‘Can we proceed?’ Archaon said, not looking at the coven leader.
‘It stirs to life even now, mighty Archaon,’ the man whimpered. He flung out a trembling hand. ‘See how it shines, with the radiance of a thousand unseen suns. We have only uncovered the barest tip, and already it awakens.’
‘Can we proceed?’ Archaon asked again. There was a hint of menace in his voice.
The coven leader jerked upright in a flare of robes. ‘If the gods will it,’ he said. Archaon was silent. The man twitched and added, ‘An offering of souls will be needed.’
‘Then make it,’ Archaon rumbled.
‘My lord?’
‘The slaves,’ Canto interjected, unable to bear the coven leader’s stupidity. ‘Start feeding it the slaves.’ He moved closer to Archaon.
‘You never answered my question,’ Archaon said softly, after a moment of silence. ‘Would it be so bad, to lose yourself?’
Canto hesitated, and then said, ‘Yes. Who I am, who I was, is the only thing I have left. To surrender it is to lose everything I fought for in the first place.’
‘You value the life you had, then?’ Archaon said. ‘You cling to the past, afraid to face the future.’ He swept out a hand towards the shimmering black globe. ‘See, Unsworn, the beautiful thing which awaits all of us. It is not terrifying. It is life, and change, and growth. It is the life which springs from death. This world is dead, but a new one is growing here.’
‘Mushrooms from a corpse,’ Canto said.
Archaon lowered his hand. ‘If you like. Maybe the world to come will be simpler, at that. Less burdened by the weight of history and failure. What I do know is that it will be stronger than this husk of a world we reside in now. There will be no weakness, no false morality or burdensome piety to chain men. The gods will sweep aside the old, and unmake the false foundations upon which the lie of this world stands.’
‘And that will be better, will it?’ Canto asked, without thinking.
‘Yes.’
‘For whom?’ he asked. Archaon looked at him. Canto waited, then, when no punishing strike came, he continued. ‘I never wanted this burden. It just came on me. I’m only a man,’ he said softly. He looked at his hand, encased in black iron for gods alone knew how many centuries. ‘I’ve only ever been a man. A wicked, evil man, who has done wicked, evil things. But I was never a monster. Never that.’
Archaon chuckled. ‘And what would you be now, Unsworn? Man or monster?’
‘I would be true to myself,’ Canto said, though not without hesitation.
‘There was one other who spoke like that,’ Archaon said. ‘His name was Mortkin. They called him the Black-Iron Reaver, and he carved his saga on the hearts of the gods themselves.’ He glanced at Canto. ‘He could have been the one standing here, once upon a time.’
‘And why isn’t he?’
‘In the end, he remained true to himself. He was a man, Unsworn, not a monster.’ Archaon turned back to the coruscating darkness of the globe. ‘But I shed my humanity long ago. I cannot escape what is inside me, nor would I wish to. I have been in darkness for so long, that I fear I would find the light blinding.’ He stared up at the globe, as if seeking something within its glistening depths.
‘I am a monster and I have set the world aflame, so that I might watch it burn.’
EIGHT
It had been a week since the arrival of the dead on the border of Athel Loren, and what some were calling the Council of Incarnates had gathered in the King’s Glade to at last discuss the ramifications of that arrival. The week had been one fraught with whispered discussions and late-night visitations as the influential vied against one another in preliminary debate. Too, it had taken a week to debate the truth behind Nagash’s offer of parley. Some had sworn it was only a trick, meant to allow the Great Necromancer access to the Oak of Ages. Others had believed that Nagash himself was fleeing certain destruction and looking for protectors, rather than allies.
For his part, Duke Jerrod of Quenelles suspected that either possibility was likely, or that some other, even more subtle scheme was at work. He had argued fiercely against even allowing the creature into the forest, but, as was becoming clear to him, his voice counted for little in the debate. So, instead, he stood in silence beside Gotri Hammerson and Wendel Volker, and watched as those whose voices did count argued over the fate of the world, and of Nagash himself.
The council was an uneasy affair. Trust was not in ready supply amongst the powers gathered beneath the green boughs of the glade. There was discord amongst the elven Incarnates, though Jerrod couldn’t say where it originated from. Too, none of the elves trusted Gelt or the Emperor, and Gelt, for his part, kept a wary eye on Malekith. The Emperor, as ever, moved amongst all of them, trying to reach an accord.
It wasn’t simply the Incarnates who bickered, either. The elves were divided amongst themselves, united only in their disregard for the dwarfs and men who now shared the forest with them. The dwarfs were uncertain and tense in the trees, and Jerrod had no doubt that the strangeness of Athel Loren grated on them as much as it did his own people.
‘Foolishness,’ Hammerson muttered. He tugged on his beard. ‘Look at it – standing there as if it has a right to exist. Fouling the air with its grave stink. Surrounded by flying books. Can’t trust a book that flies, manling.’ He gestured towards Nagash, who stood in the centre of the glade accompanied by his mortarchs, Mannfred von Carstein and Arkhan the Black. They stood within a ring of spears, surrounded by the Eternity King’s personal guard. Malekith’s Eternity Guard were amongst the finest warriors left to the elven race. They counted former members of the Black Guard, the Phoenix Guard and the Wildwood Rangers among them, and had faced daemons and beastmen alike in defence of their liege-lord. Despite the fierce pedigree of those guarding them, Nagash and his mortarchs didn’t seem particularly intimidated.
Nagash was terrifying, even to one who had tasted the waters of the Grail. He was a hole in the world, an absence of life, heat and light. He radiated a cold unlike any that Jerrod had ever felt. It was the cold of the grave, and of hopelessness. Even here, in the heart of the forest, spirits whined and moaned as they swirled about the Undying King, caught in the maelstrom of his presence. Everywhere he walked, the grass died beneath his feet, trees withered, and the dead stirred.
‘Is there any sort of book you do trust, Gotri?’ Volker replied. The white-haired knight leaned against a tree, a jug of something strong and dwarfish dangling from one hand. Jerrod wondered where he’d got it. The dwarfs were stingy with their reserves of alcohol, especially given the fact that it was likely the last such in the world. Then, perhaps they’d thought it wiser to give Volker what he wanted without too much fuss.
Jerrod studied the knight. Sometimes, in the right light, Volker’s eyes flashed yellow, and his face took on a feral cast. Mostly, it happened when Teclis was nearby. It was as if whatever force rode Volker were stalking the elf mage. Though, after the first incident, it seemed disinclined to attack. And thank the Lady for that, he thought. He’d heard the men of the Empire muttering the name ‘Ulric’ whenever they thought Volker was out of earshot, and wondered if the gods were truly gone, or merely biding their time.
Even as he thought it, his eyes swept the glade, taking in the faces of those who might as well be gods. The Incarnates were gathered together on the dais which held the thrones of the Eternity King and the Everqueen. They were speaking in hushed voices, intently and at times angrily. Of them all, only Balthasar Gelt paid any attention to Nagash. Though he could not make out the man’s face behind his gilded mask, Jerrod knew that the wizard was glaring at the Undying King. Gelt’s hatred for the creature had been plainly evident from the moment Mannfred von Carstein had brought word of Nagash’s offer.