CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Temple of Ulric, the Ulricsmund

‘How tedious. Surely we are all capable commanders. I do not need my hand held, even if I were intending to commit myself to an afternoon of carnage,’ Sigvald the Magnificent groaned, one arm flung over his head as he reclined on the steps of the dais which led up to Archaon’s throne. ‘Dechala, my love, please inform the Everchosen that I am afflicted with ennui and will be unable to sully my fingers with the grime of battle today.’ He flapped a hand at the serpentine shape of the daemon princess known as Dechala the Denied One.

Dechala possessed the upper body of the beautiful elven princess she had once been, and the lower body of an immense serpent. She hissed at Sigvald. Whether it was a sign of annoyance, or some form of flirtation, Canto could not say. He watched as she slithered closer to the manacled form of the elf mage, Teclis, where he lay huddled next to the dais. His robes were filthy and blackened and his face was turned away from the gathering, but Canto knew he was still paying close attention, even so. He was a cool one, was the elf, and he stank of powerful magics. Even though he was a prisoner, Canto knew it was best not to get too close to him. Dechala, however, seemed unconcerned. She caressed him gently, as if trying to tease a lover awake, and leaned close, her tongue flickering.

She caught Canto watching her, and wrinkled her nose in a fashion that had him momentarily forgetting the six arms and the spiky bits. Don’t even think it, Canto, he thought. Those who knew such things said that Dechala’s embrace was a moment of pleasure, followed by an eternity of pain. She had been in Ind, he knew, alongside Arbaal, bringing the wrath of the gods down on that far land, until she and her rival had been scooped up by whatever dark forces were responsible for such things and brought to Middenheim.

He turned away as one of the others he’d brought to the temple at Archaon’s behest made his feelings known. ‘Cease your prattling, Geld-Prince,’ Arbaal the Undefeated rumbled. ‘The gods have called us here to do battle with their enemies. Would you deny their wishes?’

‘And are you so arrogant as to know the wishes of a god not your own?’ the horned, winged creature known as Azazel, the Prince of Damnation, purred as he sauntered out from behind Archaon’s throne. The daemon prince’s talons clicked across the haft of Ghal Maraz, where it was mounted above the throne.

Arbaal growled wordlessly and hefted his axe. A large, scaly paw pressed itself to his cuirass, stopping him from hurling himself at Azazel. ‘None of us know the will of the gods,’ Throgg, the self-­proclaimed King of the Trolls, rasped. ‘At least not until it is too late.’ The troll was larger than any other of his kind that Canto had ever had the misfortune to run across. And his eerie self-control was equally as disturbing as Dechala’s sinuous attempts at seduction. They said the troll had been plucked from Kislev by the whims of the gods, and that he bore the marks of battle on him. Canto wondered who would be insane enough to go toe-to-toe with Throgg. Then, he wondered whether they had survived.

‘All I know is that I was enjoying the finest flesh Parravon had to offer, before I was whisked back to this inglorious termite mound,’ Sigvald said. ‘I am without even my sword-boy, or my mirror-eunuchs. How am I expected to perform without my mirror-eunuchs?’

‘We all have our burdens to bear, Geld-Prince,’ Mannfred von Carstein said. The vampire examined his talons, not looking at Sigvald, or, more pointedly, at the shrouded figure of Isabella von Carstein, who stood well away from the creature who shared her name. The two vampires had studiously ignored one another since Mannfred’s arrival.

Canto watched Mannfred warily. He still didn’t understand why Archaon had allowed the beast, or, for that matter, creatures like the renegade dark elf priestess Hellebron, into the city. They were treachery incarnate, and if they knew what the Everchosen was planning – indeed, if any of the gathered champions knew – they would turn on him in an instant. ‘And in any event, eunuchs are easily replaced,’ Mannfred continued.

‘Are you volunteering, prince of leeches?’ Sigvald purred. ‘I believe I have just the paring knife for you…’

Mannfred laughed. ‘Would that I could, barbarian.’ The vampire turned his red gaze on Sigvald. ‘Would that I could match my strength against yours, but… well. We have enemies enough, I think, and on our very doorstep.’

‘Our doorstep, vampire?’

Canto stiffened as Archaon’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘You have brought them all?’ the Everchosen said, gazing at the assemblage.

‘As many as weren’t already engaged, my lord,’ Canto said, as Archaon stepped past him. ‘Hellebron has already brought the foe to battle in the Palast District, and only a few of the skaven are not currently hard-pressed,’ he continued, gesturing to the tiny knot of skaven who stood near von Carstein. The ratmen looked nervous, as well they should have – they were not well liked by their allies. ‘Harald Hammerstorm will do as he wills, as ever. And the other warlords send their regrets, I’m sure.’ Not that there were many of the latter left. Most of the champions and warlords worth the name had already gone to join the gods, in one fashion or another. Those that hadn’t died in the taking of the city, or during the assault on Averheim, had crossed Archaon and paid for that temerity with their lives.

‘What of the Broken King?’ Archaon asked, his amusement evident.

Mannfred and Isabella were not the only dead things in Archaon’s service. The Broken King was another – a foreign potentate, ruler of a dead land, clad in shattered vestments and filthy wrappings. He was one of the skeletal princes of far Nehekhara, though which one, he had never revealed, even as he prostrated himself before the Everchosen’s throne in the months after the destruction of Averheim.

‘He has already gone to confront the enemy,’ Canto said. In truth, he did not know where the Broken King was, or what he was up to, and he did not feel like hunting the creature down to ask it. Let it live or die, as it wished.

Archaon said nothing for long moments. Then he shook himself slightly, and murmured, ‘Monsters and fools. How fitting.’ He looked around. ‘We are besieged. You all know this, and you know too that this is the last roll of the dice for our enemies. This is the last gasp of the civilised lands, and when this battle is done… the gods will reward us.’ Archaon made a fist. Canto felt a chill streak through him, and he glanced upwards, towards the red sky clearly visible through the shattered dome of the temple.

The gods are watching, he thought. But he didn’t think they particularly cared who won. He looked at Archaon. You don’t either. Not really. Because you think you’ve already won. It’s a foregone conclusion to you… Because it wasn’t about battles or enemies for Archaon. Not now. Now it was all about time and fire. While the rest fought, he contented himself with stoking the flames. Canto gripped the hilt of his sword and wondered how one might escape those flames when one was already in the pot.

Archaon was still talking. ‘The enemy are scattered, for now. If we are quick, we might be able to destroy them piecemeal. If not, well…’ He spread his hands. ‘Such is the will of the gods.’ He gestured to Arbaal. ‘Most important are those closest to hand. A host of elves is on our doorstep, just east of here. Their skulls are yours, should you wish.’

Arbaal nodded silently. Archaon looked at Dechala. ‘You will take the south – the Sudgarten. The enemy muster there as well.’ As the elf-snake hissed her agreement, Archaon motioned to Isabella. ‘And you, countess… you shall reinforce Hellebron in the Palast District. Catch the enemy between the engines of blood and pox, and crush them.’

Isabella, face hidden behind her veil, gave no sign that she’d heard. Instead, she simply turned and strode away, accompanied by Arbaal and Dechala. Canto looked towards the dais and saw that Azazel was gone as well, though the daemon prince had been given no orders. Archaon didn’t seem concerned for such trivialities. He turned to the skaven. ‘Darkendwel,’ he said, addressing the large shape which crouched above the knot of skaven warlords, perched high on a broken statue.

The shadowy shape of the skaven verminlord twitched as Archaon spoke its name. The squabbling warlords and seers gathered about it fell silent as the Everchosen turned to face Darkendwel. ‘The orcs in the merchant district. Do they fight alongside the others?’ Archaon asked. ‘Have our enemies grown so desperate as to elicit the aid of mindless savages?’

‘No, O most mighty King-With-Three-Eyes,’ the verminlord chittered. It hesitated, and then added, ‘Or such does not appear to be the case.’

‘Then find out,’ Archaon rumbled. ‘Lead them towards… the Wynd, I think. Let us see if they prefer the elves as playmates.’ Archaon cocked his head, as if in thought. Then, ‘I was sorry to hear that your fellow verminlord, Visretch, fell to the blade of the elf-prince, Tyrion. I had much I wished to discuss with him, when the time came.’ Canto smiled as Darkendwel tensed. One of the verminlords had been responsible for killing Valten, against Archaon’s wishes. The Everchosen hadn’t found out which one had struck the blow, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

‘He died in your name, O most magnificent god-king,’ the verminlord intoned.

‘Then you can do no less,’ Archaon said. He turned and pointed at Sigvald. ‘The dead are yours. I want the skull of this so-called Undying King for a drinking cup, Geld-Prince.’ Archaon glanced at Throgg. ‘You will take your forces and join him. Sigvald will require assistance.’

‘I require no such thing,’ Sigvald said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘And I will not share my glory with an ape in a crown.’ He gestured dismissively towards Throgg. ‘I can barely tolerate his smell… How do you expect me to fight alongside him?’

‘I do not,’ Archaon said simply. ‘I expect you to die beside him. Perhaps I am mistaken. I am curious to see which it is.’

Sigvald gaped at him. The Geld-Prince’s hand strayed towards the hilt of his sword, but Throgg reached him first. One scaly hand clamped down hard, trapping Sigvald’s hand and wrist. The troll-king grinned unpleasantly. ‘Come, beautiful one. We have carrion birds to feed, and dead men to set to rest,’ Throgg rumbled. Sigvald jerked his hand free of the brute’s grip and hurried away, Throgg trailing after.

‘And what of me, O mighty Everchosen? What are your commands for me?’ Mannfred said, bowing obsequiously, as they left. Archaon climbed the dais and took down Ghal Maraz before he glanced at him.

‘Go where thou wilt, and die as you wish, leech. I have no commands for you, save that you remember whose side you have chosen, and that the gods have your scent, and they will harry you to destruction, should you forget.’ Archaon gestured dismissively with the hammer.

Canto smiled slightly, pleased. Mannfred annoyed him. Only room enough for two lickspittles in this court, I’m afraid, he thought. As if the vampire had heard his thoughts, Mannfred turned a red-eyed glare on him. Canto’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but Mannfred stormed past him, trailing shadow and the stink of old blood in his wake.

‘I’m going to have to kill him, I think,’ he said, without thinking.

‘Possibly,’ Archaon said. He still held Ghal Maraz in his hands. ‘Then, possibly, it shall become unnecessary before long. It is all winding down, Canto. Can you not hear it? The wind which howls through the streets is the dying gasp of this sad world. The tremors which shake this mountain are but its death-shudders. Soon, it will all be done. All lies revealed, all gods thrown down, and the earth and sky made one.’

Canto shivered in his armour. His hand was still around the hilt of his sword. One blow, that’s all it would take… One swift blow, and then… Cathay, he thought. Only there wasn’t a Cathay any more, or an Araby, or anywhere that wasn’t here. Still… just one blow…

‘It would take more than one, Canto, and you know it,’ Archaon said, softly. He did not turn around. Canto froze nonetheless. ‘You had your chance once, to change the fate of all things, and you squandered it. You ran, rather than make a choice. In the end, it all comes down to choices, Canto. You chose to remain a man, in a world fit only for monsters. And now you face another choice.’

Archaon turned, Ghal Maraz swinging loosely in his grip. ‘The gods are always of two minds, Canto. One mind says strike, and the other says hold. The gods see all possibilities and none, and they are blinded by this wealth of knowledge. So they plot within plot, and scheme against themselves, even in their moment of victory. For if I succeed, the game ends. The world ends and their playthings are but ashes on the cosmic wind.’ He lifted the ancient hammer, turning it slightly in his grip, as if to admire the way the light glinted off the runes which marked its surface. ‘Like this hammer, the Dark Gods are both creator and destroyer, and they cannot make up their minds as to which they are in any given moment.’

He swung the hammer experimentally. ‘They are idiot gods, Canto – they are more powerful than you can conceive, but in truth, they are little better than giggling imbeciles, drawing shapes in the mud. They will crush this world into dust and blow it away, and then move on to some other world, some other place where the game begins again. That is the truth of it.’ Archaon tossed the hammer aside carelessly, and it thumped down with a hollow clang. ‘In a way, you were wise not to pledge your allegiance to any of them. That alone has given you the will to decide your own fate. The others will fight, because their gods demand blood. But you have a choice. Indeed, you have so many choices that I cannot help but envy you. I have no choices left to make, and am bound to my path.’

Canto shook his head. ‘What… what choices?’ he croaked.

‘You could kill me,’ Archaon said. He spread his arms. ‘It might be enough to halt what has begun. With me dead, the gods would certainly turn away, though whether in satisfaction or anger, I cannot say. Or you could run. You could flee, and live for however long the world remains. I will not stop you.’ Archaon crossed his arms. ‘You could fight. You could be Unsworn no more, and perhaps even gain some measure of power in these final hours. Become a demigod like Azazel or Dechala, eternal and inhuman.’

Canto stared at him. After a moment, he said, ‘None of those sound particularly enjoyable.’ He looked down at his hand, clamped tight to the hilt of his sword, and, not for the first time, thought of Count Mordrek and the way he’d died. An ending, that’s all any of us are after, he thought.

‘Nonetheless, the choice is upon you at last. What do you wish to do, Unsworn?’ Archaon asked. ‘Which road will you take? Once, you showed some small touch of mercy, and spared the world its due punishment. Now, you have that chance again. Will you show it mercy a second time?’ There was something in Archaon’s voice which made Canto hesitate. A note of pleading perhaps, or resignation. It was the voice, not of a conqueror, or a great champion, but a man tired unto death, and wanting only oblivion.

Run and hide or stand and fight, Unsworn – your appointed hour has come round at last, he thought. He’d thought it had passed, but Middenheim, Averheim… it had all been a single moment, stretched over weeks and days. But now it was done, and he could no longer avoid it. He could only choose, as Archaon had said.

Canto’s sword was in his hand, before he knew he had drawn it. There were no voices in his head, no whispers, only the sound of a tortoise of iron and crystal as it trudged on and on, into endless wastes, searching for something that could never be found. His sword slashed down towards Archaon’s head, and then there was a flash of light, and pain and he was falling back – back onto the ground.

‘I hoped you would run,’ Archaon said solemnly. The Slayer of Kings hung loosely in his hand, its edge red with blood. It had cut through Canto’s armour as if it were nothing. ‘If you had run, I could have spared you this, for a few hours more. You have served me well, and without complaint, and I would have liked to have given you that much.’

Canto couldn’t breathe. There was a fire in his belly, and it was consuming him from the inside out. Even so, he still managed to laugh. ‘I… am running,’ he wheezed. ‘Death is the only escape from… from what’s coming.’ Pain swelled in him, choking off his laughter. Archaon knelt beside him.

‘Do you fear the truth so much, then?’ Archaon asked. He sounded regretful, and confused. You aren’t bound to your path, you just never bothered to look for another, Canto thought, through a haze of agony. Were you too scared? Is that it? Are you afraid, Everchosen? And here I thought I was the coward…

‘Whose truth?’ Canto said, his voice barely a whisper. Archaon twitched, as if struck. The world was going red and black at the edges, and the pain had faded, leaving only a leaden weight on his limbs and heart. Canto closed his eyes. ‘I’ll not be forced to choose between dooms,’ he slurred. ‘Let the gods catch me if they can. I remain true to myself.’

Archaon said something, but Canto couldn’t hear it. He could hear nothing now, save the distant laughter of thirsting gods, and the slow, soft wheeze of the tortoise as it walked on, towards the edge of the world.

Canto ran after it.

Teclis watched Archaon rise to his feet, sword still in his hand. He left the body of the Chaos warrior where it lay, and turned towards his captive. Teclis had not caught everything that had passed between them, but he thought he understood it regardless, and he cursed the warrior, whoever he had been, for not killing Archaon when he’d had the chance. The moment had passed now, and it would take more than a blade in the back to topple the Everchosen from here on out.

‘He was the world’s last hope,’ Archaon said, as he turned towards Teclis. ‘I thought, for a moment, he might… but no matter. The way is clear and my path assured. Let the skies weep and the seas boil. Let us be free, at last, of the hideous weight of life.’

Teclis gathered his legs under him as Archaon strode towards him. ‘Not all of us think it a burden,’ he croaked. Archaon raised his sword and shattered the chains which connected the elf to the dais, as Teclis shied away instinctively. Archaon reached down and grabbed the chains, hauling Teclis upright.

‘I do not care what you think, mage. I care only what you see. Come.’ Archaon dragged Teclis up through the temple, onto the ancient battlements which surrounded the shattered dome. Teclis nearly stumbled and fell many times, but Archaon kept him moving with sharp tugs and cuffs about the head and shoulders. When they reached the open air, Teclis gulped it in, trying to clear his mouth and nose of the taste and smell of the foulness within the defiled temple.

Archaon paused at the top of the battlements. The Everchosen gazed out over the city, watching the play of light and shadow stretch across the ruins. Even from here, Teclis could hear the sounds of battle, and see the smoke. He could hear the boom of guns, and the raucous cries of the orcs. And wasn’t that a surprise, he thought sardonically. It made a strange sort of sense. The Wind of Beasts had gone east and found a suitably bestial host. Appropriate, if unanticipated.

Archaon tugged on the chains. ‘What do you see?’ he rasped.

Teclis looked at him, and a dozen different answers sprang to mind. What should I tell you? That the Incarnates are bound together by bonds of magic, and those same bonds are drawing them here? That it is fate, that it has come down to this, and that even the Ruinous Powers are but children in the hands of destiny? But no. Archaon didn’t want to hear any of that. The question had been rhetorical. The Everchosen was no longer a man, but merely a mechanism… a toy, wound up and set loose by irrational beings.

The elf sniffed. ‘I see the end of all you have planned, and the fall of the Dark Gods.’

Archaon laughed. The sound set Teclis’s gut to churning. ‘Such defiance. Do you not fear me?’ the Everchosen asked. There was no threat there. Only a question.

‘What does it matter?’ Teclis said. He examined the Everchosen, studying the stained armour, the ragged furs and the expressionless helmet. Once, he thought, the man before him could have been something else. There was a whiff of destiny deferred about him. It reminded him of Tyrion, in a way. Archaon could have, once upon a time, become the guiding flame for humanity, leading his folk out of the shadows and into glory.

Instead, he had become nothing more than a black fire, blazing at the heart of a world-consuming inferno. You could have been a hero, Teclis thought, and felt a wave of sadness sweep through him. But you didn’t even try, did you? Did you even have the chance? He shook his head and looked out at the city. ‘My life and death are irrelevant. I have played my part in this sorry affair.’

‘Let me tell you what I see,’ Archaon said, hauling Teclis close. ‘I see a battle already won, and the dying spasms of a world already ended. Whether your allies win or lose, I win. Or were you hoping one of them might turn the tide? Your brother, perhaps?’ Archaon shoved Teclis back.

Teclis fell to his knees on the hard stone. He ignored the pain, and glared up at the Everchosen. So certain, are you? So assured of the outcome that it has blinded you to any other possibility. You made your choice, and you expect the world to fall into line with it. He snorted. You are more like my brother than I thought. ‘Armies are not the only expression of strength. And my brother is not who you should fear. It is the Emperor.’

‘Karl Franz is a weakling. A mortal serving a false god in the name of a nonexistent empire,’ Archaon said. ‘I tore his magic from him, and sent him running.’

Teclis allowed himself a wintry smile. ‘I did not say the Emperor is Karl Franz.’ He looked away, out over the city. He could see the lights of the Incarnates, drawing close. And one in particular attracted his eye. He could feel Archaon’s eyes boring into him. ‘Karl Franz died in Altdorf, at the hands of your servants. He was a man, and he died a man’s death. But an empire must have an emperor, and one came who answered the call.’ He smiled. It had taken some time to puzzle it all out.

‘What are you saying?’ Archaon said.

‘Did you really believe that the Heldenhammer would do nothing while you annihilated all that he built?’ Teclis said. He turned and met Archaon’s black gaze without flinching. ‘Sigmar is coming, Everchosen. Even as he came for your predecessors. And with him, all of the fury and fire of this world which you so casually claim is dying.’

Archaon lashed out with a fist, and knocked Teclis sprawling. ‘Sigmar is a lie,’ he snarled. He grabbed Teclis’s chains and jerked the elf to his feet. ‘He is a lie!’

Teclis grinned through bloody lips. ‘I hope I get to see you tell him that face to face.’

Mannfred cursed loudly and steadily as he stormed out of the Temple of Ulric and flung himself into Ashigaroth’s saddle. The great beast groaned as it flung itself into the air at his barked command. Mannfred snarled uselessly as he flew over the rooftops of the Ulricsmund. It was all going wrong; he could feel it. The wind was shifting, but he couldn’t tell in which direction. This is not as I foresaw, he thought. Victory had seemed so certain, then. Now, there was no certainty save that the end was fast approaching.

When he had arrived in Middenheim a few days earlier, Archaon had readily accepted his offer of fealty, even as he had that of the renegade elf priestess, Hellebron, and, even more surprisingly, Settra the Imperishable. The former king of Khemri was the last individual, living or dead, that Mannfred had expected to see here of all places. He’d thought the ancient liche reduced to dust and scattered across the sands of his beloved Nehekhara, after his refusal to serve Nagash as a mortarch.

The Everchosen had seemed amused by these turncoats more than anything. And the Everchosen’s other champions had wasted no opportunity to remind Mannfred of his new place in the scheme of things. He had been forced to defend himself, and his place in the pecking order, more than once. Such efforts had hardly been worth it, however.

He already regretted coming to Middenheim. This disrespect was the last straw. He would not fight for Archaon. Servitude to a jumped-up barbarian was no less galling than being Nagash’s slave, and he had no taste for either. Let them fight one another. He would keep clear, and be ready to take advantage of what remained.

Ashigaroth hurtled on through the sky, as Mannfred turned his attentions to the battles taking place throughout the city. Somehow, Teclis had managed to drag the Incarnates and their followers to Middenheim, but he had not done so in any organised fashion. Nevertheless, they were moving steadily towards the Temple of Ulric, and Archaon. It would not take them long to smash aside the few obstacles Archaon had set in their path.

Mannfred glanced over his shoulder, back towards the temple. What is your game, Everchosen? Why are you not making a more concentrated effort to stop them? What am I not seeing? Since arriving in the city, he had attempted to uncover the reason for Archaon’s seeming unwillingness to abandon the city. What was so important about Middenheim that Archaon would trap himself here?

Thus far, no answers were forthcoming. Archaon had shared his intent with few beyond his inner circle, most of whom were now dead by the hand of that fool, Canto. Archaon’s executioner was nothing special – just another barbarian. But the others had deferred to him, as if he held some special place in Archaon’s esteem. Mannfred’s lip curled. As if a creature like that could be important.

Ashigaroth screamed and reared in mid-air. Mannfred fought to remain in the saddle as the beast bucked and shrieked. He twisted in the saddle, searching for what had disturbed his mount, and saw the sky over the Grafsmund split open, and spit out something like a falling star. He urged Ashigaroth closer, even as the falling thing slammed into the street and shook the city. Badly battered buildings collapsed all about the circumference of the newly made crater, filling the air with smoke and ruin. Northmen streamed through the streets below him, hurrying to confront the new arrival. Curiosity compelled him to follow suit.

The fallen rubble shifted and slumped as the monstrous form of a bloodthirster rose to its feet. The daemon was badly hurt, its unnatural flesh scorched by fire and marked by dozens of wounds, but it did not lack for strength as it tore its way free of the crater. The charging northmen had stumbled to a halt, and, as Mannfred watched, they sank down to their knees before the bloodthirster. As the smoke cleared, the vampire caught a good look at the beast, and he jerked on Ashigaroth’s reins, pulling his mount up and away. Mannfred had studied the servants of the Dark Gods, and had familiarised himself with such entities as the Fateweaver and the Plaguefather. He knew Khorne’s Huntsman when he saw him, and he wanted to be nowhere near such a ravening engine of destruction.

What the beast was doing here, he could only surmise. Archaon had sent Ka’Bandha to claim the skull of the Emperor – perhaps the daemon had simply followed his prey with the single-minded determination that so characterised the followers of the Blood God. The daemon unleashed a roar fraught with almost tangible frustration, and lashed out with the hammer it clutched in one claw, pulverising a number of the kneeling humans.

Ka’Bandha roared again. The surviving northmen, overcome by the daemon’s bloodlust, threw back their heads as one and unleashed a warbling, communal howl. As the daemon strode away, the northmen followed, running on all fours as often as on two legs.

Mannfred shook himself. While he was immune to the daemon’s presence, even he could feel the heat of the creature’s rage. He urged Ashigaroth away, towards the Palast District. The more distance he put between himself and the daemon, the better. As he passed over the blood-soaked ruin Hellebron’s cultists had made of the Middenplatz, a flash of movement below caught his attention. Something black, streaking across a rooftop.

Mannfred blinked. Vlad, he thought. So, you’ve come as well. I thought you were smarter than that. Then, you could never resist a grand moment, could you? He urged Ashigaroth in pursuit, and loosened his sword in its sheath. There was little chance, given the powers involved, that he could sway the battle one way or another. The thought galled him, but he was pragmatic enough to admit when he was outmatched. But he could accomplish at least one thing in the meantime.

Nagash should never have brought you back, old man, he thought. And I’ll see you sent back into the dark before this world ends. Mann­fred smiled cruelly as he hurtled in pursuit of the other vampire. Whatever else happened, whatever fate awaited Mannfred or the world he’d sought to claim, Vlad von Carstein would die.