‘Yes, because gods forfend that they should be discomfited in any way. A fragile breed, your desert princes,’ Mannfred spat. Arkhan was right, which only made it worse. The customs of the kings and queens of Nehekhara were alien to him, and without Nagash there to quell them, they would revolt against him the moment he tried to impose his will. For now, at least. He pushed the thought aside and hunkered forwards in his saddle.
‘Think of it, Arkhan. Few men, living or dead, can say that they have seen the green-vaulted reaches of Athel Loren. What secrets must linger in that wild wood? What secrets might you or I rip from it? All we have to do is…’
‘Parley,’ Arkhan said.
Mannfred snorted. ‘Of course. Forgive me. For a moment, I forgot we had an army of but thousands at our back. So of course we must parley, lest their few hundred wreak unmentionable havoc.’ He looked slyly at Arkhan. ‘Why the sudden change of heart, you think? Why now, after all this time, does our lord and master stoop to address the cattle?’ He smiled and tapped his nose. ‘Vampires are very good at smelling weakness, liche. We can taste death on the air.’ He leaned down, and met Arkhan’s flickering gaze unflinchingly. ‘Just how badly did losing the Black Pyramid hurt him, eh?’
‘Why not ask him yourself?’ Arkhan said.
‘I thought I was,’ Mannfred said. He turned away. ‘In any event, who’s it to be, then? Who’ll act as herald, to bring word of our peaceful intentions to yon foemen?’ He sat back. ‘You, perhaps? Or one of your Nehekharan addle-pates? Perhaps that loudmouthed fool, Antar of Mahrak? He’s a favourite of yours, is he not?’
‘You will do it,’ Arkhan said, not looking at him.
‘Will I?’
Arkhan said nothing. Mannfred sniffed, stood up in his saddle, and craned his neck, searching for the Undying King. Nagash was hard to miss – he stood at the centre of the army, a skeletal giant surrounded by a flickering corona that changed colour by turns, becoming green, then black, then purple. He was the corrupt heart and dark will of an army that was little more than a single, charnel entity. The hooded and cloaked forms of a dozen necromancers surrounded him as ever, each one lending his will to ease Nagash’s burdens.
Nine heavy tomes, each filled with Nagash’s darkest wisdoms, floated around him, pages flapping with a sound like the snapping of jaws. The grimoires were connected to Nagash by heavy chains, and they strained at them like beasts at the leash. Moaning spirits swirled about him, blending together and breaking apart in a woeful dance of agony. There were men there, and elves and dwarfs, as well as other races. To die at Nagash’s hands was to not die at all, but instead be condemned to eternal servitude.
The wide skull, lit by its own internal flame, turned, and the blazing orbs that danced in its cavernous sockets brightened briefly. Nagash did not speak. He did not need to. Mannfred knew that Arkhan would not have spoken without Nagash’s permission. He turned and snapped Ashigaroth’s reins. The abyssal steed leapt into the air with a shriek, and hurtled towards the lines of the living.
He did not bother to attempt to conceal himself. As pre-eminent as he was in the sorcerous arts, those below were his match. The most powerful surviving sorcerers, wizards and necromancers in all the world, those not aligned with the Archenemy, were here in this place. The rest were dead, or hiding. Creatures like Zacharias the Everliving had perished, defying Nagash to the last, while monsters like Egrimm van Horstmann had been consumed by the ever-shifting tides of war and madness. Those who remained had chosen their hills to die on, and were gathering their strength for the storm to come.
Zacharias, at least, had made his end an entertaining one. He smiled as he thought of it – the sky had been wracked with spasms, and the Vanhaldenschlosse chewed to steaming wreckage by the confrontation between vampire and liche. Zacharias had held off Nagash’s army alone with only his magics for days, before Nagash had bestirred himself to end the conflict. There had been something personal in it, there at the end, Mannfred thought. As if the two knew one another, and there was some grudge between them. In the end Zacharias had perished at Nagash’s hands, strangled in the ruins of the Vanhaldenschlosse and his remains cast upon the pyre.
He leaned forwards, and Ashigaroth wailed like a lost soul as it hurtled over the heads of elves, dwarfs and men. Mannfred laughed as he let his steed indulge itself. Like him, the creature fed as much on fear as flesh, and there was precious little of the former left in a world so close to ultimate ruin. But while it lasted, he saw no harm in enjoying it.
He knew he was trusting in the curiosity, and perhaps even the misguided honour, of the living. And that trust was not misplaced. No arrow, bullet or spell assailed him as his abyssal steed dropped to the top of a towering boulder just before the line of raised shields. He sat for a moment, relishing the attention. He had moved in the shadows for so long, waging little wars, that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be the focus of so much fear. Once, long ago, he had faced men and dwarfs arrayed similarly. His enjoyment lessened as he recalled how the battle of Hel Fenn had gone. For all his power, he had been struck down in what should have been his moment of ultimate triumph.
And now, he was merely one nightmare amongst many. Mannfred shook his head, and smiled. ‘Ah well,’ he murmured. ‘Best to be about it.’ He straightened and said, ‘So – who will it be, then?’ His voice carried easily. The living were almost as silent as the dead. Mannfred grinned. ‘Come now, don’t be shy. We are all men of the world, and is not my presence a guarantee of good conduct? Who will it be? The Emperor without an empire? Or one of the exiles of fair Ulthuan, who now infest these shores like field mice? Come, come, step forward, and sign thy name into history as the one who stretched out a hand in fellowship to the Undying King,’ he said. ‘You have called, and we have come. Do not turn us away now, at light’s last gleaming.’
It was a pretty speech, equal parts mocking and inviting. And it had the desired effect: a tall figure, clad in darkly gleaming armour, stepped forwards. ‘Say what you have come to say, abomination, and then begone,’ said Malekith. His armour’s death-mask rendered his words strangely metallic, and Mannfred felt a chill. Here was one like Nagash, bound to some greater power. He could smell the raw essence of magic rising from the Witch-King, and for a moment, he felt his confidence waver.
Mannfred leaned in. ‘And if I choose to tarry?’ he spat.
‘Then we will destroy you, and forget you,’ said a second masked individual. Robes rustling, Balthasar Gelt stepped up to join Malekith. ‘Your master has a surplus of puppets, vampire. One more or less will hardly change things.’
Mannfred smiled lazily. Though he could sense the power that now held Gelt in its glittering clutches, he was on firmer ground with Vlad’s former pet. ‘Ah, Gelt. Twice-traitor, first to your Empire and then to Vlad.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Vlad… He could have used your help, you know. There at the end, I mean.’
Gelt stiffened, and Mannfred laughed. ‘And now, here you stand.’ He leered at Alarielle, who stood behind Malekith. ‘I wouldn’t trust him, my lady. Yon poltroon is the very best of serpents. Why, his heart is rotted clean through with guile and malice.’
‘Something you would know intimately,’ Karl Franz said. He didn’t look at Mannfred as he spoke, and the latter knew, without turning to look, that the Emperor was staring at Nagash. And that, even more worryingly, Nagash was staring back at him.