by C. L. Werner
‘This simulacrum is the face of Count Mannfred, the Mortarch of Night,’ Nagash said. ‘I will need his powers to restore my legions.’ At a flick of his talon, he caused the phantom image to alter, now showing the vampire riding an abyssal steed into battle, wielding a ghoulish blade against unseen foes. ‘Of all my vassals, Mannfred has fared the best in his efforts to defy the spread of Chaos.’
Makvar pointed at the apparition Nagash had conjured. ‘There is no need to remind us of Mannfred’s visage. Well do we know that countenance. It is the face of an adversary the warriors of Sigmar have found themselves in conflict with before.’
The simulacrum disintegrated in a burst of wailing light as Nagash extinguished his spell. ‘He rests once more within the expanse of my realm, like a prodigal son slinking back to his home. Perhaps your comrades have taught him humility, or maybe the lesson he has learned is merely to be less audacious in what he would claim for himself. Repentant or unbowed, he is necessary just the same.’ Nagash let his gaze bore into the stern mask that covered Makvar’s face. ‘There are many past slights which must be set aside if there is to be an understanding between us. Do not think the Stormcasts are alone in the matter of old enmities they must forgive… if not forget.’
Silence hung over the hall as Nagash let his words echo in the air. Even if he had heard only Sigmar’s side of the tale, Makvar couldn’t be unaware of the manner in which the old alliance was broken, or of the fate which came upon the Realm of Death as a result. The Lord-Celestant was far from a stupid man – he had imagination enough to conceive how those events were regarded by the Great Necromancer and his followers. Beside the abandonment of an entire realm to Archaon’s hordes, of what consequence were the reckless aspirations of a power-hungry Mortarch?
‘As you say, Lord Nagash,’ Makvar stated, ‘there is much that must be set aside so that we may all focus upon the task before us. The fact that Sigmar has sent us to you is proof enough that the God-King understands this and is ready to forgive old conflicts.’
A rattling chuckle hissed across Nagash’s fangs. He turned aside, looking across his Mortarchs and their followers. ‘Eloquently spoken,’ he decided. ‘The very nature of an embassy is compromise. But do all your warriors share your sense of vision, Lord-Celestant?’ Nagash leaned forwards, fastening Brannok in his spectral sight.
The Knight-Heraldor met the Lord of Death’s cadaverous stare. ‘It isn’t necessary to share my commander’s clarity of vision,’ he said. ‘It is only necessary that I obey. That I remain faithful to my vows, my duty and my faith.’
Brannok’s answer both amused and provoked Nagash. ‘Faith?’ he repeated the word, turning it over as though dissecting it with his voice. ‘What is faith but a mask to hide doubt? What is it but a deceit evoked to goad the feeble-minded beyond the limits of reason? I had imagined it was something noble and rational that endowed the Stormcasts with such remarkable potential, yet within I discover only the atavism of faith.’
‘Faith is the source of my strength,’ Brannok retorted. ‘Faith in Sigmar God-King, trust in his divine power and wisdom.’
‘Be wary where you place your trust, knight, lest you find yourself abandoned.’
‘That is a warning which should be turned towards the creatures which haunt your court,’ Brannok said, pointing at Neferata and her vampires. ‘They are the ones that have been abandoned and left to slink through the shadows.’
‘You understand little,’ Nagash said, ‘and least of all what it means to serve me. Those who do are never far from my reach.’ He dismissed Brannok from his notice, instead focusing once more on Makvar. ‘There is nothing that transpires within the Realm of Death that can long escape my attentions. When Mannfred returned to this realm, he sought to hide himself within the vastness of his old castle of Nachtsreik. Within that labyrinth of crypts and vaults, he defies the hosts of Chaos that hunt for him.’
‘If he is so well hidden, how will we find him?’ Makvar asked.
‘By uniting our powers,’ Nagash answered. He gestured at Huld’s celestial beacon. ‘With the light of Azyr we can penetrate Mannfred’s illusions.’ His skeletal hand closed into a bony fist. ‘And with my might, the prodigal son can be brought to heel.’
The rich silks of the divan upon which he rested caressed Lascilion’s abused flesh the same way the sensuous perfume anointing their folds teased his nose. There was something almost tortuous about such indulgent luxury after the carnage of battle and the agonies of defeat. He wondered if Bloodking Thagmok had the acumen to appreciate the subtlety of such torment. If he did, then he had forgotten the desires of those who devoted themselves to the Prince of Chaos, those who plunged into that excess of experience and sensuality where the borderland between pleasure and pain wasn’t simply breached, but ceased to exist entirely. If Thagmok wanted to punish him, the worst he could have done to Lascilion was to shut him up in an empty box and leave him to rot.
‘You aren’t being punished. You are being offered the chance for redemption.’
The words drifted to Lascilion in a husky whisper, redolent of lewd suggestion and hedonistic promise. The Lord of Slaanesh felt his body longing to submit to those seductive tones, but the fierce will that burned within him resisted the temptation. It was all too easy to allow sensation to eclipse desire, to plunge into vacuous indulgence and lose all appreciation of the very lusts that enslaved the flesh.
‘I have told you before to stay out of my mind,’ Lascilion snapped, rising up from beneath the silk coverlet that sheathed his body. The companions disturbed by his sudden motion went scampering off into the scented darkness of his pavilion.
Strolling out of that darkness was a slim figure arrayed in a long cloak of feathers. A tall helm of reflective gemstones and mirrored glass cradled the proud head that rose above the onyx clasps that held the cloak across narrow shoulders. A pectoral of beads and bones spilled over the swell of more-feminine charms. Small, delicate fingers curled around the haft of a slender staff that seemed at once to be shaped from both crystal and clay. Nodules of metal embedded in its length blazed with some inner light.
Even if her features hadn’t been reshaped by the mutating gifts of the Lord of Change, Lascilion would have been hard-pressed to judge either age or origin when it came to the sorceress Molchinte. That she had strayed far from whatever tribe had produced her was obvious. Such was the way of Chaos. The gods favoured the wanderer, the one who always strove to go beyond the next horizon, endlessly seeking some new novelty of sensation with which to honour their god. Or, in Molchinte’s case, some new ember of knowledge to trap in the web of her scheming mind.
‘If you would put barriers between us, then you shouldn’t have allowed my magic to heal your wounds,’ Molchinte said. Though no sound issued from it, the vestigial mouth that opened across her cheek parroted the motion. ‘Of course, Thagmok would have small use for a crippled hedonist unable to leave his bed. A tidbit for the flesh hounds to toy with, certainly nothing more.’
‘Your ministrations have healed my injuries,’ Lascilion conceded, turning his head and looking at his recent playthings cowering in the dark. ‘I have regained much of my old stamina.’
Molchinte ignored the boast. ‘Thagmok feels you are whole enough to perform the task for which you were spared death upon the skull-wheel.’ A flick of her hand and the sorceress caused Lascilion’s forked tongue to rasp across his lips. ‘You found Neferata once, when all others failed in the task. The Bloodking demands you do so again.’
Lascilion scowled at the sorceress, baring his leonine fangs. ‘I have told him my condition. I have told him that I will hunt the vampire queen only with the understanding that she is mine.’
A contemptuous laugh rose from both of Molchinte’s mouths. ‘How childish are your ambitions, Lord of Slaanesh! Can you not rise beyond your brute instincts! Are you so dull that you don’t understand how things have changed! Did
you truly think Thagmok spared you simply so you could glut your depravity!’
The warlord’s temper rose as the scorn of the sorceress whipped out at him. ‘I am the favoured of Slaanesh!’
‘The broken servant of a broken god with a broken army strewn about the ruins of Nulahmia,’ Molchinte returned. ‘Think, Lascilion! Why were you driven to defeat? The lightning-men, the warriors who came down from the sky. Yours isn’t the first horde to be decimated by them. Across the Mortal Realms, strange armies have appeared to oppose the hordes, seeking to stem the ascendancy of Chaos.’ Her voice dropped to a subdued whisper. ‘The Everchosen himself has communed with Thagmok and given the Bloodking his commands. Neferata has become a triviality, an inconsequence in the greater skein. Archaon is concerned that lightning-men have appeared in the Realm of Death, that they have struck where not even his daemon prophets predicted them to appear. He has seen possibilities behind their presence here. Possibilities that will not be allowed to come into being.’
Lascilion fell silent under the weight of Molchinte’s words. Even daemons trembled at the name of Archaon, the Everchosen who bore the favour of the Dark Gods and had been granted honours and powers beyond the scope of any mortal. There were some who venerated him as a god, and Lascilion wasn’t certain they weren’t right to do so. To know that the Everchosen had heard of his defeat made the warlord’s stomach sicken. But the idea that it was within his power to render a service to Archaon sent his pulse quickening.
‘Thagmok would have me sniff out Neferata as I did before,’ Lascilion said. ‘What then?’
‘Slaughter,’ Molchinte said.
At a gesture, Molchinte drove the shadows from where they clung about the pavilion. Lascilion was startled to find that others had entered the tent with the sorceress. In one corner, he saw the diseased bulk of Alghor Wormsword, his corroded armour straining to restrain the cancerous organs slowly oozing up from beneath his flesh. The semi-daemon Vaangoth, his limbs clothed in shaggy strips of crimson fur, his body encased in arcane armour that dripped with the blood of his countless victims. Orbleth the Despised, arrayed in a patchwork cloak woven from the scalps of wizards and priests, his pallid flesh scarred with the marks of all the Dark Gods and the brand of Chaos eternal.
Amala was among them, the winged mutant’s eyes somehow conveying a sense of uneasiness. Lascilion could imagine her disappointment, expecting reward for carrying the disgraced warlord to the Bloodking’s doubtful mercy. Instead, the Lord of Slaanesh once more held dominion over her. It was a temptation to reach to the table beside his divan and take up Pain and Torment. Striking down the treacherous mutant would be a delightful diversion. But Lascilion denied himself the pleasure. Amala had been useful to him before and could be so again. Later, once she wasn’t so useful, would be the time to dispose of her.
‘These are the most vicious killers among the Bloodking’s warbands,’ Molchinte said. ‘Between us, we carry the marks of the Ruinous Powers, the favour of the Dark Gods. We can slip unnoticed to the places where Neferata seeks to hide. Our command is to kill her, and those who would befriend her.’
Lascilion shook his head. ‘Thagmok expects a handful of warriors to succeed where my entire army found destruction? I have seen these lightning-men. Each of them is worth a score of warriors.’
‘We don’t need to kill them all,’ Molchinte said. ‘Only their leaders. Only those who would draw the armies of death out from their lurking seclusion in this realm…’
Knight-Heraldor Brannok paced across the dead courtyard, staring up at the terraces which climbed the side of the ancient palace. He tried to imagine what this place had been like when Mephitt was a living city and not a vast tomb buried beneath the Mirefells. The empty basins of fountains evoked the gurgle of bubbling water, the barren confines of planters conjured the smell of flowers, the skeletal frames of trellises summoned the comforting shade of vines. A little platform projecting from the flagstones suggested the sound of musicians drawing harmonies from flute and horn.
He closed his hand about the gilded horn that hung from his belt. Those who had dwelt here had been men, people with lives and dreams. At least of such sort as the Lord of Death permitted them to have. Brannok wondered if the city had perished before the conquering hordes of Chaos or if its end had been brought about by some caprice of Nagash, some offence that had provoked the Great Necromancer.
No good could come from such contemplation, Brannok realised. When the rest of the Stormcasts set up camp in the empty halls of the palace, he had drawn away to meditate upon the turmoil he felt within himself. Why was it so difficult for him to accept the situation? Why couldn’t he resign himself to his duty the way Makvar and the others did? Even Vogun, who shared Brannok’s misgivings, seemed more accepting of what was demanded of them.
Brannok didn’t for a moment doubt the wisdom of Sigmar in seeking this alliance with Nagash. The might of the undead was undeniable, the menace of Chaos unquestionable. For the greater good, Brannok knew this merging of forces must come to pass. Yet knowing it and feeling it were two different things. His conscience kept crying out to him, reminding him of those who had suffered under the dominion of Nagash and his disciples. Try as he might, he couldn’t still the loathing he felt for the monsters they had been sent to befriend.
A rustle of cloth and the sound of a footfall stirred Brannok from his meditations. Spinning around, his sword half-drawn from its sheath, he was surprised to see Neferata watching him from the shadows. The vampire queen’s expression was almost contrite, almost embarrassed. Almost. As she smoothed the dark gown that hugged her body, Brannok reminded himself that this was no woman walking out from the shadows, only a monster pretending to be one.
‘Forgive my trespass,’ Neferata said. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude on you.’
‘If there was any truth in that claim, you would have passed me by without making a sound,’ Brannok told her. ‘I am certain a predator like yourself has become quite skilled at moving unseen and unheard.’
Instead of responding to him with the regal disdain and arrogance Brannok expected of her, Neferata lowered her gaze, staring down at the flagstones. ‘You have seen through my pretence,’ she said. ‘I wished to speak with you.’
Brannok started to turn away. ‘If you want to talk, seek out Lord-Celestant Makvar or Huld. They have the authority and the skill to negotiate with a personage of your status. I am naught but a soldier doing as his duty compels him.’
Neferata walked towards him. ‘You hate me,’ she stated.
‘What I saw in your city makes it easy to hate,’ Brannok said. ‘The suffering and terror you inflicted upon your subjects–’
‘They should have fared far worse, storm-knight, had they been given into the grip of Chaos,’ Neferata answered. She shook her head, a tinge of disgust on her face. ‘Who are you to judge, who has only known the righteous protection of Sigmar? Do you know what it is to see everything around you despoiled and corrupted by Chaos? What lengths would you go to if it meant you could stave off that destruction?’
‘Lord-Celestant Makvar has proffered the same explanation,’ Brannok said. ‘I can find no sympathy for it. If everything good and innocent is destroyed to oppose Chaos, then for what do you fight? No, my lady, you should speak with Makvar. As you say, I have no kindness towards you.’
‘That is why I must speak with you,’ Neferata said. ‘Your antagonism towards us is known. None will expect me to seek you out.’ She hesitated, watching Brannok to see what impact her words might have. ‘In the swamp, I sent my handmaiden Kismet to pass warning to Makvar. She didn’t return.’
‘How can you be certain the Anvils aren’t responsible for her disappearance?’ Brannok asked. Despite his animosity and suspicion, he saw the threat such circumstances could cause the Stormcasts and their mission.
‘I am a judge of some quality when it comes to men,’ Neferata said. ‘If you
were to reject my overtures you would do so openly, not in such sordid fashion. No, it is someone else who seeks to prevent any understanding between us.’
‘Nagash?’ Brannok nodded as he considered the notion. From what he had seen, what he knew, the Great Necromancer exerted complete control over his vassals. He wouldn’t abide one of his Mortarchs acting on her own.
Neferata merely nodded. ‘I cannot pretend to know his intentions, but understand that he does nothing without a purpose.’ She paused, her voice falling to a whisper. ‘When we seek Mannfred in Nachtsreik, Arkhan will not accompany us. He has been set another task by our master. While we are hunting for Mannfred’s crypt, Arkhan will be here removing the obsidian domes from the Temple of the Vulture. I don’t expect you to understand the import of that, but know the domes are fashioned from the same stone as the Obelisk of Black that was removed from Nulahmia. Such relics have arcane potential that can magnify the potency of any spell focussed through them.’
Brannok was silent a moment, trying to put himself in Makvar’s place, trying to find the arguments his commander would make. The explanations that would make him still believe in an alliance between them. ‘Maybe he needs these relics to summon the army he will send to aid us.’