No, not the man. Karl Franz had not been a man for some time, Teclis knew. The Emperor nodded slowly, and Teclis turned his thoughts from mysteries to Middenheim. His mind and spirit stretched out, and pulled the disparate strands of the winds of magic to him. Without thinking, without even truly understanding, he began to weave them together, moving swiftly. The last spark of Lileath’s power was already beginning to fade, and the magics he’d harnessed threatened to overwhelm him.
Pain shot through him, such as he had never felt before. He worked feverishly, fighting against the pain and the fatigue that came with it. The spell he was weaving was already beginning to unravel, even as he crafted it. Desperately he reached out with his magics, and carefully gathered up the motes of light which were the Incarnates and the others and enfolded them in the tapestry of the spell. One he had to reach further for, across vast distances into the east, and it struggled mightily in his grip, but it too joined the others.
They will not be enough, he thought.
They will have to be, the Emperor’s voice replied.
Even as the man’s voice echoed in his head, the spell, at last complete, tore loose from his weakening grasp and hurtled away from him, towards the distant darkling light of Middenheim. Then, overcome at last, Teclis slumped forwards, and collapsed into darkness.
‘Wake up, elf.’
Teclis groaned. A sudden flare of pain ripped through him, and his eyes shot open. He lurched awake, a scream on his lips. He blinked back tears and looked up as a familiar figure carefully extracted his claws from Teclis’s thigh.
‘There we are. Back among the living, then?’ Mannfred von Carstein said, smiling genially down at Teclis as he licked blood off his talons. ‘I’d wager you thought you saw the last of me, eh?’
‘Hoped, more like,’ Teclis mumbled. He was not so much surprised to see the vampire as he was disgusted. After the creature’s escape, he had feared that Mannfred would turn up again at an inconvenient time. And, true to form, it seemed he had.
Mannfred laughed and kicked him. Teclis grunted in pain. ‘Where am I?’ he wheezed, after a moment. He was lying face-down on cold stone. Manacles bit into his wrists, keeping him from standing. The only light came from guttering torches placed somewhere above his head, and the air stank of blood.
‘Where do you think, elf?’ Mannfred spread his hands. ‘Can you not feel it? You are in the shadow of cataclysm itself.’ The vampire grinned. ‘Middenheim, mage. You are in Middenheim.’
‘And why are you here?’ Teclis asked. He knew the answer well enough. It was Mannfred who had started this chain of events, however unwittingly, and fate was not so kind as to deprive the beast of his final reckoning. You are here because you have no choice. None of us do. We are all caught in the storm, Teclis thought.
‘How could I not be here? To witness the end of those who so cruelly betrayed me – me, who came in good faith, with heart open and hands empty.’ Mannfred leered down at him. ‘I knew there was only one place you would come, elf. I knew, as surely as I knew Be’lakor would allow his greed to overrule his judgement.’ He sank to his haunches and caught Teclis’s chin. ‘But just how you got here, well, that was interesting… You crashed right through the roof of the Temple of Ulric, and smashed down before the throne of the Everchosen himself. I never suspected that you had that sort of power. Too bad it seems to have deserted you…’
‘Silence, leech,’ a voice rumbled. Its owner was hidden in the shadows which dominated the farthest reaches of the great chamber. Mannfred flinched and stepped aside. He bowed low, pulling his cloak tight about himself.
‘Of course, my lord. Do forgive thy most unworthy of captains for his zealotry. Mine heart was overcome with adder’s venom, and I sought to–’
‘I said be silent,’ the voice said. This time, Mannfred fell quiet. Teclis heard the rasp of armour on bone, and then, ‘Well?’
‘The elf is powerless, my lord,’ a third voice said. Teclis looked up as a hooded figure stepped out of the shadows, the twisted metal of his mask gleaming in the torchlight. His tone was obsequious, his posture locked in a permanent half-bow, and he stank of dark magic. Teclis noted with some distaste that the sorcerer held his own purloined staff and sword. ‘His magics have deserted him, as is the fate of all such false creatures.’
Despite what the creature said, Teclis was not wholly powerless, not that he planned to admit it. He could feel the presence of the Incarnates still, and felt a thrill of bitter satisfaction. He had transported some of them, at least, to Middenheim, along with many of their followers. Unfortunately, the spell had slipped from his control in the last few moments, and scattered them across the city.
Too, he could feel a new element. The Wind of Beasts was close at hand. He had feared at the time that he might have imagined its presence, but now he knew for certain that all eight Incarnates were accounted for. All eight Incarnates were in Middenheim.
‘Not entirely, I think,’ the first voice said. It sounded amused, and Teclis resisted the urge to shrink back from it. The sorcerer turned slightly to peer into the dark.
‘I told you, fool,’ Mannfred said, sneering at the sorcerer.
‘Quiet, leech, or I shall stake your body out for the crows.’ Through the shadows, past the pit of hissing, seething blood, on the throne of skulls which sat at the chamber’s far end, a heavy figure reclined. As Teclis watched, the figure rose, and the eyes within its golden helm were unreadable. ‘You have travelled a long way to die, elf,’ Archaon said. ‘But do not despair. The world shall not long outlast you.’
PART THREE
The End of the World
Autumn 2528
FIFTEEN
An angry red dusk had fallen over the Fauschlag. Strange lightning carved the sky into facets, and the streets boiled with activity. War had again come to Middenheim; only now it was the servants of the Everchosen who found themselves under siege, and on multiple fronts.
The heart of the Ulricsmund, within sight of the Temple of Ulric, was one such front. Caradryan, Incarnate of Fire and Chosen of Asuryan, had not wasted time wondering how he had come from Athel Loren to the blasted streets of a human city, or what had happened to the other Incarnates. Indeed, there had been no time to even consider it.
Scarcely had the storm of magic about him and those elves who found themselves at his side ebbed when they found themselves under attack from the axe-wielding, black-armoured Kurgan they now faced. Wreathed in fire, the Phoenix Blade hissed as it smashed home into the chest of a howling northman and sliced him into two blackened halves. Before the edge of the blade could strike the blood-smeared cobbles, Caradryan had reversed the stroke, pivoted, and removed the head of a second northman.
Fire crawled along his lean limbs, and his hair crackled like a halo of flame as he fought. He’d lost his helmet during the battle in Athel Loren, but it was of no matter. He moved swiftly, the Phoenix Blade an extension of his arms. The haft slid through his grip as he raised the ancient halberd and spun, letting it sing out to its full length. Northmen fell back in a bloody tangle as he completed the turn. He retracted the weapon, pulling it in tight even as he came to a halt, before punching it forward to spit a slavering Chaos hound in mid-leap.