A shadow fell over her. Heavy, rough hands picked her up, and a voice like the curling of roots through the hard-packed earth spoke gently to her. Durthu. The treeman cradled her close, and the last thing she heard before oblivion swept her under was his roar, as it shook the Middenplatz down to its foundations.
Vlad watched in consternation as the treeman, still cradling the broken form of the Everqueen, wrenched the cauldron-shrine from its frame and, swinging it by its broken chains, hurled it at the remaining blood-worshippers. Then, with another bone-rattling roar, the ancient spirit uprooted its sword and stalked into battle, killing any who dared stand against it, be they elf, human, beast or daemon.
Too little, too late, brute, Vlad thought, as he blocked a blow from his current opponent, a hammer-wielding berserker who’d announced himself as Harald Hammerstorm, as if Vlad either knew or cared as to his identity. If the Incarnate of Life was dead, that boded ill for their chances to see off whatever apocalypse Archaon was brewing in the bowels of Middenheim. He snarled in frustration. To have come so close, only to fail now, was unacceptable. He had lost Isabella, Sylvania, even Mannfred… He would not lose the world as well.
‘Die, beast,’ Hammerstorm roared. He struck out with a looping blow, which Vlad easily avoided. His riposte glanced from the Chaos warrior’s shield, and they circled one another, each searching for an opening in the other’s defences. Why the warrior had singled him out, Vlad couldn’t say, but he was getting bored. Hammerstorm was tenacious, and annoyingly difficult to hurt. Vlad grinned as the warrior surged towards him, shield tilted, hammer swung back. It was the first mistake his opponent had made, and Vlad intended to make it his last. He slid forward to meet the Chaos warrior, rather than retreating, and let his blade glide across the face of Hammerstorm’s shield. The point of his sword pierced Hammerstorm’s visor, even as the warrior’s hammer caught him in the ribs and knocked him sprawling.
Vlad rolled to his feet with a hiss of pain, one arm pressed tight to his side, as Hammerstorm took a faltering step towards him, hammer raised for another blow. Blood was pouring down the Chaos warrior’s visor. He took another step, a third, and then toppled forwards. He crashed down, and his hammer clattered from his grip. Vlad rose to his feet with a wince, and saluted his fallen enemy.
The wind shifted, and a familiar, if foul, stench invaded his nostrils. He whirled and cursed as he caught sight of the diseased host that crashed against the dwarf line, even as the last of the blood-mad berserkers died. Plaguebearers wielded rusty, pus-encrusted blades against the ragtag shield-wall of the Zhufbarak, and where they struck, metal rusted, leather rotted and flesh turned black and swollen. The golden light of Gelt’s magics warred with the malignant wind of putrefaction as the weary dwarfs met their foes with stolid determination. Even as Vlad hurried towards them, he saw his zombies begin to rot and collapse, even as they had in Sylvania so many weeks ago, and he knew, even though he could not yet see her, that Isabella was near.
‘Hello, wife,’ he murmured. A plaguebearer lurched towards him. Vlad blocked a blow from its mottled blade and snatched a flapping length of intestine from its bloated belly. With a jerk, he tore its guts from its thin body, and decapitated it as it fell to its knees, off balance. ‘Do not hide your pretty face from me, my love… Where are you?’
‘Behind you, my love, my darkling light,’ a voice breathed in his ear. The words faded into the buzzing of flies and he twisted about as a blade tore through his cloak, scraping sparks from his cuirass to mark its path. The swarm of biting, stinging flies enveloped him and he staggered as the insects covered his eyes and nose and mouth, as if seeking to burrow into the meat of him. ‘Come, give me a kiss, Vlad. Open your mouth and let me in,’ Isabella purred, her voice coming from every direction and none.
Vlad slashed out blindly, and the swarm scattered. His zombies were all fallen back into the arms of death, and he stood exposed and alone, caught between the dwarfs and the daemons. He cursed and sprang out of the path of battle, bounding from fallen statues to the tops of fire-blackened stakes and finally to the crumbling ramparts of the Middenplatz wall. Isabella would follow him, he was certain. If she did, their confrontation might give Gelt and Hammerson a chance to defeat the daemons. Without Isabella to guide the beasts, they would be easy enough to banish back to the realm of Chaos.
As he cleared the ramparts, however, a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see an abyssal steed swoop low over the wall before alighting on a crumbled tower, just out of reach. He glared up at the creature and its rider in annoyance. ‘Hello, boy. Come to help, or to hinder?’ Vlad asked.
Mannfred sneered. ‘Neither, if it’s all the same to you. I merely wanted to come say goodbye before your inevitable messy end, old man.’ The other vampire leaned back in his saddle and clapped his hands together. ‘It’s a better one than you deserve, I’ll say that for you.’
‘What you know about what anyone deserves could fill a very small jar,’ Vlad said, suddenly weary. ‘I see you’ve chosen a new side to fight for. How egalitarian of you.’
‘Any port in a storm,’ Mannfred said. He frowned. ‘And the only side I’m interested in fighting for is mine, Vlad. I fight for myself, and no other.’
Vlad smiled, and looked up at the dark sky. ‘I was right. You are like Nagash. More like him than the rest of us, even old Arkhan.’
‘I am nothing like him,’ Mannfred snarled, hammering a fist into his mount’s neck, eliciting a snarling squeal from the beast. ‘Nothing!’
‘No, you’re right. Nagash at least has a will to match his monstrousness. He is true to himself, whatever else. But you are a tyrant, just as he is.’ Vlad shook his head, and looked down at the battle below. ‘A true ruler believes in something greater than himself, boy. A nation, an empire, an ideal. Something…’
‘Oh, spare me,’ Mannfred growled. He flung out a hand. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? You have never done anything out of largesse, old man.’ He smacked his fist against his breastplate. ‘Even me – you only took me under your wing because you needed me.’
Vlad grunted. ‘Not so.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I took you in because I pitied you.’ He cocked his head. ‘In truth, I always preferred Konrad. Dumb as a stone, but honest.’
Mannfred drew himself up, his eyes blazing with hate. Vlad tensed, readying himself for his former protégé’s attack. But Mannfred did not attack. Instead, he shook himself and looked away. Vlad frowned. ‘If you’re not here to plant a sword in my back, boy, why are you wasting my time?’
‘Maybe I simply wanted to indulge in the conviviality of a family gathering once more, before I go to forge my own destiny,’ Mannfred said. Vlad blinked, and then turned towards the gatehouse tower behind him, where he could hear the humming of flies. Isabella, ragged skirts flowing, stepped onto the ramparts.
‘Greetings, husband,’ she said. Her musical tones were overlaid with the guttural growl of the daemon that possessed her. ‘Will you not embrace me?’ she continued. She extended her hand, like a proper noblewoman looking to dance.
‘Yes, Vlad, by all means… embrace her,’ Mannfred said.
Vlad glanced back at him. ‘Leave, boy.’
‘And if I choose to stay?’
‘Then I will kill you after I kill him,’ Isabella said, softly. She drew her sword and extended it. ‘This is not for you, Mannfred. You do not belong here, and you will not sully this moment with your rancour and spite. Run away, little prince. I will find you before the end, have no fear.’
Vlad smiled and shrugged. ‘You heard her, boy. This is a game for adults, not conceited brats. Go bother the elves, eh? I understand Tyrion would like a word or three with you.’ He flapped his hand loosely. Mannfred snarled in frustration and jerked on his steed’s reins. The creature took to the air with a shriek, and Vlad watched it depart. He turned back to Isabella. ‘I won’t let you kill him, my love. Foul as he is, the little princ
e is still bound to me, and I owe him my protection.’
‘And what do you owe me, my love?’ Isabella said, stepping gracefully towards him.
‘More than that,’ Vlad said softly. ‘I owe you life, and happiness, and eternity. That is what I promised you, once upon a time.’
‘You lied,’ Isabella said, drawing closer.
‘No. Not to you. Never to you,’ Vlad said, readying himself.
‘Lies,’ Isabella hissed. She came for him in a rush, faster than even he could process, and it was only through luck that he parried her blow. They fought back and forth along the rampart, trading blows that would have killed any normal human, or even many vampires. It was all Vlad could do to keep up with her – the daemon in her soul gave her unnatural strength, as well as twisting her mind. Isabella had always been mad but the daemon made it worse, and he cursed it and the gods it served as he fought.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see her as she was on that first night, leaning over her father’s deathbed as he gasped his last. ‘Do you remember the night we met, my love?’ he said, as they crossed blades. ‘The night your father died, and your deceitful uncle attempted to usurp your claim? Do you recall how the stars looked that night?’
‘There was a storm, and no stars,’ Isabella snarled. ‘And you murdered my uncle!’
‘Only with your permission,’ Vlad said, as they broke apart. She screeched and came at him, forcing him to back-pedal. ‘I loved you then, and I love you now…’
‘Lies,’ she hissed, and her sword slashed down, nearly severing his hand at the wrist. His blade fell from nerveless fingers and he staggered back against the ramparts, clutching his wounded wrist. Isabella smiled cruelly, and for a moment, he saw the gloating face of a daemon superimposed over her own. Beneath his grip, he could already feel the ring he wore employing its magics to knit his torn flesh and muscle.
She stretched out her hand, and took a step towards him. ‘I will enjoy seeing your flesh putrefy and slough from your cankerous bones, husband. It is all that you deserve.’
‘Maybe,’ Vlad said. ‘I left you, my poor Isabella. I swore that I would stay by your side forever, and I… lied. I died. And then you…’
She paused, mouth working. He saw the daemon again, snarling silently. Isabella shook her head, and he knew that she was still in there, somewhere. ‘I… died too,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I died.’ She looked at him. ‘I died.’
‘But you live now, and I live, and I will not let you die again, even if it means that I must,’ Vlad said hoarsely. He thought of his dreams, and hopes, of the Empire he’d hoped to rule and serve, and of old friends he’d hoped to see again before the end. And he thought of a young woman named Isabella von Drak, and the way she’d smiled at him in the moonlight, and touched his face without fear, when the beast in him was awakened. And just like that, Vlad von Carstein knew what to do.
He flung himself forwards as she hesitated, and smashed the blade from her hand. As she lunged for him, he grabbed her arms and twisted them up behind her back. Where her hands touched his, his flesh began to moulder and rot, and he snarled in agony, even as he slid the von Carstein ring from his finger and onto hers. Then, grabbing hold of her, he shoved them both towards the edge of the ramparts with the last of his fading strength.
As they fell towards the fire-seared stakes below, Vlad laughed. This feels unpleasantly familiar, he thought, in the moment before they struck one of the stakes at the foot of the wall. The point of the stake punched through Vlad’s heart an instant after Isabella’s. He felt her go limp beneath him. He felt no pain, or regret, and as his body came apart, he caught her head and pressed his lips to hers. Then she was gone, and what was left of Vlad von Carstein slumped into oblivion on its stake.
Balthasar Gelt shouted an incantation, and felt the Wind of Metal surge through him. The air coalesced about the plaguebearer that had been about to strike down one of his bodyguards, and the daemon was suddenly encased in silver. Steam spewed from the tiny gaps in the sheath of blessed metal as the daemon was sent howling back into the void. The dwarf reached out with his hammer and nudged the statue over. He caught Gelt’s eye and grunted wordlessly, as he hefted his battered shield and moved back into the fray.
‘It was my pleasure,’ Gelt said. He wasn’t entirely sure which of the two Anvil Guard it was – whether it was Stromni he’d saved, or Gorgi. It didn’t matter, in any event. They weren’t the most talkative duo, and didn’t seem to know his name either, calling him variously ‘manling’, ‘wizard’ or the more ubiquitous ‘human’.
He swung his staff about, unleashing a crackling surge of magic. More daemons were erased from existence, ripped apart by golden bolts or shredded by tendrils of thrashing iron. But for every chortling plaguebearer that fell, two more took its place. The daemons were without number, and without fear. They crashed again and again into the ragged and ever-shrinking shield-wall of the Zhufbarak like a limitless tide of filth. The air was thick with flies and screams. Not even his magic could hold them back indefinitely.
The knowledge didn’t weigh as heavily on him as it once might have. As far as he was concerned, he was living on borrowed time. He had cast his soul into the blackest depths, and it was only by chance that he had been saved from damnation. If this be doomsday, I will not flinch from it, he thought, and then smiled at his own pomposity. It’s not like I’ll have the time, at any rate. The world is coming apart and it will take greater powers than mine to hold it together. He tossed his staff from one hand to the other and drew his sword, parrying a blow from a pox-riddled blade. As their weapons scraped apart, Gelt rammed his staff into the plaguebearer’s belly and sent a pulse of magic thrumming through it. The plaguebearer twitched in consternation, and then exploded as a thousand thin spikes of gold tore it apart from the inside.
Gelt swung his staff about like a morning star, and sent the ever-expanding sphere of spikes hurtling into the packed ranks of the enemy. The sphere exploded into a thicket of thrashing tendrils, and at his shouted command, the dwarfs took the opportunity to fall back while their foes were otherwise occupied. As dwarfs streamed past him, Gelt set his staff and roused the hidden deposits of ore in the bedrock of the Fauschlag, summoning them to the surface. Great barricades of molten metal flowered into being between the Zhufbarak and the plague-host.
‘That won’t hold them long.’
Gelt turned to see Hammerson stumping towards him. The runesmith had lost his helm, and his face and beard were streaked with blood and soot. Nonetheless, he was smiling grimly. ‘Good plan, though. Give us a minute to have a wee drink, at any rate.’
‘I think we’re out of Bugman’s,’ Gelt said. ‘You’ll have to settle for water.’
‘I’ll die thirsty then,’ Hammerson said. ‘Out of Bugman’s… it really is the end of the world.’ He tossed his head, indicating the remaining elves. ‘The elgi woman, Alarielle… she’s dying, lad.’
Gelt turned and looked towards the ragged ring of elven shields that sheltered the fallen Everqueen. Her remaining warriors surrounded her, fighting alongside the dwarfs. The treeman, Durthu, loomed over the Everqueen, killing any daemon which drew too close. As Gelt watched, the ancient spirit spread its arms and roared so loudly that a semi-ruined wall nearby collapsed, filling the air with dust.
‘What is he doing?’ Gelt muttered, as Durthu hurled its sword into the leering, bloated face of a great unclean one, spitting the greater daemon like a hog over a fire-pit. The treeman shoved Alarielle’s defenders aside and sank down beside her limp, pale form. Gelt started forwards, but Hammerson grabbed him.
‘Don’t even think about it, lad. Whatever he’s doing, it’s only bound to help, and you’ll only rile him up if you interfere,’ the dwarf said. Gelt subsided, but continued to watch, unable to look away. As he watched in awe, the treeman’s bark-flesh withered and cracked, and leaves fell like dust from his shoulders
and head. Gelt could feel the power flowing between Durthu and Alarielle, and knew, without knowing how, that the treeman was giving of his own life to restore the Everqueen.
The calcified and crumbling husk of Durthu collapsed in on itself as Alarielle’s form swelled with light and life. She rose, her flesh unmarked, her eyes clear. She gently touched the crumbling remains of Durthu and then turned. The light of Ghyran crackled in her eyes, and she spread her arms and threw back her head to sing a single perfect note.
Gelt and Hammerson threw up their hands to protect their eyes as white fire, crested with green, filled the Middenplatz and roared hungrily through the Palast District. It passed over the heads of the remaining elves and dwarfs harmlessly, but where it struck the hordes of daemons, it wreaked a terrible destruction. Hundreds of daemons were reduced to ash in a matter of moments, but thousands more pressed forwards, through the sooty remains of their fellows. To Gelt, it was as if the Dark Gods were determined to prevent them from reaching the centre of the city at any cost.
And why wouldn’t they be? That is where Archaon is, and his devilish artefact, and that is where the true battle is. Not here, Gelt thought, looking around. They were cut off. Surrounded on all sides… save one. The northern gatehouse had been cleared by Alarielle’s fire. As she moved to join he and Hammerson, he looked at her. ‘We must get to the Temple of Ulric,’ he said. She frowned, one hand pressed to her head.
‘Yes… I can feel it. That is where the artefact is,’ she said, wincing as if the thought pained her. ‘But we have no time. Our forces cannot…’
‘No,’ Hammerson grunted. ‘We cannot. But we can hold the way clear, and buy you time.’ The runesmith gestured and Gelt saw one of Hammerson’s Anvil Guard lead his pegasus, Quicksilver, towards them. His heart leapt at the sight of the proud animal. It had been hurt during the battle in the King’s Glade, one wing badly scorched. But though the animal couldn’t fly, Quicksilver was still the fastest stallion this side of the famed stables of Tiranoc. Or would have been, had either the stables or Tiranoc still existed.
The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 36