CHAPTER EIGHT

The King’s Glade, Athel Loren

It had been a week since the arrival of the dead on the border of Athel Loren, and what some were calling the Council of Incarnates had gathered in the King’s Glade to at last discuss the ramifications of that arrival. The week had been one fraught with whispered discussions and late-night visitations as the influential vied against one another in preliminary debate. Too, it had taken a week to debate the truth behind Nagash’s offer of parley. Some had sworn it was only a trick, meant to allow the Great Necromancer access to the Oak of Ages. Others had believed that Nagash himself was fleeing certain destruction and looking for protectors, rather than allies.

For his part, Duke Jerrod of Quenelles suspected that either possibility was likely, or that some other, even more subtle scheme was at work. He had argued fiercely against even allowing the creature into the forest, but, as was becoming clear to him, his voice counted for little in the debate. So, instead, he stood in silence beside Gotri Hammerson and Wendel Volker, and watched as those whose voices did count argued over the fate of the world, and of Nagash himself.

The council was an uneasy affair. Trust was not in ready supply amongst the powers gathered beneath the green boughs of the glade. There was discord amongst the elven Incarnates, though Jerrod couldn’t say where it originated from. Too, none of the elves trusted Gelt or the Emperor, and Gelt, for his part, kept a wary eye on Malekith. The Emperor, as ever, moved amongst all of them, trying to reach an accord.

It wasn’t simply the Incarnates who bickered, either. The elves were divided amongst themselves, united only in their disregard for the dwarfs and men who now shared the forest with them. The dwarfs were uncertain and tense in the trees, and Jerrod had no doubt that the strangeness of Athel Loren grated on them as much as it did his own people.

‘Foolishness,’ Hammerson muttered. He tugged on his beard. ‘Look at it – standing there as if it has a right to exist. Fouling the air with its grave stink. Surrounded by flying books. Can’t trust a book that flies, manling.’ He gestured towards Nagash, who stood in the centre of the glade accompanied by his mortarchs, Mannfred von Carstein and Arkhan the Black. They stood within a ring of spears, surrounded by the Eternity King’s personal guard. Malekith’s Eternity Guard were amongst the finest warriors left to the elven race. They counted former members of the Black Guard, the Phoenix Guard and the Wildwood Rangers among them, and had faced daemons and beastmen alike in defence of their liege-lord. Despite the fierce pedigree of those guarding them, Nagash and his mortarchs didn’t seem particularly intimidated.

Nagash was terrifying, even to one who had tasted the waters of the Grail. He was a hole in the world, an absence of life, heat and light. He radiated a cold unlike any that Jerrod had ever felt. It was the cold of the grave, and of hopelessness. Even here, in the heart of the forest, spirits whined and moaned as they swirled about the Undying King, caught in the maelstrom of his presence. Every­where he walked, the grass died beneath his feet, trees withered, and the dead stirred.

‘Is there any sort of book you do trust, Gotri?’ Volker replied. The white-haired knight leaned against a tree, a jug of something strong and dwarfish dangling from one hand. Jerrod wondered where he’d got it. The dwarfs were stingy with their reserves of alcohol, especially given the fact that it was likely the last such in the world. Then, perhaps they’d thought it wiser to give Volker what he wanted without too much fuss.

Jerrod studied the knight. Sometimes, in the right light, Volker’s eyes flashed yellow, and his face took on a feral cast. Mostly, it happened when Teclis was nearby. It was as if whatever force rode Volker were stalking the elf mage. Though, after the first incident, it seemed disinclined to attack. And thank the Lady for that, he thought. He’d heard the men of the Empire muttering the name ‘Ulric’ whenever they thought Volker was out of earshot, and wondered if the gods were truly gone, or merely biding their time.

Even as he thought it, his eyes swept the glade, taking in the faces of those who might as well be gods. The Incarnates were gathered together on the dais which held the thrones of the Eternity King and the Everqueen. They were speaking in hushed voices, intently and at times angrily. Of them all, only Balthasar Gelt paid any attention to Nagash. Though he could not make out the man’s face behind his gilded mask, Jerrod knew that the wizard was glaring at the Undying King. Gelt’s hatred for the creature had been plainly evident from the moment Mannfred von Carstein had brought word of Nagash’s offer.

The Incarnates were not alone in the glade. Besides Jerrod, Hammerson and Volker, there were elves of every description, huddled in scattered groups, or standing alone, like Teclis, who watched Nagash like a hawk. Jerrod’s eyes were drawn past Teclis, however, to the pale, radiant figure of the elf woman called Lileath, who stood nearby. It was not the first time he had found his attentions fixed on her. She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty which caught him. Instead, it was the vague, nagging sense that he knew her. That he’d always known her, somehow. Where she had come from, or who she represented, was a mystery. The elves seemed to defer to her, though she was no Incarnate.

‘Stop staring at that elgi witch, lad. She’ll have your soul out of your body like that,’ Hammerson grunted, snapping his fingers for emphasis. Jerrod looked down at the runesmith.

‘You know who she is, then?’

‘Don’t have to. She’s an elf. Only two types of elves, manling… the ones that’ll gut you, and the ones that will steal your soul before they do the gutting.’ Hammerson crossed his arms. ‘Heed me well, you stay away from that one.’

‘Are we allowed to associate with any of them, then?’ Jerrod asked, with as much innocence as he could muster. Volker snorted, stifling a laugh with the mouth of his jug. Hammerson glared first at the other man, and then at Jerrod.

‘This is no laughing matter, manling. We’re in their realm, and make no mistake – we’re not guests. We might not be prisoners either, but that’s only because they’re more worried about him.’ He pointed at Nagash.

Jerrod was about to reply when a hush fell over the glade, stifling each and every murmured conversation. Malekith rose from his throne of tangled roots, stone and metal, and said, ‘Enough.’ The word hung in the air like the snarl of an animal. ‘Our path is obvious. We have the beast caged… Why not simply dispense with him once and for all? Let us scour this abomination from the face of the world, while we have the chance.’

He looked about him, as if seeking support from the other elven Incarnates. Caradryan remained silent, which didn’t surprise Jerrod in the least. The silence of Alarielle and Tyrion, however, did. Only Gelt spoke up.

‘I agree,’ Gelt said. ‘Nagash is as much a danger to us as the Dark Gods themselves, and he will turn on us in a heartbeat, if it suits him.’

‘You’re one to talk, sorcerer,’ Mannfred said. Gelt flinched. The vampire smiled, and made to continue. He fell silent, however, as he glanced at Nagash, who had not moved, and did not seem inclined to do so.

Jerrod tensed, and his hand dropped to his sword. Nagash had said nothing, but Mannfred had obviously heard him nonetheless. The creature seemed disinterested in the debate, as if he were above the petty concerns of the living. Part of Jerrod longed to confront the beast – here was the living embodiment of the corruption which had so devastated his homeland, and he was barred from drawing his sword against it.

Frustrated, he drew his sword partway from its sheath and let it drop back with a rattle. He caught Lileath looking at him, and felt a flush of shame for his loss of control. Her eyes seemed to pull him in, and open him up. It was as if she knew everything about him, and somehow found him wanting. She looked away as the Emperor spoke up, and Jerrod twitched in relief.

‘And if we destroy him, what then?’ Karl Franz said. His voice carried easily through the glade. ‘The foundations of the world crumble beneath us as we argue. We have no time for this. He is here, and his might, joined with ours, might yet win us the world.’

‘Oh, well said, well said,’ Mannfred crowed, clapping briskly.

Teclis spoke up. ‘He is right, Malekith. It was only thanks to Nagash’s theft of the Wind of Death that I was able to imbue you all with the powers you now wield. Though I wish it were otherwise, his presence is as necessary now as it was then. He is the Incarnate of Death, for better or worse. His destruction would serve only to weaken us,’ he said. He looked at Nagash and met the Great Necromancer’s cold, flickering gaze without flinching. ‘And he knows, whether he admits it or not, that treachery will avail him nothing, save that he meets his ending sooner rather than later. Is that not so, O Undying King?’

Nagash said nothing. He merely stared at Teclis. Malekith, however, was in no mood for silence. ‘Oh yes, and you would know all about treachery, wouldn’t you, schemer? More even than myself, I think, and I am no novice in that regard.’ Malekith laughed harshly. ‘I never imagined to find myself here, the lone voice of reason in a world gone mad. The beast must die. This I command.’ He sliced his hand through the air.

‘Are you deaf as well as spiteful?’ Teclis spat. ‘Did you not hear me?’

‘I heard,’ Malekith said. ‘I heard what you didn’t say, as well. We need only the Incarnate of Death, not Nagash. The solution seems obvious to me.’ He looked at Nagash. ‘We slay him, and bind Shyish to another… Someone more trustworthy.’

‘More tractable, you mean,’ the Emperor said.

‘And what if I do? Better a weapon under our control than a maddened beast which might turn on us at any given moment,’ Malekith said. He looked at Teclis. ‘Tear Shyish from him, wizard. We shall bestow it on another, of our choosing.’

‘Aye, that’s the way,’ Hammerson muttered, nodding slowly. Jerrod looked down at the dwarf. Hammerson met his questioning gaze. ‘My folk have grudges aplenty against the liche-lord. The spirits of our ancestors will know peace, once that skull of his is pounded into dust.’ He blinked. ‘Though, come to think of it, Malekith has just as many.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘Isn’t that always the way? The wolf-rat or the squig, which is worse? Both want to gnaw on your beard, so which do you kill first?’

‘Squig,’ Volker said, absently, as he stared at Nagash.

Hammerson and Jerrod looked at him. Volker shook himself and returned their look. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Why the squig?’ Hammerson said.

‘Bigger mouth, obviously.’ Volker gestured to his face. ‘Fit more of the – ah – the beard in, as it were.’

Hammerson was silent for a moment. Then his broad face split in a grin. ‘Ha! I do like you, for all that you smell like a wolf den in winter, manling.’ He gave Volker a friendly slap on the arm, almost knocking him from his feet. Jerrod shook his head and turned back to the debate.

Teclis stood between Malekith and Nagash. The elf looked tired. His robes were torn and faded, and his face was white with exhaustion. Jerrod felt a moment of pity – they were all worn down by constant battle, but something in Teclis’s face told him that the elf’s battles had started much, much earlier than their own, and that even here, he found no respite.

‘There is no being in existence capable of containing so much death magic, who would not be as dangerous as Nagash,’ Teclis said. He leaned against his staff. ‘Human, elf or dwarf… it matters not. Shyish would change them, and for the worse, into something other. Also, like calls to like.’ He looked at each of the Incarnates in turn. ‘In each of you, there was something – some kinship – with the wind which chose you as its host. Like calls to like.’ He glanced at Nagash. ‘Nagash is the first, and the greatest necromancer the world has seen. Master of an undying empire, and ruler over the dead.’ He glanced at Malekith. ‘And all because your followers had the bad luck to wash up on the shores of Nehekhara so many centuries ago,’ he added, waspishly.

‘Necromancy can be taught,’ Gelt said.

‘And if it’s the symbolism of the thing, we have plenty of dead empires about… including Bretonnia,’ Malekith added. He gestured to Jerrod. ‘Why, we even have the de facto ruler of that dead land here among us.’

‘What?’ Jerrod said. ‘What are you saying?’

‘You are a duke, are you not?’ Malekith said. ‘The only one amongst your barbaric conclave of horsemen, if I’m not mistaken. Your claim is superior.’

‘Bretonnia is not dead,’ Jerrod said. He looked around, seeking support. He found only speculation and calculation, in equal measure. ‘My people still live. Else what is this for?’ he asked, helplessly. Helplessness turned into anger, as Malekith gave a harsh caw of laughter.

‘Hope is the weapon of the enemy, human,’ the Eternity King said. ‘Your land is ashes, as is mine, as is everyone’s. A haunt for daemons and worse things. The quicker you accept it, the more useful you’ll be.’ His eyes glittered within the depths of his mask.

Jerrod’s hand fell to his sword hilt. He heard Hammerson say something, but he ignored the dwarf’s warning rumble. Malekith had said nothing that Jerrod himself had not thought a thousand times since the fall of Averheim. But to think it, to fear it, was one thing. To say it aloud – to make sport of it – was another. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and strike. Hammerson was right: Malekith was as much a monster as Nagash. The world would be better off without him.

Cool fingers dropped over his hand before he could draw his blade. He whirled. Lileath released his hand and stepped back. ‘No,’ she said, softly. ‘If you do, you will be slain in the attempt. And then where will your people be, Jerrod of Quenelles? Would you abandon your duties so casually? Is your honour so frail as to be torn by the words of such a spiteful creature?’

‘You forget yourself, woman,’ Malekith said. ‘I am king.’

Lileath looked past Jerrod. ‘It is you who forget yourself. King you might be, but I am Lileath of the Moon, and Ladrielle of the Veil, and it is by my will that you have survived to take your place on that throne. My power may have dwindled to but a spark, but I am still here. And I know you, Malekith. Deceiver and hero, arrogant and wise. The best and worst of your folk, housed in iron and forged in flame. You are as dangerous as the Sword of Khaine itself. But I was there when that sword was nothing more than a lump of metal, and I was there too when you were torn squalling from your mother’s womb.’

She extended her staff and used it to gently push Jerrod back as she stepped forwards. ‘If you do not put aside your differences, if you do not unite, then this world will be consumed. There is no time to pass petty judgements, or to exclaim in horror at the choices you have made, or the allies who offer their fellowship. The world is ending. The End Times are here. And if you would not be swept away like spent ashes from a cold hearth, you will heed me.’

Jerrod stared at her, wondering why her names struck such a chord in him. Who are you? he thought. He saw that Mannfred too seemed to recognise Lileath. The vampire’s eyes met his, and the creature smirked, as if he and Jerrod shared some awful secret. Jerrod turned away with a shudder. Hammerson, in a rare display, patted his arm.

‘He was lying, lad. That’s what the elgi do,’ the runesmith said. The words were scant comfort. Jerrod shook his head.

‘No, Gotri. I don’t think he was.’

Hammerson looked up at the knight, and felt a tug of sympathy. Despite what he’d said, he knew that what Malekith had said was more than likely the truth. Or some version of it, at least. From his expression, Jerrod felt the same.

It was no easy thing to lose kin or a home. To see all that was familiar torn away in an instant and reduced to ash. Hammerson glanced up at Volker, and saw a similar expression on the other man’s face. Aye, the humans were now getting a taste of the bitter brew that his folk had been drinking for centuries. And the elves as well, come to that, though Hammerson felt less sympathy for them. They’d brought it on themselves, after all. The humans, though… Hammerson sighed. Humans had many, many flaws, as any dwarf could tell you. But they didn’t deserve the ruination that had befallen them.

Then, who does? he thought. He looked at Mannfred. Except maybe that one. The vampire had a smug expression on his face, as if he were enjoying the bickering that surrounded him. Hammerson frowned.

He had been at Nachthafen the day that Konrad von Carstein had slaughtered the Zhufbarak. He’d been but a beardling, apprenticed to a runesmith, but he still had the scars from when Konrad and his accursed Blood Knights had attacked their position, overrunning it in moments. He remembered the king’s fall, his throat torn open by the creature calling itself Walach Harkon, and he remembered the surging tide of corpses.

Mannfred was cut from the same grave shroud as Konrad. He’d waged war on Zhufbar as well, when he’d come to power, and many a dwarf had perished at his hands. If grudges had physical weight then Athel Loren would have long since sunk deep into the earth, between Malekith, Nagash and Mannfred.

No dwarf would ally himself with such creatures, even in the face of destruction. That, in the end, was the difference between his folk and the humans and elves. For a dwarf, better destruction than compromise, better death than surrender. If the thing must be done, let it be done well, he thought. It was an old proverb, but one every dwarf knew, in one form or another. All things should be approached as a craftsman approached his trade. To compromise was to weaken the integrity of that work. To allow flaws, to invite disaster.

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 struck 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.’