Arkhan struck his staff against the ground. ‘Cease. Your bickering serves no purpose here, save as a distraction to the Great Work.’
They turned to look at him. Neither was particularly cowed. They did not fear him – they had known each other too long for that – but they respected him, as much as they hated each other. Or perhaps they simply hated him less.
‘Nagash has called out into the dark, and the lesser deathlords answer,’ he intoned, before either could speak. ‘They seek his favour, and he burdens them with purpose. The cities of Azyr will fall, and he will reclaim lordship of those underworlds lost to us.’
‘We know this. We heard his voice echoing out of the night as they all have.’ Mannfred flung out a hand. ‘That is why we came.’
‘And that is why he is telling us to go,’ Neferata said, smiling slightly. She understood, even if Mannfred didn’t. She looked at Mannfred. ‘Nagash seeks new Mortarchs from among those who answer his call quickest. The wars to come will be tests, as well as battles to reclaim territory.’ She laughed softly. ‘How… efficient.’
Mannfred frowned. ‘He intends to replace us,’ he said.
‘No. Merely to add to our ranks. To find those worthy of being his heralds in a new age of gods and monsters.’ Arkhan turned and studied the ruins around them. ‘Nagash has played the miser since the Three-Eyed King shattered his skull and cast us all into disarray. He has hoarded his power and played the long game.’
Mannfred smiled slowly. ‘And now we approach the end game, is that it?’ He laughed. ‘I see it now – I didn’t before, I admit. But you’re still the same old Arkhan, whatever has happened. You fear we will interfere with things. Undermine the others for our own benefit.’ He glanced at Neferata. ‘I wonder, who do you think is speaking to us now, really? Arkhan, or our master?’ He leered at Arkhan. ‘Who delivers this warning, eh?’
‘Does it matter?’ Arkhan said.
‘Always.’ Neferata looked at him. ‘Context is as important as the message itself. If you speak with his voice, then we know this is his will. If it is you – well, one might be inclined to wonder why you are so eager for us to stay away at this time?’ She tapped her lip with a finger. ‘Then, of course, there is the probability that this is some esoteric trap – a test, perhaps, of our loyalty. Why call us here, only to tell us to leave?’
‘You would have come anyway,’ Arkhan said. ‘Indeed, both of you were already on the way here, were you not?’
Mannfred chuckled. ‘He has us there.’ He bowed mockingly. ‘I sensed a disturbance in the aether and came only to see if I might aid our great lord.’ He glanced sidelong at Neferata. ‘What about you, O Queen of Mysteries?’
She ignored him. ‘It matters not why I came. Now that I am here, I am loathe to depart without some assurances.’ She leaned close. ‘What game is being played here, Arkhan? And what is our part in it?’
‘The only game that matters. And your part is the same as it has always been.’ He pointed at her. ‘To serve Nagash’s will, in all things. And it is his will that you depart.’
She frowned but did not protest. She knew the truth of his words. She could feel them, in whatever passed for her blood. She glanced at Mannfred. He grinned at her and she turned away. ‘As you say, Arkhan. But be warned, if this is a ploy of some sort, I will learn of it, and I will punish you for it.’
‘Promises, promises,’ Mannfred murmured. Neferata did not deign to reply. Instead, she lifted a hand in a regal gesture. Overhead, something shrieked, and the dark shape of Nagadron, Neferata’s dread abyssal, dropped to the street. Paving stones splintered beneath its weight, and a cloud of dust swept over Mannfred and Arkhan as they retreated. Nagadron glared at the Mortarchs, despite its lack of eyes. Its tail lashed in barely restrained fury, and its snarl echoed over the avenue.
Neferata trailed pale fingers along the beast’s crimson-armoured skull as she climbed gracefully into the saddle. ‘Remember what I said, Arkhan. Do not test my favour, for you will soon find yourself out of it entirely.’ As she straightened in her saddle, Nagadron loosed an ear-splitting screech and sprang into the air. In moments, the dread abyssal was gone, loping towards the southern horizon.
Mannfred turned to Arkhan. ‘She won’t forget this insult, old liche.’
‘And what about you?’
‘Forgotten and forgiven. Neferata’s problem is that she wishes to be the spider at the centre of every web. If there is a scheme in the offing, she wishes to be a part of it. But I am wise enough to recognise when something holds no value to me.’ He looked around. ‘Nagash has made this realm the battleground of existence now. He has drawn a line in the sand and dared the other gods to cross it. We must be ready when they do.’
So saying, Mannfred bowed low and turned away, drawing his cape about him as he did so. He stalked off – not in the same direction as Neferata, Arkhan noticed. The Mortarchs had not truly been united in centuries. Once, in better days, they had been Nagash’s hands and will – united in purpose, if not outlook. Now, they were an alliance of rivals, each seeking their own benefit at the expense of the others.
Even he was not immune. Nagash had indeed called for them; had desired that his Mortarchs lead the assaults upon the Azyrite enclaves. Now, he would have to make do with lesser champions, when neither Neferata nor Mannfred deigned to appear. Champions like the one he would make from the Azyrite spirit he had acquired.
If Arkhan had still had a face, he might have smiled. A new age had begun. The old spheres of influence crumbled, and new ones rose to replace them.
For too long, he had played nursemaid to deceitful children. He had aided and abetted his fellow Mortarchs in their intrigues, allowing them to think him a neutral party. A puppet-thing, empty of all ambition.
But ambition took many forms. There were many types of power, even in the Realm of Death. Mannfred was right. Opportunity was rife.
And Arkhan the Black intended to seize it.
Chapter eight
The Winds of Azyr
The air tasted sweet, for all that it still stank of smoke. Calys Eltain drew another discreet breath of fresh air through the mouth-slit of her war-mask. She’d never thought that she could miss such a little thing, but after many days down in the dark of the catacombs, a taste of relatively clean air was worth its weight in sigmarite. Grip seemed to agree. The gryph-hound fairly pranced in Calys’ wake, chirping softly.
Calys was careful not to let the sweet air distract her from her duties. Her gaze swept the barred storefronts and shuttered windows to either side of the cobbled street. Buildings slumped in ruin, having collapsed during the cataclysm. The street before her was cracked and broken in places. Dark stains marred the cobbles and walls, and she could taste the tang of faded lightning.
She and her brotherhood moved in loose formation around Lord-Relictor Dathus, warding him from all possible harm. Not that she expected any. The city was quiet after the necroquake. Even the occasional aftershock did little to break the fearful serenity that had descended over Glymmsforge. The citizens were hardier than they looked, inured against the horrors of the dead, to some degree.
‘Things are quieter than I recall,’ Dathus said. His voice echoed against the stones of the street. ‘Where are the hawkers of wares and the urchins running underfoot?’ He turned, his skeletal war-mask catching the dim light of the lanterns that burned above the nearby doorframes. Calys could feel mortal eyes on them, watching from the dubious safety of crippled buildings.
‘They watch us,’ Tamacus, one of her Liberators, murmured. ‘They are frightened.’