She leaned on her staff, her face pensive. ‘Sometimes the Anvil shows us things. There is a pattern to everything, if you can but see it.’ She held out a hand. ‘The air feels wrong, somehow. As if the very realms have been wrenched out of shape.’ She looked at him. ‘I think that this is merely the beginning, brother.’
Balthas looked out over the palace-city and felt a moment’s apprehension. After a moment, he said, ‘I think that you are right, sister. Something has awakened in the depths of Shyish, and I think we must be ready for whatever is to come next.’
Arkhan the Black strode through the ruins of Nagashizzar, alone save for his thoughts. He needed no bodyguards, for what could threaten one who was second only to a god? Besides, he wanted no spies present for this, save the one always present in his head. That he thought that way at all was, he suspected, merely the habit of a life he might once have lived.
It was hard to recall, after all these centuries, what mortal life had been like. Sometimes he wondered if he had ever been mortal at all, or had sprung fully formed from the dust of Shyish. Half-formed memories clung to the underside of his mind like bats to a cavern wall, occasionally fluttering up to disturb his equanimity. Were they truly his, or were they merely fabrications? Was he himself, or was he merely another facet of Nagash, given shape and voice so that the Undying King might have someone to talk to? Could a god, even one like Nagash, become lonely?
Arkhan pushed the thought aside with a familiar weariness. An aeon of experience had taught him that such questions were an ouroboros, circular and without end. Perhaps that had been Nagash’s intention all along – to trap his vizier in a cage of introspection and thus force him to second-guess his every decision. Maybe it was simply a game to Nagash. A dark joke, played on his most loyal servant.
Arkhan laughed hollowly to himself. That he could do so was proof enough that Nagash was otherwise distracted, as he’d hoped. He could still sense the tang of lightning on the air and hear the echoes of the spirit’s screaming. What it had been was as good as forgotten. What it would become, under Nagash’s careful ministrations, was impossible to guess.
The Undying King shaped his servants to suit his needs. Would he create a thing of bones and dry marrow, or a howling spectre? Maybe he would weave bits of flesh and muscle together, in a monstrous conglomeration. Whatever the result, it would be Arkhan’s duty to teach it its place in the hierarchy of death. Soon enough, it would join the others.
The call had gone out, and the servants of the Great Necromancer answered. Great flocks of bats – or things that resembled bats – covered the face of the moon. The dunes were trampled flat by the unceasing tread of fleshless feet. The air was thick with the stink of rotting meat and grave-miasma. The masters of the restless dead – the Deathlords of Shyish – were returning to Nagashizzar, to heed the word of their lord and master.
Arkhan stopped, sensing something. The faint brush of a familiar mind. Some deathlords, it seemed, were swifter than others.
‘Well, old liche, this is a pretty mess you’ve allowed.’
The voice – cultured, disdainful – echoed over the empty avenue. Arkhan looked up. A lone pillar stood, commemorating a fallen temple. Atop it, a lean shape, clad in baroque, ridged armour, crouched.
‘I allow nothing. I merely do his will. As we all must, Mannfred.’
Mannfred von Carstein stood and stretched. Arkhan wondered how long the Mortarch of Night had been crouched there, waiting to make his presence known. Probably some time. Mannfred had always possessed a flair for the theatrical. The Soulblight prince was tall and muscular, beneath his archaic war-plate. Bare arms, marked by scars, some ritual, some not, folded over his chest as he looked down his nose at Arkhan. ‘Speak for yourself, liche. I serve my own ambition, always.’
‘And here I thought it was pragmatism.’
Mannfred’s supercilious expression melted into a snarl, as a woman’s voice pierced the shadows of the avenue and echoed up. Both Mortarchs turned, as the third member of their triumvirate revealed herself. Neferata, Mortarch of Blood, stepped into the light of the moon and stood for a moment, as if awaiting applause. When none appeared forthcoming, she moved to join Arkhan.
‘Do come down, Mannfred,’ she called out. ‘We have much to discuss.’ The Soulblight queen was formidable, for all her slight build. She moved with a predator’s grace, and her armour had been crafted by the finest smiths – living or dead – in Shyish. Her bearing was regal, and something in her gaze pulled at Arkhan, stirring the embers of the man he might once have been.
‘Neferata,’ he said. She smiled. He knew that she saw into the hole where his heart might once have been. Whether she was amused or disappointed by what she found there, he neither knew nor cared.
‘Arkhan. You seem surprised to see me.’
‘Perhaps he’s simply astonished that you deigned to appear in person, O Queen of Mysteries,’ Mannfred said. A moment later, he leapt from his perch and landed lightly before them, his tattered cloak swirling about him. One hand on the hilt of his sword, the bald-headed vampire strutted towards them. ‘I know I am. Then, perhaps he expected neither of us to attend this gathering.’ He wagged a finger at Arkhan. ‘A miscalculation, liche.’
‘Lower your finger, or I will rip it off.’ It was no surprise to Arkhan that they were here. Only that they had arrived so soon. Both had their spies in Nagashizzar. Perhaps they had already been racing towards the city. But to aid Nagash – or hinder him? He looked at Neferata. ‘You felt it?’
‘Impossible not to,’ Neferata said. She looked around, taking in the shattered pillars and piles of rubble waiting to be cleared. ‘He’s done it at last. I don’t know whether to feel elated or terrified.’
‘I’d settle for understanding how he did it,’ Mannfred growled. ‘All this time – this is what he’s been planning? What’s the point?’
‘Efficiency,’ Arkhan said. He looked up. The stars still shone in the heavens, but they seemed further away, somehow. ‘He has upended the natural order. Whether it will remain so is a question I cannot answer.’
‘Which means the Undying King, in all his wisdom, doesn’t know,’ Mannfred said, smiling nastily. He cocked his head, as if scenting the wind. ‘Can you smell that? It smells like… opportunity. How delightful. Is that why you called us here? Are we to finally topple him?’ It was said in jest. Mannfred was too cunning to think such a thing was possible, especially now. Nonetheless, Arkhan felt a flicker of anger at the vampire’s temerity.
‘Quiet. This is no time for foolish ambition.’ Neferata gestured dismissively. ‘Nagash has endangered us all with this ploy. The Ruinous Powers will not stand to be challenged so. They will seek to claim Shyish now.’
‘You mean they haven’t been doing that already?’ Mannfred spat. He threw up his hands. ‘Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You’ve been hiding in one concealed city or another for the past few centuries, while the rest of us were fighting a war.’
Neferata whirled, a snarl rippling across her face. ‘I have not been hiding, fool. I have been doing as anyone with a brain would do – gathering resources and preparing for the greater conflict to come. My spies are spread across the Mortal Realms and beyond – even in the Varanspire itself. The very stronghold of our enemy!’
‘And what have they told you that’s of use, eh? Did they warn you that this was coming?’ Mannfred leaned towards her, fangs bared. The two vampires snarled at one another, each only moments away from lunging at the other’s throat.