‘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.