With a shrill whinny, Gelt’s pegasus crashed to the ground and rolled awkwardly, kicking futilely at the daemons which clung to it. The bloodletters shrieked and hissed as Gelt, pinned beneath his thrashing steed, incinerated them with a spray of molten metal. Teclis hurried to aid the wizard. Above them, Caradryan’s firebird cut a sharp turn, as the Incarnate of Fire turned his attentions to the wave of daemons already clambering over the palisade of treemen. Teclis hauled Gelt to his feet with one hand as he sent a cerulean bolt of mystical energy smashing into a knot of bloodletters.
‘We’re out of time,’ the Emperor said, shouting to be heard over the rumble of daemon-engines and the death-shrieks of trees. ‘If we do not escape, then we have lost everything. Even if we survive the battle, the world will be doomed.’
‘What would you have me do?’ Teclis snarled.
‘Use your magic! Get us to Middenheim, while some of us can still fight,’ the Emperor said. He gestured with his sword. ‘Even a few of us might be enough to prevent the Everchosen from ending everything.’
‘I told you before, I lack the power to do that. And even if I could, such an expenditure of magic that close to Middenheim might cause the very catastrophe we seek to prevent,’ Teclis said. ‘It cannot be done!’
‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ the Emperor growled. ‘The daemons will just keep coming until this forest is ash, and us with it. We have no more time, Teclis. It must be now, or never.’
‘I – I…’ Teclis hesitated. He shook his head. He was tired. So tired. The world pressed down on him from all sides, and his mind worked sluggishly. There were so many things he had not anticipated, so many missteps he had made. What if he made another? In trying to save the world, would he only hasten its demise? He looked at Alarielle, but she shook her head, her face pale and strained. There was no help there. He tried to catch sight of Tyrion – his brother would know what to do. Tyrion was always certain of the right path.
Only he’s not, is he? He never was, a voice whispered in his head. It was always you, in the end. Your decisions, your morals, your certainties. But your cold, fathomless logic has failed you at last, just when you need it most.
The battle raged about him. He glimpsed scenes of heroism and despair as he turned, searching for some answer in the confusion. He saw Nagash stand alone and unbowed against hundreds of squalling daemons, like a pillar of black iron in a crimson sea. He saw Tyrion and Malekith, still locked in combat with Ka’Bandha. Through the thickening wall of the palisade, he saw Caradryan vault from his saddle and plummet onto the hull of one of the daemon-engines, his halberd sweeping down to pierce the brass and send a gout of cleansing flame into its interior. He saw newly arrived elves die, even as they rushed to the defence of the Eternity King. A treeman sank down, groaning, its ancient soul snuffed by the fiery barrage from a daemon-engine.
He felt a hand on his arm, and turned. Lileath, her face streaked with blood and soot, smiled gently at him. ‘There is a way,’ she said. ‘My body is mortal, but the power of a god still flows in my veins, and in my spirit. With them, you could do what must be done.’
Teclis stared at her. From behind him, he heard the Emperor mutter, ‘Innocent blood…’
Lileath laughed harshly. ‘I have not been innocent for a long time, king of the Unberogens. Neither have you, or indeed any of us. We are here at this moment because we are the only ones strong enough to withstand the storm.’ She reached up and gently stroked Teclis’s cheek. ‘I have lied, and committed treachery. I have condemned the innocent to death, and sent brave men to their doom, all to prevent the end now unfolding around us. I have done what is required, and if my heart’s blood is the key to victory, then that shall be given as well.’
‘You will die,’ Teclis croaked. He grabbed her hand.
‘We are all going to die, son of my son. It is the Rhana Dandra, the end of all stories and songs. And better I die for a purpose, than drown in horror.’
‘You are Lileath of the Moon. Your voice has guided me since I was but a child. When I try to remember my mother, it is your face I see. Your voice I hear,’ Teclis whispered. ‘Do not ask this of me, my goddess. Are my hands not stained with enough blood?’ He closed his eyes, and held tight to her hand. The sounds of battle grew dim, and seemed to fade.
‘If you truly love me, my beautiful Teclis, you shall grant me this final boon,’ she said. He saw that there were tears in her eyes. ‘I cannot feel my daughter, or my love, Teclis. I have lost everything. I would know peace.’
‘He will do it,’ the Emperor said.
Teclis released Lileath and whirled, lightning crackling about his clenched fists. ‘You do not speak for me, master of apes. If your folk had done as they were meant to do, none of this would be happening.’
‘The same might be said of yours,’ Lileath said. Teclis turned back to her, helpless. ‘He is right. There is no time. You know, in your heart, that this must be your path.’
He wanted to argue. But his words were lost in the scream of one of the guardians which made up the palisade. It was uprooted and flung back by a gout of flame from a daemon-engine, to crash down nearby, twitching and smoking. The sound of battle rolled back in on him, and he could hear it all, in its terrible glory. It was the sound of a world ending. ‘What must I do?’ he asked.
Lileath pressed a dagger into his hands and sank to her knees. ‘It cannot be swift,’ she said. ‘When my spirit flees, so too will my divinity, and any advantage you might gain with it. My death must be slow. It must be perfect.’ She caught his hand, and guided the dagger point to a spot just to the left of her breastbone. ‘There,’ she said softly. She looked at him, and smiled sadly. ‘Are you ready?’
‘No,’ Teclis rasped. Then he rammed the blade home with every ounce of strength he could muster. Lileath stiffened and moaned. He sank down to catch her as she toppled forwards. Blood stained his robes, and her breaths, shallow and rasping, were loud in his ears. The fading spark of her divinity danced across the dark of his mind as he reached out to catch it before it could flee. Several times it slipped his grasp, and he panicked. Then, he felt her hand reach up and rest on the back of his neck, and he grew calm. A moment later, a hand found his shoulder, and he heard a calm voice murmur encouragement. New strength filled him, and he hurled his mind and spirit at the slippery spark of power.
Bolstered, he seized the fading power and bound it to himself, drinking it in greedily. As it suffused him, driving aside all doubt and weakness, he felt her hand slide away, and her body shudder once, and grow cold. For a moment, his mind soared high above Athel Loren, and he could see the embattled mortals as flickering pinpricks of light, struggling against an all-encroaching ocean of darkness. The Incarnates showed more brightly still, the light of their power almost blinding. Nagash alone shone with a darkness almost as complete as that of the creatures he fought.
Teclis saw Gelt sheltering beneath a shield of gold as a bloodthirster hammered at it. He saw Nagash pluck another from the air, and crush its thick bones to powder in his unyielding grip. He saw Ka’Bandha tear his way free of the magics of Tyrion and Malekith, and Alarielle, and charge towards Vlad and Hammerson.
And he saw himself, kneeling, cradling Lileath’s body. The Emperor stood behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder, and he knew the origin of that calming voice, and the sudden surge of strength. Something lurked within Karl Franz’s frail envelope of flesh, something akin to both Lileath and the strange, fierce godspark in the man Volker, but more powerful than either. The Emperor looked up, and Teclis knew that the man could see him.