‘Necromancy can be taught,’ Gelt said.
‘And if it’s the symbolism of the thing, we have plenty of dead empires about… including Bretonnia,’ Malekith added. He gestured to Jerrod. ‘Why, we even have the de facto ruler of that dead land here among us.’
‘What?’ Jerrod said. ‘What are you saying?’
‘You are a duke, are you not?’ Malekith said. ‘The only one amongst your barbaric conclave of horsemen, if I’m not mistaken. Your claim is superior.’
‘Bretonnia is not dead,’ Jerrod said. He looked around, seeking support. He found only speculation and calculation, in equal measure. ‘My people still live. Else what is this for?’ he asked, helplessly. Helplessness turned into anger, as Malekith gave a harsh caw of laughter.
‘Hope is the weapon of the enemy, human,’ the Eternity King said. ‘Your land is ashes, as is mine, as is everyone’s. A haunt for daemons and worse things. The quicker you accept it, the more useful you’ll be.’ His eyes glittered within the depths of his mask.
Jerrod’s hand fell to his sword hilt. He heard Hammerson say something, but he ignored the dwarf’s warning rumble. Malekith had said nothing that Jerrod himself had not thought a thousand times since the fall of Averheim. But to think it, to fear it, was one thing. To say it aloud – to make sport of it – was another. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and strike. Hammerson was right: Malekith was as much a monster as Nagash. The world would be better off without him.
Cool fingers dropped over his hand before he could draw his blade. He whirled. Lileath released his hand and stepped back. ‘No,’ she said, softly. ‘If you do, you will be slain in the attempt. And then where will your people be, Jerrod of Quenelles? Would you abandon your duties so casually? Is your honour so frail as to be torn by the words of such a spiteful creature?’
‘You forget yourself, woman,’ Malekith said. ‘I am king.’
Lileath looked past Jerrod. ‘It is you who forget yourself. King you might be, but I am Lileath of the Moon, and Ladrielle of the Veil, and it is by my will that you have survived to take your place on that throne. My power may have dwindled to but a spark, but I am still here. And I know you, Malekith. Deceiver and hero, arrogant and wise. The best and worst of your folk, housed in iron and forged in flame. You are as dangerous as the Sword of Khaine itself. But I was there when that sword was nothing more than a lump of metal, and I was there too when you were torn squalling from your mother’s womb.’
She extended her staff and used it to gently push Jerrod back as she stepped forwards. ‘If you do not put aside your differences, if you do not unite, then this world will be consumed. There is no time to pass petty judgements, or to exclaim in horror at the choices you have made, or the allies who offer their fellowship. The world is ending. The End Times are here. And if you would not be swept away like spent ashes from a cold hearth, you will heed me.’
Jerrod stared at her, wondering why her names struck such a chord in him. Who are you? he thought. He saw that Mannfred too seemed to recognise Lileath. The vampire’s eyes met his, and the creature smirked, as if he and Jerrod shared some awful secret. Jerrod turned away with a shudder. Hammerson, in a rare display, patted his arm.
‘He was lying, lad. That’s what the elgi do,’ the runesmith said. The words were scant comfort. Jerrod shook his head.
‘No, Gotri. I don’t think he was.’
Hammerson looked up at the knight, and felt a tug of sympathy. Despite what he’d said, he knew that what Malekith had said was more than likely the truth. Or some version of it, at least. From his expression, Jerrod felt the same.
It was no easy thing to lose kin or a home. To see all that was familiar torn away in an instant and reduced to ash. Hammerson glanced up at Volker, and saw a similar expression on the other man’s face. Aye, the humans were now getting a taste of the bitter brew that his folk had been drinking for centuries. And the elves as well, come to that, though Hammerson felt less sympathy for them. They’d brought it on themselves, after all. The humans, though… Hammerson sighed. Humans had many, many flaws, as any dwarf could tell you. But they didn’t deserve the ruination that had befallen them.
Then, who does? he thought. He looked at Mannfred. Except maybe that one. The vampire had a smug expression on his face, as if he were enjoying the bickering that surrounded him. Hammerson frowned.
He had been at Nachthafen the day that Konrad von Carstein had slaughtered the Zhufbarak. He’d been but a beardling, apprenticed to a runesmith, but he still had the scars from when Konrad and his accursed Blood Knights had attacked their position, overrunning it in moments. He remembered the king’s fall, his throat torn open by the creature calling itself Walach Harkon, and he remembered the surging tide of corpses.
Mannfred was cut from the same grave shroud as Konrad. He’d waged war on Zhufbar as well, when he’d come to power, and many a dwarf had perished at his hands. If grudges had physical weight then Athel Loren would have long since sunk deep into the earth, between Malekith, Nagash and Mannfred.
No dwarf would ally himself with such creatures, even in the face of destruction. That, in the end, was the difference between his folk and the humans and elves. For a dwarf, better destruction than compromise, better death than surrender. If the thing must be done, let it be done well, he thought. It was an old proverb, but one every dwarf knew, in one form or another. All things should be approached as a craftsman approached his trade. To compromise was to weaken the integrity of that work. To allow flaws, to invite disaster.
Not for the first time, Hammerson wondered if he should simply take his folk and go. They would return to Zhufbar and see what remained of it, either to rebuild or avenge it. It was a nice thought, and it kept him warm on cold nights, staring into the dark of the trees, pipe in hand without even a good fire to provide light and comfort.
But that was all it was. If the thing must be done, let it be done well. And the dwarfs had made an oath long ago to the human thane, Sigmar, to defend his people for as long as there was an empire. And dwarfs, unlike elves, knew that an empire was made not of stone or land or castles, but of hearts and minds. Stones could be moved, land reshaped and castles knocked down, but an empire could survive anything, as long as its people still lived.
While one citizen of the Empire yet lived, be they soldier, greybeard, infant or Emperor, the Zhufbarak at least would die for them. Because that was the way of it. An oath was an oath, and it would be fulfilled, come ruin or redemption. Even if the humans chose to throw in their lot with the King of Bones himself, the Zhufbarak would stand shield-wall between them and the ravages of Chaos until the end.
Speaking of which, he mused, studying the giant of bone and black iron where he stood in an ever-widening circle of yellow, brittle grass. For a creature whose very existence was under threat, Nagash didn’t seem altogether concerned. Which, to Hammerson’s way of thinking, was worrying.
Malekith obviously felt the same. He was in fine form, arguing passionately with Lileath and Teclis. Hammerson could almost admire the Eternity King, if he hadn’t been a deceitful, backstabbing kinslayer. Kings had to be harder than stone, and colder than ice, at times, and Malekith was both of those and no mistake. But too much cold, and even the hardest stone grew brittle.