Vlad hesitated. He had seen something there, a shadow-shape superimposed over the man’s frame, a giant made of starlight and the sound of clashing steel. Part of him wanted to kneel and swear fealty to the thing. Another part, the oldest part and the wisest, wanted nothing more than to run away.
Vlad listened, and fled.
THIRTEEN
Prince Imrik, once of Caledor, now of Athel Loren, coughed as the tainted smoke clawed at his lungs. Smoke from the pyres stained the sky, and a film of ash clung to everything in the glade. As fast as they burned the bodies of the beastmen, new pyres had to be lit. The creatures came again and again, heedless and mad.
Nagash’s display had only scared them off for a few days. They had returned, in greater numbers, driven forward by inhuman impulse. The entire glade stank of that madness, and whole seas of blood had been spilled. Whatever else happened, the glade would never recover from the carnage which occurred beneath its boughs.
How did it all come to this? The same thought had rattled in his mind since Ulthuan had broken apart and vanished into the hungry ocean. Could it have been prevented? Could any of it have been changed?
Imrik did not think so. At least not by him. He knew who was to blame, whose schemes had unravelled the very thread which bound their world together. But there was no refuge in recrimination. And revenge – well, there was no time for that either. Whatever Teclis had done, he had done because it had seemed the right thing to do. Imrik knew what that was like well enough. He had made similar decisions himself.
He had joined Malekith’s side during the war for the promise of dragons, and unity in the face of the storm seeking to devour them all. He had sacrificed his own ambitions on the altar of necessity, on the advice of a ghost. Caledor the First had spoken to him in his dreams, and showed him what must be done. Tyrion had gone mad, his mind and soul subsumed by Khaine. Malekith was the lesser of two evils, and whatever else, he was the true heir of Aenarion. Too, he had glimpsed chinks of nobility gleaming through the calloused soul of the Eternity King. In those moments, he knew that Malekith was the only one who could lead the elves into a new, better world.
Unfortunately, the world seemed to have other ideas. Horns sounded, and he signalled his men to regroup. The beasts were coming again. ‘Archers to the rear, spears to the fore,’ he roared. The tactic lacked elegance, but it had served them well so far. Arrows thinned the herd, and the spears did the rest. He and his knights would break any knot of beastmen too strong to fall to arrow or spear. Like Vaul at his anvil, he thought, with grim amusement. He readied himself, testing the weight of his lance. He looked around at his knights.
They were the finest knights in the world, survivors of the battle at the Isle of the Dead. To an elf, they looked tired, worn down. Only duty sustained them. Imrik had long ago run out of words and speeches. He met the eyes of the closest of the knights, and said, ‘Princes of the Dragonspine, ride with the speed of Asuryan, and fight with the valour of ages.’
He turned back to the battle as the first herds burst from the treeline. They pelted full-out, with no discipline or order or hesitation of any sort. Arrows flew, and those first herds died. Imrik sat up in his saddle. There was something different this time. There was something on the air, some thickening of the light and stink of battle. He looked up. Red clouds roiled above the trees, as they had for weeks. Some said that they could see faces in those clouds, but thankfully, whatever lurked in the sky had never revealed itself to him. His horse grew restive, pawing at the earth. Its eyes rolled in fear. He reached down to stroke the animal, and found it was trembling.
The din of battle grew muted and faint, but a new sound quickly intruded. It was as if all sound and fury had been drawn to a single point and squeezed into a throbbing pulse. Imrik saw an arrow take a beastman chieftain in the throat. As the arrow sank into the hairy flesh, it seemed to reverberate with a sound like thunder.
And then, with an ear-splitting crack, the world burst asunder.
The ground churned as the blood-soaked meadows ran like water drawn into a whirlpool. Trees were uprooted and smashed, and beastmen exulted as they were swept away by the bloody tide. Those elves closest to the writhing vortex of blood and darkness tried to scramble back, out of reach of the ground that snagged and grasped at them. Some made it, some did not. ‘Fall back,’ Imrik roared. ‘Fall back!’
The beastman assault had ended, but he could feel the earth screaming, and knew that something much worse was coming. His horse stamped and whinnied in terror, but he held tight to its reins. Whatever it was, it would not find Imrik of Caledor a coward.
Horned figures, red and lanky, burst from the roiling firmament and threw themselves at the collapsing battle-line of the elves. They were joined by baying daemon-hounds, and behind them came shapes even more monstrous – larger than any minotaur, with wings and horns and great roaring voices which called down the blessings of the Blood God.
Imrik shouted orders, but it was no good. There was no discipline, only fear, and his army bent in two and broke as the daemonic horde smashed through their centre like the tip of a blade. He urged his horse forwards, through the broken ranks of fleeing elves. King’s Glade, they’re heading for the King’s Glade, he thought. He had to stop them, though he knew not how. His knights followed, picking up speed as the army dissolved around them. Imrik lowered his lance and pointed his charger towards the largest of the daemons.
His lance splintered as it struck the creature, and it reeled with an angry bellow. But before his steed could carry him past, Imrik found himself smashed from the saddle by a fist the colour of dried blood. He hit the ground and rolled, his body convulsing with pain. He coughed blood as he tried to rise, but his legs refused to work. He struggled to draw air into his bruised lungs as he clawed weakly for his sword.
A heavy weight came down on his back, pressing him flat to the ground. He was enveloped in the stink of butchery and slaughter, and could only glare up at the being holding him down. ‘You are not the one I seek, little elf,’ the bloodthirster growled. ‘And anyway, the Lord of Pleasure has claim on your pathetic soul. But you struck a blow, and for that, I give you your life, such as it is. Take it and run, and do not seek to put yourself between the Blood Hunt and its prey.’ Then, with a triumphant roar, the beast sprang into the air, its powerful wings flapping.
Unable to move, wracked with pain, Imrik could only watch in horror as the daemonic tide flooded towards the King’s Glade.
‘Then we are decided. Middenheim must be taken,’ Lileath proclaimed. The elf woman stood in the centre of the glade, staff in hand, the focus of every eye and thought. ‘Even if it costs our lives to do so.’
Gotri Hammerson let out a sardonic cheer. He had anticipated another day of acrimonious wrangling, but had been pleasantly surprised to find that the Incarnates were, for once, of one mind. Even Malekith and Nagash had no objections to raise. Privately, Hammerson wondered whether it had been the departure of the Bretonnians which had motivated the accord. The absence of Jerrod and his men further reduced the forces available to the council, should the need for battle arise. They couldn’t take the chance that others – like the Zhufbarak – might follow suit.
You might have done us a favour, lad, though you’ll be sorely missed, he thought. He glanced up to find the Emperor looking at him. The man had a slight smile on his face as he turned away, and Hammerson shook his head. He knew for a fact that Karl Franz had visited most, if not all, of the Incarnates the night before. Was that why you didn’t stop him from leaving, then? Did you need a pair of tongs to stir the fire with?