‘Life’s just not fair, is it?’ Mannfred said, spitefully. Vlad glared at him. He pushed away from the cage, and shook himself, as might one who has just awoken from a long dream.
‘No, it is not. It is a beast, and it is always ravenous. It eats and eats, but is never satisfied.’ He tilted his head. ‘Do you remember the day we met? Do you remember the first lesson I taught you?’
Mannfred said nothing. Vlad looked disappointed. ‘The first lesson was this… nothing stays the same. No matter how hard we fight, no matter how much we struggle, the world moves on. The world will always turn, empires will rise and fall, and if we are not careful, we will be drowned in the ocean of time. We must adapt and persevere.’
‘That is what I was attempting to do, before you came back and ruined everything,’ Mannfred snarled. He shot to his feet and flung himself at the bars of his cage. He slammed into the roots and thrust his arm through, clawing for Vlad’s face.
Vlad stepped back, out of reach. ‘Whatever ruin has been wrought, it was not my doing, but yours. It was your foolishness that saw Nagash resurrected, that saw the elven realms thrown into turmoil, and the Empire weakened in its darkest hour. You pulled down this house of cards, boy, not me. The Dark Gods exploited your hubris, and now we all must pay the price.’
‘From where I stand, I seem to be paying the price for us all.’
‘You might be the safest of us, boy. Here, hidden away in your living tomb. You’ll be safe from the fires that flicker on the horizon. It is my last gift to you.’ Vlad pulled his cloak tight about him. He smiled. ‘Rest now, my son. Your labours are over.’
‘Vlad, do not leave me here,’ Mannfred hissed. ‘You cannot leave me here. You need me. Nagash needs me. I know things, Vlad – about your so-called allies, about our enemies – but I can’t tell you if I’m trapped here!’
‘Nor can you try and use those secrets to benefit yourself at the expense of everyone else. I know you, boy. I know what monster drives you, and I know that if we are to have any hope at all, you must be left here, and forgotten.’ Vlad turned away. ‘Close your eyes and sleep, boy. Dream, and learn from your mistakes.’
‘Vlad,’ Mannfred called out. Then, more loudly, ‘Vlad!’
The elder von Carstein did not stop, or even glance back.
And soon, Mannfred was left alone in the dark once more.
The King’s Glade, Athel Loren
Vlad von Carstein flexed his hand, and admired the way the dappled light which dripped through the verdant canopy overhead played across his ring. He felt better than he had in months. His death and resurrection had cleansed his system of Otto Glott’s blight, freeing him from the pain and weakness which had afflicted him since the Battle of Altdorf. The light stung his flesh, but he relished the clarity that came with such aches. It would help keep him focused in the hours and days to come.
He glanced up at Nagash. The Great Necromancer stood silent and still, as if he were some ancient idol, dug up from the sands of Nehekhara and carted to Athel Loren. Only the ever-shifting shroud of spirits which draped over him, and the flickering witch-light in his eye sockets, betrayed his awareness.
Arkhan, as ever, stood at his master’s right hand. Equally immobile, he nonetheless gave the impression of being far more alert than the Undying King. Vlad smiled. Arkhan made for an effective watchdog. Though he’d been stripped of flesh, the soul of the man yet remained. He was no dull, dead thing, his senses muffled by time and Nagash’s will. For all that he pretended otherwise, there was still enough of the back-alley gambler in the liche to make him dangerous. Much like Vlad himself.
His smile faded as he thought of Mannfred, buried down in the dark. Ah, my boy, what a disappointment you turned out to be. Too ambitious to see the trap laid out before you. Then, if it hadn’t been Mannfred, it would have been someone else. The world was winding down, and had been for centuries. It could not be turned back. It could only be stopped – frozen at the last moment of the last hour, eternally poised on the precipice. But that was better than nothing. The world would survive, in some fashion.
He looked across the glade. As before, only a select few were present. The elven Incarnates, of course, and the Emperor as well. Teclis and the woman, Lileath. The Bretonnian duke, and the dwarf runesmith. And, of course, Balthasar Gelt. Vlad met the wizard’s gaze, and inclined his head respectfully. Gelt too had cleansed himself, his mind and will no longer infected by the spiritual malaise which had been eating away at him when they’d first met on the Auric Bastion. Gelt had fallen, and been reborn as something new and powerful. Vlad smiled again, thinking of his own rebirth; the first, and the hundreds which followed, down the long road of years. He rubbed his thumb over his ring.
Gelt didn’t return his nod. Then, Vlad hadn’t expected him to. He let his attentions wander. He could hear the sounds of battle in the distance, to the west. That would be the elf-prince, Imrik, fighting against one of the many marauding herds of beastmen which threatened Athel Loren. The creatures grew bold, as the world weakened. They had penetrated the forest’s defences, and got farther into its depths than ever before. The elves hunted them now, where they were not fighting them openly, and not alone. As a gesture of good faith, men, dwarfs and even Nagash had lent their forces to that effort.
The Emperor’s man, Volker, led woodsmen from Middenland and Averland as well as foresters from Quenelles in daily patrols through those parts of the forest safe for human travel, and thus likely to be stalked by beastmen. Dwarf gyrocopters patrolled above the pine crags, and Vlad had set loose a few of his more over-eager followers, including Eldyra, on the hunt – a task which the elf-turned-vampire seemed to relish. He frowned. She was self-destructive, that one. Her new life did not sit well with her, and she was ever at odds with her fellow Drakenhof Templars. He had been forced to break up more than one confrontation in the past few days, and his patience with the former princess of Tiranoc was wearing thin.
Vlad glanced speculatively at Tyrion. The Incarnate of Light stood, as ever, near the throne of the Everqueen, one hand resting on his sword. Like Caradryan, Tyrion said little at these gatherings. Instead, he stared west, as if he could see the battle taking place there and longed to be at its forefront. From what Eldyra had told him of her old master, Vlad thought that the latter was exceedingly likely. He wondered if, perhaps, it might not be wise to bring master and former apprentice together once more. Eldyra would be of great help in the battles to come, but she needed focus. She needed to see that there was only one path open to her, and that path was Vlad’s. Whatever the elf thought of the changes wrought in her, he would surely strive to aid her.
And in the lending of that aid, common cause might arise between Vlad himself and the elf-prince. Vlad had no illusions as to the disgust and mistrust his presence engendered among the others. It had ever been such, and it was no less than he expected. But if the Emperor could put aside his distaste, and even Gelt could be civil, then there might be hope yet. The time was coming when Nagash would dispense with him and return him to the dust from which he had been drawn. To Nagash, his champions were but tools, and easily disposed of.
Vlad had no intention of going back into the dark. Not now. Not while Isabella still walked the world, held in thrall to the Dark Gods. And not while the empire he was owed could yet be salvaged. He reached up and touched the tattered seal affixed to his cuirass – the official seal of Karl Franz, and the sign of an elector. Yes, he would speak to Tyrion and the Emperor both, and ingratiate himself to his enemies as only one who had manoeuvred through the adder-pits of the Courts of the Dawn could.
But later, I think, Vlad thought. When Nagash’s presence was not such a sore point for the others, they might be more inclined to think charitably of him and his. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of argument. It was a familiar sound, and almost depressingly so. Teclis and the others were, Vlad reflected, finding that forging such a
n assemblage of disparate powers was one thing, but getting them to work in harmony was another entirely.
Elven voices outweighed those of men and dwarfs here, and it was only thanks to the mediating efforts of Karl Franz that violence had not already erupted between the haughty exiles of Ulthuan and their guests. And the less said about Nagash, the better. Everyone had their own opinion as to what action the gathered Incarnates and their ever-dwindling followers must take next, but none could convince the others. The pendulum of discussion swung back and forth from civil discourse to squabbling arguments, and Vlad watched it all in amusement. This time, it was the sorcerer, Teclis, trying to sway the so-called Council of Incarnates to his strategy.
‘The fate of the eighth wind is of the utmost importance,’ Teclis was saying.
Lileath stood beside him, her face grave. She added, ‘The Wind of Beasts is loose somewhere in the world, and while it is lost to us, your power cannot hope to match that of the Chaos Gods. If we are to have any hope of victory–’
‘And what victory would that be? To save a world already infected by the taint of Chaos?’ Malekith snarled. ‘No, that is no victory at all.’ He rose from his throne. ‘With our powers we might yet seal the great breaches through which the winds of Chaos roar. Imagine it, a world free of Chaos, and of the tyranny of wild magic.’
‘And without magic, what then?’ Alarielle said. ‘Our world only thrives because of it. Rather than dispensing with it, we should combine our abilities, and infuse Athel Loren itself with the very stuff of magic. We can return it to the splendour of ancient days, and make it a fitting final redoubt which might stand against the Dark Gods for an eternity.’
‘No,’ Arkhan the Black said. He stepped forwards, to the consternation of the others. Vlad hid a smile. Nagash rarely deigned to speak to the living, preferring that either Vlad or Arkhan handled such a tedious chore. The living undoubtedly considered it to be arrogance; in truth, Vlad knew that Nagash was ever at work attempting to bring the untold millions of mindless, unbound corpses which had wandered the world since his resurrection under control. Such a feat required every iota of Nagash’s attentions.
‘No,’ Arkhan went on, ‘Nagash shall not sacrifice that which is his by right. Not on behalf of the demesne of another.’
‘Indeed,’ Vlad said, speaking up. He smiled and gestured airily. ‘Especially when there are better ways to use such things.’
‘You will be silent, leech. You are only here on sufferance,’ Malekith snapped.
‘No,’ Gelt said. The wizard stepped forwards. ‘Whatever you think of him, in his time Vlad von Carstein was a military commander without equal. For that reason, if no other, we should heed him.’ Vlad hid his surprise. Gelt was the last one he had expected to speak for him, except for Hammerson, possibly. Vlad inclined his head.
‘The lands from here to Kislev are swarming with the walking dead – bodies without life or consciousness, uncontrolled, but waiting.’ He indicated Nagash. ‘With the power of the other Incarnates added to his own, Nagash would be able to control the dead in their entirety. An army of billions, waiting to be utilised howsoever we see fit. Imagine it,’ Vlad said, gesturing. ‘The Everchosen may have armies aplenty, but they are not limitless, and with every battle, our numbers would swell.’
‘Pah. Why bother with the dead at all? We should send emissaries to my folk,’ Hammerson barked, pounding a fist into his palm. ‘There are mighty holds yet in the mountains. Copper Mountain is but a few days travel east of here. My kin would open their doors to me – to us. And we would have an army capable of smashing us a path wherever we wish to go, or to hold these forests and crags indefinitely if that is your wish.’
‘Hammerson is right,’ Gelt said. He looked at the Emperor, as if seeking support. ‘The dwarfs have always been the staunchest allies of the Empire, come what may. They would not abandon us now.’ Hammerson nodded fiercely.
‘Aye. But say the word, and I’ll send my rangers into the crags. They’ll use the dwarf paths, the routes known only to the dawi, and bring us back an army…’
‘Time is short enough, without wasting it begging for aid from those who’ve already made their cowardice clear,’ Tyrion said scornfully. Hammerson snarled an oath, and made as if to attack the elf, but Gelt held him back. Tyrion looked around, seemingly oblivious to the dwarf’s mounting anger. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘we have an army. The finest in the world – Aenarion himself would have been proud to lead it.’
‘And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Malekith said.
The Emperor spoke up before Tyrion could reply. ‘And what do you suggest we do with this army?’ he asked.
Tyrion laughed. ‘Isn’t it obvious? We take back your Empire, my friend. We rally your folk, province by province. We drive the enemy back, back into the north, back into the void whence they came.’
‘There are no provinces to rally, Tyrion,’ the Emperor said, after a moment. His voice was rough with barely restrained emotion. ‘There are no armies to raise, no sieges to lift. There are no embers of resistance to fan into rebellion.’ He spoke slowly, as if every word was painful. ‘The Empire that I – that Sigmar – built is done and dust. It has been ground under and made as nothing.’
Gelt hunched forwards, leaning against his staff. ‘The Emperor is correct. The forces we have here are all that remain to us. To all of us.’
‘All the more reason then, to take control of the limitless dead,’ Vlad interjected. ‘We can bury them in hungry corpses.’ He looked at the Emperor. ‘And perhaps take some measure of vengeance for the atrocities they have wreaked on our lands.’
‘Not to mention the power that would give your master,’ Caradryan said, speaking up for the first time. ‘What would he do with that army, once our common foe was defeated?’
‘Aye, the elf has the right of it,’ Hammerson grated. He pointed a stubby finger at Vlad. ‘The living cannot trust the dead. My people know that better than most. Bad enough that we must fight alongside elves, but at least the pointy-ears are alive.’
Vlad smiled and spread his hands. ‘You think far ahead for one dangling from a precipice, Master Hammerson.’ He looked around. ‘There is no guarantee that even with the dead under our sway, it would be enough to throw back the enemy. Why worry about the future, when it is the present which is under threat?’
‘Because it is for the future that we fight,’ the Emperor said. He looked around. ‘Survival is not enough, my friends. Nor is victory. One without the other would be a hollow triumph at best, and pyrrhic at worst.’ His eyes met those of Vlad, briefly. Vlad stepped back, his pretty words suddenly so much ash in his mouth. ‘This world is all that is, and will be, for our peoples. There is nowhere that can be made safe, nowhere that we can run.’
As the Emperor spoke, Vlad saw Lileath blanch and step back, her hand at her throat. He wondered idly what secret she hid that made her react so, even as he said, ‘Then what are we even doing here?’ He gestured about him. ‘Beautiful as this forest is, I do not fancy it as a tomb.’
‘Nor do any of us,’ the Emperor said. ‘Which is why whatever else is decided here, it must be unanimous. We must stand as one, or we will fall separately.’
Vlad glanced up at Nagash, and then away. He smiled and shook his head.
It was a pretty sentiment. But it was going to take more than sentiment to sway any of the gathered powers to a single cause.
Middenheim, City of the White Wolf
The Temple of Ulric rang with the sound of footsteps. Robed, huddled shapes scuttled into the dark, hissing and murmuring in abominable fashion. Strange, inhuman figures cavorted in the shadowed alcoves and aisles. Bestial forms clambered through the chains strung across the curve of the dome, feeding off the rotting bodies which hung there.
Pale shapes swayed and danced to the piping sound of flutes before the throne of the Three-Eyed K
ing. They were clad in silks and damask, smelling of sweet oils and perfumes, and their hooves and claws were sheathed in gold. They sang and laughed as they danced, delicately clawing one another and scattering the blood about them as if it were rose petals. The pipers, slovenly, fat-gutted plaguebearers, crouched on the dais and played duelling melodies, as cackling pink horrors clapped and kept time.
Canto Unsworn strode forwards, through the silently arrayed ranks of the Swords of Chaos. To the best of his knowledge, the Chaos knights hadn’t moved since they had taken up their positions some weeks earlier. The daemonettes, in their dance, moved amongst them, but not a single one of the knights so much as twitched. Canto gestured sharply as one horned and cloven-hoofed beauty pirouetted towards him, and the creature dashed away, favouring him with a sulky smile as she spun past him. Her claws clicked across the side of his helm as he moved away.
As Canto drew close to the throne, he tossed the still-smoking helm of Nalac the Eschaton onto the floor. ‘The Changer of Ways sends his regards,’ Canto said, as the pipes went still and the horrors ceased their laughter. The helm, composed of millions of shards of tinted glass, caught the light in a thousand ways. It reminded him of another helm, belonging to another devotee of Tzeentch, long ago and far away. He pushed the thought away.
Archaon, heretofore slouched on his throne, sat up. ‘Nalac. I do not know him.’ He had Ghal Maraz across his lap. Even now, the hammer terrified Canto. No mortal hand would ever wield it again, but even so, it seemed to hunger for death and destruction. His death, and the destruction of those he served. Others had encouraged Archaon to dispense with it, to shatter it, or hurl it from the city walls. Their bodies now hung from the chains above, along with the others who had tested Archaon’s patience.
The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 20