Before he could set his horse into motion, however, he heard the drumming of hooves, and turned to see four riders approaching out of the dark. He tensed as he recognised Vlad von Carstein in the lead. ‘Well met, Duke of Quenelles,’ the vampire called out, as he drew close. ‘Might I have a word, before you leave?’
‘A quick one,’ Jerrod said brusquely.
‘I wished to impart a story I heard, not long after my resurrection,’ Vlad said, dismounting as his steed drew up beside Jerrod’s. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting.’
‘I do not have time for stories, vampire.’
‘You have nothing but time,’ Vlad said. ‘And this is no ordinary story. It is about a monastery.’ Jerrod blinked in confusion, but said nothing. Vlad leaned forwards. ‘There is said to be a monastery, somewhere in the Grey Mountains, where Gilles le Breton has decided to make his stand,’ he murmured. ‘I had it from the mouth of one who rides with us now – a mad creature, whom your folk knew as the Red Duke.’ He turned and gestured to one of the other riders. Jerrod looked past him, and met the malignant gaze of a nightmare out of legend. The Red Duke sat proudly in the saddle of his skeletal steed, one hand on the pommel of his infamous blade. At first, he scowled at Jerrod, but then, after a moment, he dipped his head in a gesture of respect. Jerrod returned the nod before he could stop himself. He looked back at Vlad.
‘In that place, it is said that your king fights beside a knight garbed in crimson, in defence of what remains of your people,’ Vlad went on.
‘A red knight…’ Jerrod murmured. He looked at Vlad. ‘He is one of your kind. Like… the Duke. Like you.’
‘No. Not like that sad, mad warrior or like me. Abhorash is the best of us,’ Vlad said softly. ‘He owed a debt to your king, and swore an oath, and while he fights, Bretonnia lives. In some small corner of your shattered land, the heart of all that was Bretonnia survives.’
‘Why do you tell me this?’ Jerrod asked hoarsely.
‘Because I know that it was Mannfred who broke your faith, and set you at odds with Lileath. And because I too know what it is like to lose everything. To lose your home, your people, even your gods.’ Vlad turned away. ‘I would not wish it on anyone.’ He looked back at Jerrod and smiled. ‘Even a man who, under other circumstances, would be doing his level best to remove my head.’ He stepped back. ‘The Red Duke knows the way. He will lead you to your people, if they yet live. And two others will go with you, to see that you and your men arrive safely, and that your guide does not… get out of hand. Erikan Crowfiend and Elize von Carstein, a daughter of my blood and a son of the Bretonni. They are old, and strong in the ways of our kind.’
Jerrod looked at the other two vampires, on their mummified steeds. One was a haughty-looking, crimson-haired woman, the other a dishevelled, broad-faced man. Their steeds stood so close together that the knees of their riders touched. As Jerrod watched, the man took the woman’s hand. He blinked, and looked down at Vlad.
‘You can trust them. And when you reach your sanctuary, tell Abhorash that…’ Vlad hesitated. He laughed and shook his head. ‘Tell him that he was right, in the end.’
‘About what?’ Jerrod asked, without thinking.
Vlad chuckled and turned away, pulling his cloak tight about himself. The vampire hauled himself into the saddle and rode away, leaving Jerrod staring after him. After the vampire had vanished, Jerrod turned. His people waited. He looked at the Red Duke.
‘Well?’ he asked, softly.
The creature turned his skeletal steed about. ‘West,’ he growled. ‘To the fires beyond the horizon, and into the mountains.’ With a shout, the vampire kicked his mount into a gallop. The other vampires shared a look, and then followed suit.
Duke Jerrod, the last son of Quenelles, inhaled the clean air of Athel Loren one last time. Then he spurred his horse into motion. And the knights of Bretonnia followed.
‘I should not be here,’ Eldyra of Tiranoc said. Even marred as it was by a predator’s rasp, her voice was still a thing of beauty. Measured and graceful, more so than any human could hope to mimic. ‘I have no right to this place.’ She looked from side to side slowly, staring at the trees and the shadows. ‘Not any longer.’
‘And who told you this?’ Vlad said, softly. He walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back, seemingly at ease. In truth, he was as nervous as she, for Athel Loren contained dangers even for creatures like himself. Nonetheless, he felt a sense of satisfaction. After the revelations of the council, it felt good to accomplish something, anything. Even if it was only honouring an old debt.
He wondered if the Bretonnians would make it. He hoped so. There was little enough nobility in the world, and for it to pass away entirely was not something he wished to see happen. What might you have made of them, Abhorash, if you had not made that oath? He smiled. What might he make of them still?
Too, it was good to know that at least one of his bloodline might survive the coming conflagration. Whatever else happened, the von Carstein name would not die. Oh Isabella, you would be so proud of your little Elize, he thought, and then frowned. He rubbed his neck where Isabella’s blade had hacked his head from his shoulders, only a few months before, and thought of his loving paramour and the twisted fate which had befallen her. The gods were cruel, and cunning. They had snatched Isabella’s soul from Nagash’s grasp, and brought her back. They had bound her tortured soul up with that of a daemon of plague and pestilence, in an act equal parts malice and mockery, and set her loose on Sylvania.
It was that attack which had roused Nagash, and convinced the Undying King that he required allies. And it was that attack which had convinced Vlad of his course. In order to save Isabella, he had to save the world. And that meant making alliances, and binding together the separate strands of the remaining forces opposed to the Ruinous Powers, whether they liked it or not. And the only way to convince them to stand together was to give them hope that there would be a world, come the morning.
Of course, it would be helpful if I believed that, he thought sourly. In the attack, he and Isabella had met, and she had killed him. Granted, it wasn’t the first time Isabella had stuck something sharp in him, but it was the first time she’d done so with such an excess of malice. He growled softly, and pushed the thought aside. The Dark Gods wanted him to agonise over her fate, to falter and hesitate. But he was not one to crumble beneath the pangs of loves lost or imperilled. He loved her, and he would do what he could to save her. He would free Isabella one way or another, even if he had to take her head to do it.
That was one lesson Mannfred had never bothered to learn. Loyalty went both ways. He owed as much to those of his bloodline as they did to him. Thinking of Mannfred gave him pause to wonder where his former disciple had vanished to. That he had escaped Athel Loren was obvious. As to where he had gone, well, he had had several days to get there. Vlad pushed the thought aside. Mannfred was a problem for another day, if another day ever dawned.
‘No one had to tell me I wasn’t welcome here,’ Eldyra hissed. She wheeled about, perfect features cracked and uncertain. The beast poked through her bones. Then, it was never very far from the surface in elves. They were as savage as any barbarian hillman, for all the airs they put on. Perhaps even more so. He smiled.
She had been waiting at the edge of the forest while he saw the others off. Given the events of the council, he’d thought it best to clear up all lingering questions, debts and worries. One needed to be free of mind to properly enjoy a cataclysm, after all.