Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hellebron’s second blade descending towards her neck, as if in slow motion. The Blood Queen’s features were distorted by rage, triumph, and something else. Fear, Alarielle realised. Hellebron was afraid. Of what, she couldn’t say, but that fear was driving the Blood Queen to attack like a wild animal. The Wind of Life whispered in Alarielle’s mind, and in that instant, the Incarnate of Life knew what was required of her.
Alarielle forced herself to her feet and caught Hellebron’s wrist as she rose, halting the blade a hair’s breadth from her neck. She forced her opponent back and tore her hand from her wound. The green energy of life crackled between her bloody fingers as she pressed her hand gently to the side of Hellebron’s contorted face. The magics flowed into the dark elf, and centuries of madness and frenzy were washed away by the healing tide of Ghyran. The fractured psyche of the Blood Queen became whole, for the first time in a thousand or more years, and with lucidity came understanding. For a moment, a different woman entirely looked out through Hellebron’s bulging eyes, saw what she had made of herself, and the witch elf moaned in horror.
Alarielle met Hellebron’s horrified gaze and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, grabbing hold of her opponent’s wrist with both hands, she forced Hellebron’s own blade up into its owner’s chest. The deadly blade passed through Hellebron’s ribs and its curved tip found her heart, and the horror in her eyes faded as her contorted features slackened into something resembling peace. She slumped against Alarielle, and the Everqueen sank back down, blood pouring from the wound in her belly. She slipped down beside her fallen opponent.
She felt cold, and the dark crept in at the edges of her vision. She heard the screams of Hellebron’s remaining followers and the agonised shouts of her people, and wanted to weep for the uselessness of it all, but lacked the strength to do anything but lie still. Is this death, then? she thought. She did not fear it. Aliathra’s face swam before her eyes, and she reached up, hoping to touch her daughter’s cheek once more, to say at last all the things she should have said. I will tell you of your father, and how he tore me from my silk pavilions and slew any who stood in his way, the day that Malekith came for me. I will tell you how we hid in the forests of Avelorn, and what occurred there. I will tell you everything, at last… You are so like him, my daughter. Brave and foolish and proud… I–
A shadow fell over her. Heavy, rough hands picked her up, and a voice like the curling of roots through the hard-packed earth spoke gently to her. Durthu. The treeman cradled her close, and the last thing she heard before oblivion swept her under was his roar, as it shook the Middenplatz down to its foundations.
Vlad watched in consternation as the treeman, still cradling the broken form of the Everqueen, wrenched the cauldron-shrine from its frame and, swinging it by its broken chains, hurled it at the remaining blood-worshippers. Then, with another bone-rattling roar, the ancient spirit uprooted its sword and stalked into battle, killing any who dared stand against it, be they elf, human, beast or daemon.
Too little, too late, brute, Vlad thought, as he blocked a blow from his current opponent, a hammer-wielding berserker who’d announced himself as Harald Hammerstorm, as if Vlad either knew or cared as to his identity. If the Incarnate of Life was dead, that boded ill for their chances to see off whatever apocalypse Archaon was brewing in the bowels of Middenheim. He snarled in frustration. To have come so close, only to fail now, was unacceptable. He had lost Isabella, Sylvania, even Mannfred… He would not lose the world as well.
‘Die, beast,’ Hammerstorm roared. He struck out with a looping blow, which Vlad easily avoided. His riposte glanced from the Chaos warrior’s shield, and they circled one another, each searching for an opening in the other’s defences. Why the warrior had singled him out, Vlad couldn’t say, but he was getting bored. Hammerstorm was tenacious, and annoyingly difficult to hurt. Vlad grinned as the warrior surged towards him, shield tilted, hammer swung back. It was the first mistake his opponent had made, and Vlad intended to make it his last. He slid forward to meet the Chaos warrior, rather than retreating, and let his blade glide across the face of Hammerstorm’s shield. The point of his sword pierced Hammerstorm’s visor, even as the warrior’s hammer caught him in the ribs and knocked him sprawling.
Vlad rolled to his feet with a hiss of pain, one arm pressed tight to his side, as Hammerstorm took a faltering step towards him, hammer raised for another blow. Blood was pouring down the Chaos warrior’s visor. He took another step, a third, and then toppled forwards. He crashed down, and his hammer clattered from his grip. Vlad rose to his feet with a wince, and saluted his fallen enemy.
The wind shifted, and a familiar, if foul, stench invaded his nostrils. He whirled and cursed as he caught sight of the diseased host that crashed against the dwarf line, even as the last of the blood-mad berserkers died. Plaguebearers wielded rusty, pus-encrusted blades against the ragtag shield-wall of the Zhufbarak, and where they struck, metal rusted, leather rotted and flesh turned black and swollen. The golden light of Gelt’s magics warred with the malignant wind of putrefaction as the weary dwarfs met their foes with stolid determination. Even as Vlad hurried towards them, he saw his zombies begin to rot and collapse, even as they had in Sylvania so many weeks ago, and he knew, even though he could not yet see her, that Isabella was near.
‘Hello, wife,’ he murmured. A plaguebearer lurched towards him. Vlad blocked a blow from its mottled blade and snatched a flapping length of intestine from its bloated belly. With a jerk, he tore its guts from its thin body, and decapitated it as it fell to its knees, off balance. ‘Do not hide your pretty face from me, my love… Where are you?’
‘Behind you, my love, my darkling light,’ a voice breathed in his ear. The words faded into the buzzing of flies and he twisted about as a blade tore through his cloak, scraping sparks from his cuirass to mark its path. The swarm of biting, stinging flies enveloped him and he staggered as the insects covered his eyes and nose and mouth, as if seeking to burrow into the meat of him. ‘Come, give me a kiss, Vlad. Open your mouth and let me in,’ Isabella purred, her voice coming from every direction and none.
Vlad slashed out blindly, and the swarm scattered. His zombies were all fallen back into the arms of death, and he stood exposed and alone, caught between the dwarfs and the daemons. He cursed and sprang out of the path of battle, bounding from fallen statues to the tops of fire-blackened stakes and finally to the crumbling ramparts of the Middenplatz wall. Isabella would follow him, he was certain. If she did, their confrontation might give Gelt and Hammerson a chance to defeat the daemons. Without Isabella to guide the beasts, they would be easy enough to banish back to the realm of Chaos.
As he cleared the ramparts, however, a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see an abyssal steed swoop low over the wall before alighting on a crumbled tower, just out of reach. He glared up at the creature and its rider in annoyance. ‘Hello, boy. Come to help, or to hinder?’ Vlad asked.
Mannfred sneered. ‘Neither, if it’s all the same to you. I merely wanted to come say goodbye before your inevitable messy end, old man.’ The other vampire leaned back in his saddle and clapped his hands together. ‘It’s a better one than you deserve, I’ll say that for you.’