked fires that could never truly be extinguished. Malekith too must have sensed it, for he moved quickly to speak. But he fell silent, his words dying on his lips, as Alarielle rose from her throne.

  ‘You speak of my daughter as if you were fit to say her name,’ the Everqueen said coolly. Her voice was composed, and controlled, but Teclis could sense the fragility beneath. ‘More and more, you insist on your own destruction.’

  ‘MY DESTRUCTION WILL NOT BRING HER BACK. NOR WILL IT AVENGE HER.’ Nagash looked around the glade. ‘IT WILL ONLY BRING RUIN.’

  ‘Listen to the dead thing plead,’ Tyrion snarled. He had not drawn his sword, but his hands were balled into fists, and the light within him was beginning to stir. ‘We will not bargain for Aliathra’s soul,’ he spat. Alarielle looked sharply at him, but said nothing. Teclis could feel the Wind of Life beginning to stir as well. Is this how it ends, even as it began… over the soul of the Everchild? he thought.

  His brother’s sin, come home to roost. The child he’d fathered, against all logic, reason and tradition, the child who had been the hope of Ulthuan, and its destruction. Aenarion’s curse made flesh, in a moment of passion and stupidity. Teclis’s grip on his staff tightened. Brave child. I failed you, as I failed your father and our people. But I failed you most of all. Sorrow washed over him, leaving only numbness in its wake.

  It seemed like only weeks ago that Aliathra had been sent to the dwarfs of Karaz-a-Karak as part of the Phoenix Delegation of Ulthuan. As royalty, and a sorceress in her own right, the Everchild was thought fit to treat with the High King, Thorgrim Grudgebearer. Aliathra had her mother’s grace and poise and her father’s courage, and the old alliances had been renewed and invigorated. But then, death had swept down on tattered wings and put paid to the plans of dwarfs and elves.

  Teclis studied Mannfred von Carstein, taking in the sharp contours of a face that shifted constantly between regal indifference and bestial malice. The name the creature went by was an assumed one, just another falsehood tacked on to the ledger that contained his crimes. Once, Teclis had sought to unravel that particular mystery – to find the source of the von Carstein bloodline and perhaps even eliminate it. Of all the vampiric infestations which blighted the world, theirs was the most militant, if not the best organised, and thus a potential threat to Ulthuan in the future. And of all the von Carsteins, Mannfred was the most dangerous.

  His defeat of Eltharion the Grim in Sylvania proved that, if nothing else. The Grim Warden had attempted to rescue Aliathra at Tyrion’s behest. The army he had taken into death with him had been sorely missed in the days and weeks which followed. Teclis could not say for certain that Eltharion’s counsel would have ameliorated the tragedies that occurred after Tyrion had gone mad and their people had fallen to civil war, but his presence might have been enough to avert at least some of the anguish of those terrible days.

  Instead, he’d died. And the hopes of Ulthuan had died with him. And now his killer stood smirking in the heart of Athel Loren, protected by an even greater evil. For a moment, Teclis wished that he were his brother, that he had even an ounce of Tyrion’s fire in him, so that he might put aside reason and caution and drive his sword through Mannfred’s twisted heart. But he wasn’t, and he never had been. Instead, he watched and thought, and wondered why Nagash was offering anything at all.

  When the answer occurred to him, he smiled. Ah, clever. Of course. Why else insist on bringing the creature into the forest?

  Nagash faced Tyrion and Alarielle. Perhaps the creature judged them the greatest threat, or maybe he simply wished to enjoy their agony. ‘YOU HAVE NO NEED TO BARGAIN. THE SOUL OF THE EVERCHILD IS NOT MINE TO GIVE. LIKE ALL OF YOUR KIND, SHE IS ALREADY FODDER FOR THE DARK PRINCE,’ Nagash said. Alarielle’s hand lashed out, catching Tyrion in the chest, stopping him before he could lunge at the liche.

  Teclis could feel the other Incarnates gathering their powers now. Malekith and Gelt would act first, before the others. Caradryan would act last, despite being bound to the most impulsive of winds. He would wait for Alarielle, or Tyrion. The Emperor, as ever, stood to the side. Teclis could almost see the wheels turning in the human’s mind. The Emperor glanced at him, and gave a barely perceptible nod. He had figured out Nagash’s ploy as well.

  ‘INSTEAD,’ Nagash went on, ‘I WILL OFFER YOU THE ARCHITECT OF HER DEATH, TO DO WITH AS YOU WILL.’ As he spoke, Mannfred threw a triumphant look at Arkhan the Black. That look crumbled into abject horror, as Nagash turned and fastened one great metal claw on the back of the vampire’s head, hoisted him from his feet, and tossed him towards Tyrion and Alarielle without hesitation.

  Mannfred str
uck the dais with a resounding crack, and flailed helplessly for a moment, his face twisted in shock. ‘No,’ he shrieked. ‘No, it wasn’t me! I didn’t kill her, it was…’ Whatever he’d been about to say was lost as Tyrion’s blade descended like a thunderbolt. Mannfred barely avoided the blow, scrambling to his feet, his own sword in hand. He whirled, looking for an exit, some avenue of escape, but a crackling flare of amethyst light rose and spread between the trees at the merest twitch of Nagash’s talons.

  ‘No, I’ve come too far, sacrificed too much to be your scapegoat,’ the vampire snarled. He turned back and forth, blade extended, trying to keep everyone at bay simultaneously. He looked at Nagash. ‘I served you! I brought you back, and this is how I am to be repaid?’

  ‘YOU STILL SERVE ME, MANNFRED VON CARSTEIN. YOU HAVE SERVED ME IN LIFE, AND YOU WILL CONTINUE TO DO SO BY YOUR DEATH.’ Nagash cocked his head. ‘REST ASSURED THAT IT IS APPRECIATED.’

  Mannfred threw back his head and howled. He sprang from the dais, quick as a cat, and lunged for Nagash. His blade slammed down. Nagash caught the blow on his palm, and wrenched Mannfred from the air. The vampire tumbled end over end. He struck the ground, bounced, and lay still. Nagash held up the trapped sword, and his talons flexed. The blade shattered as if it were spun glass. The pieces fell to the ground in a glittering cascade, one by one, thumping into the dead grass.

  Mannfred pushed himself to his feet. His eyes were empty, void of emotion. Teclis felt nothing. This was not victory of any sort or kind. It was a thing which had to be done for the greater good, and that drained it of any satisfaction it might have otherwise provided. Mannfred was to be but one more body for the foundations, rather than a conquered enemy. He met the vampire’s gaze, and saw a spark in the blackness. A refusal to surrender to fate. In the end, that was all vampires really were. Survival instinct given form and voice.

  Mannfred made to speak.

  Nagash cut him off with but a gesture. Bonds of amethyst formed about the vampire, mummifying him in dreadful light. Soon, a cocoon of death magic hovered above the ground, occasionally twitching as its occupant tried to free himself.

  A hush fell over the glade. Nagash stood silent and still, his gift hovering behind him, ready to be delivered into the hands of his prospective allies, if they agreed. No one spoke, however. Some were shocked by Nagash’s actions. Others wondered if it were merely a ruse. Teclis wasn’t shocked, nor did he believe it was a trick.

  The liche’s skull creaked as it swivelled to face him. The eerie light that flickered within Nagash’s sockets flared. Teclis stared back, unperturbed, at least outwardly. He had faced Nagash twice before, once in the quiet of Nagashizzar, many years ago, when he had tried to enlist the Great Necromancer’s darkling spirit as an ally against the growing shadow in the north. Nagash had refused then. Teclis wondered if the creature regretted that refusal now, when he was being forced to give up one of his servants as the price for what he could have once had freely. No, Teclis thought. No, you regret nothing. Such emotions have long since turned to dust in the hollow chasms of your memory. He smiled sadly. Lucky for you, I have regret enough for all of us.

  Teclis looked at his brother. ‘Well, brother?’

  Tyrion glanced at Teclis, and then looked at Alarielle. He made as if to offer her his hand, but turned away instead. ‘Honour is satisfied,’ Tyrion said. Alarielle stared at him for a moment, and then returned to her throne.

  ‘Honour is satisfied,’ she repeated, softly.

  Malekith, who had watched them in silence the entire time, gestured sharply and returned to his seat. ‘Time itself is our enemy. As such, if… honour is satisfied, then I withdraw my objection.’

  Teclis looked at Gelt. ‘And you, Balthasar Gelt?’ Gelt said nothing. After a moment, he nodded tersely. Teclis looked at the others. Caradryan shrugged. The Emperor nodded. Teclis sighed in relief. He turned his attentions to Nagash. ‘You heard them, necromancer. Mannfred is ours, and in return, you will be allowed a place on the Council of Incarnates.’

  ‘A PRETTY NAME. AND WHAT IS THIS COUNCIL, LOREMASTER?’

  Teclis ignored the mention of his former position. ‘That should be obvious, even to one as removed as you.’ He met Nagash’s flickering gaze directly.

  ‘It is a council of war.’

  NINE

  Somewhere beneath the Eternal Glade

  Mannfred von Carstein cursed himself for a fool. It had become his mantra in the days following his betrayal and incarceration. He sat in the dark, constrained by a cage of living roots. The enchantments which had been laid upon his prison were a source of constant discomfort. He could not even muster the smallest cantrip.

  This, he thought, this is how I am repaid? He had been loyal, hadn’t he? Loyalty must run both ways, though. He had served faithfully and honestly, and how had he been repaid? With the loss of all that he had fought for, with betrayal and punishment for a crime he had not even committed. It had been Arkhan who had slit the elf maiden’s throat, and used her blood to revive Nagash. Why hadn’t Nagash dispensed with the liche instead? Arkhan had served his purpose – he was a shell now. Nothing but an extension of his master’s will.

  Maybe that was it. Neferata had said it herself – Nagash despised anything that wasn’t Nagash. And what Nagash despised, he feared as well. Do you fear me, Undying King? Even after all I have sacrificed on your behalf?

  For the first few hours of his imprisonment, he had raged and ranted, hoping to attract the notice of guards, or, even better, one of the Incarnates. He thought that if he could but tell them the truth of things, they would see how Nagash had tricked them. He couldn’t say what he thought that might accomplish. He knew, now that he was imprisoned, he would not be freed, even if he proved his relative innocence. But to see Nagash defeated, or even destroyed, and Arkhan with him, was too tantalising a dream to relinquish.

  But no guards came, if there even were guards. None of his enemies came, to gloat or to accuse. He was left alone in the dark, without the sorcery that was his birthright. Worse than his lack of magics, he could feel the very stuff of him draining away, as if the trees above him were drawing sustenance from his bones. The magics that permeated him were being siphoned off, and likely transmuted into new and vibrant growths above. A vampire being vampirised, he thought, and not for the first time. Under different circumstances, he might even have seen the humour of it all. As it was, he filled his days with plotting ever more savage revenge schemes for the day of his inevitable freedom.

  And he would be free. That was the certainty which sustained him, even as his prison sought to suck the life from him. He had been buried before, more than once. Trapped in the dark. But he had always returned. Like Nagash himself, he had mastered death. It was not the end. He pushed himself to his feet. He looked up. ‘Do you hear me? It is not the end! I still live, and while I live, I…’ He trailed off. Someone was clapping. He whirled, a snarl splitting his features. ‘Who dares mock me? Show yourself!’

  ‘“Who dares mock me,” he asks. Would you like a list?’ Vlad von Carstein said, as he stepped out of the shadows and stood before the cage. He seemed healthy for a dead man, Mannfred thought. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope that Vlad had come to free him. Then common sense reasserted itself, and he took a wary step back.

  ‘Come to gloat, old man?’ Mannfred said. He glared at Vlad, wishing that he could kill with a glance. ‘Or maybe you’ve come to finally put me out of my misery. Well, took you long enough. I was beginning to wonder how many assassination attempts it would take…’

  ‘I’m not going to kill you, boy. The world has seen enough change, in my opinion.’ Vlad leaned against the roots that made up the bars of Mannfred’s prison and stared at him. ‘You are only alive because I asked him to spare you.’

  ‘Did you really?’ Mannfred spat.

  Vlad smiled. ‘Well, not exactly. I pointed out that your suffering would
make a better peace offering than your death. And Nagash, being, well, Nagash, thought that made sense.’

  ‘Remind me to thank you at the first opportunity,’ Mannfred said.

  Vlad frowned. ‘I did it for you, boy. Whatever you think, whatever self-deluding lie is even now burrowing into the sour meat of what passes for your brain, know that what I did, I did for you.’ He leaned forwards, gripping the ancient roots. ‘You are still my… friend. My student. Even now. Even here.’

  ‘And that is all I will ever be, as long as you walk this world,’ Mannfred said. He slid down the wall and sat. Hands dangling across his knees, he laughed bitterly. ‘I will always be in the shadow of giants. You, Neferata, Abhorash… even that old monster W’soran. You carved up the world before I realised what was happening.’ He smiled. ‘I wonder where they are now.’

  ‘Neferata is doing what she has always done, boy. She rules.’

  Mannfred grunted. ‘Yes. She rules the land we bought in blood and fire.’

  Vlad chuckled. ‘Such is the way of queens.’ He leaned his head against the roots. ‘W’soran is dead, I think. If such a thing can die. Otherwise he would be here, with us, scheming away.’

  ‘And Abhorash?’

  Vlad was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Abhorash fights. But he fights alone. He will not serve Nagash, or any man. Even so, some small part of the world will survive the coming conflagration, thanks to him. Where Abhorash stands, the enemy will never triumph.’

  Mannfred looked at him. ‘You know where he is,’ he said finally.

  ‘I’ve made it my business to know where my people are. Especially him. Walach’s bloodthirsty lunatics were but pale shadows of the Red Dragon. Even Krell would not be able to match him. There is nothing alive or dead in this world that can, I think.’ He sighed. ‘What I wouldn’t give to fight beside him once more.’ His gaze turned inwards, and his expression lost its mask of jocularity. Mannfred studied him in silence. For the first time in their long, often bitter association, Vlad looked his age – old beyond reckoning, and battered on the rocks of existence. ‘We should, all of us, the last sons and daughters of Lahmia, be here. We were the first, and we should be here at the last.’