Mannfred threw back his head and howled. He sprang from the dais, quick as a cat, and lunged for Nagash. His blade slammed down. Nagash caught the blow on his palm, and wrenched Mannfred from the air. The vampire tumbled end over end. He struck the ground, bounced, and lay still. Nagash held up the trapped sword, and his talons flexed. The blade shattered as if it were spun glass. The pieces fell to the ground in a glittering cascade, one by one, thumping into the dead grass.
Mannfred pushed himself to his feet. His eyes were empty, void of emotion. Teclis felt nothing. This was not victory of any sort or kind. It was a thing which had to be done for the greater good, and that drained it of any satisfaction it might have otherwise provided. Mannfred was to be but one more body for the foundations, rather than a conquered enemy. He met the vampire’s gaze, and saw a spark in the blackness. A refusal to surrender to fate. In the end, that was all vampires really were. Survival instinct given form and voice.
Mannfred made to speak.
Nagash cut him off with but a gesture. Bonds of amethyst formed about the vampire, mummifying him in dreadful light. Soon, a cocoon of death magic hovered above the ground, occasionally twitching as its occupant tried to free himself.
A hush fell over the glade. Nagash stood silent and still, his gift hovering behind him, ready to be delivered into the hands of his prospective allies, if they agreed. No one spoke, however. Some were shocked by Nagash’s actions. Others wondered if it were merely a ruse. Teclis wasn’t shocked, nor did he believe it was a trick.
The liche’s skull creaked as it swivelled to face him. The eerie light that flickered within Nagash’s sockets flared. Teclis stared back, unperturbed, at least outwardly. He had faced Nagash twice before, once in the quiet of Nagashizzar, many years ago, when he had tried to enlist the Great Necromancer’s darkling spirit as an ally against the growing shadow in the north. Nagash had refused then. Teclis wondered if the creature regretted that refusal now, when he was being forced to give up one of his servants as the price for what he could have once had freely. No, Teclis thought. No, you regret nothing. Such emotions have long since turned to dust in the hollow chasms of your memory. He smiled sadly. Lucky for you, I have regret enough for all of us.
Teclis looked at his brother. ‘Well, brother?’
Tyrion glanced at Teclis, and then looked at Alarielle. He made as if to offer her his hand, but turned away instead. ‘Honour is satisfied,’ Tyrion said. Alarielle stared at him for a moment, and then returned to her throne.
‘Honour is satisfied,’ she repeated, softly.
Malekith, who had watched them in silence the entire time, gestured sharply and returned to his seat. ‘Time itself is our enemy. As such, if… honour is satisfied, then I withdraw my objection.’
Teclis looked at Gelt. ‘And you, Balthasar Gelt?’ Gelt said nothing. After a moment, he nodded tersely. Teclis looked at the others. Caradryan shrugged. The Emperor nodded. Teclis sighed in relief. He turned his attentions to Nagash. ‘You heard them, necromancer. Mannfred is ours, and in return, you will be allowed a place on the Council of Incarnates.’
‘A PRETTY NAME. AND WHAT IS THIS COUNCIL, LOREMASTER?’
Teclis ignored the mention of his former position. ‘That should be obvious, even to one as removed as you.’ He met Nagash’s flickering gaze directly.
‘It is a council of war.’
NINE
Mannfred von Carstein cursed himself for a fool. It had become his mantra in the days following his betrayal and incarceration. He sat in the dark, constrained by a cage of living roots. The enchantments which had been laid upon his prison were a source of constant discomfort. He could not even muster the smallest cantrip.
This, he thought, this is how I am repaid? He had been loyal, hadn’t he? Loyalty must run both ways, though. He had served faithfully and honestly, and how had he been repaid? With the loss of all that he had fought for, with betrayal and punishment for a crime he had not even committed. It had been Arkhan who had slit the elf maiden’s throat, and used her blood to revive Nagash. Why hadn’t Nagash dispensed with the liche instead? Arkhan had served his purpose – he was a shell now. Nothing but an extension of his master’s will.
Maybe that was it. Neferata had said it herself – Nagash despised anything that wasn’t Nagash. And what Nagash despised, he feared as well. Do you fear me, Undying King? Even after all I have sacrificed on your behalf?
For the first few hours of his imprisonment, he had raged and ranted, hoping to attract the notice of guards, or, even better, one of the Incarnates. He thought that if he could but tell them the truth of things, they would see how Nagash had tricked them. He couldn’t say what he thought that might accomplish. He knew, now that he was imprisoned, he would not be freed, even if he proved his relative innocence. But to see Nagash defeated, or even destroyed, and Arkhan with him, was too tantalising a dream to relinquish.
But no guards came, if there even were guards. None of his enemies came, to gloat or to accuse. He was left alone in the dark, without the sorcery that was his birthright. Worse than his lack of magics, he could feel the very stuff of him draining away, as if the trees above him were drawing sustenance from his bones. The magics that permeated him were being siphoned off, and likely transmuted into new and vibrant growths above. A vampire being vampirised, he thought, and not for the first time. Under different circumstances, he might even have seen the humour of it all. As it was, he filled his days with plotting ever more savage revenge schemes for the day of his inevitable freedom.
And he would be free. That was the certainty which sustained him, even as his prison sought to suck the life from him. He had been buried before, more than once. Trapped in the dark. But he had always returned. Like Nagash himself, he had mastered death. It was not the end. He pushed himself to his feet. He looked up. ‘Do you hear me? It is not the end! I still live, and while I live, I…’ He trailed off. Someone was clapping. He whirled, a snarl splitting his features. ‘Who dares mock me? Show yourself!’
‘“Who dares mock me,” he asks. Would you like a list?’ Vlad von Carstein said, as he stepped out of the shadows and stood before the cage. He seemed healthy for a dead man, Mannfred thought. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope that Vlad had come to free him. Then common sense reasserted itself, and he took a wary step back.
‘Come to gloat, old man?’ Mannfred said. He glared at Vlad, wishing that he could kill with a glance. ‘Or maybe you’ve come to finally put me out of my misery. Well, took you long enough. I was beginning to wonder how many assassination attempts it would take…’
‘I’m not going to kill you, boy. The world has seen enough change, in my opinion.’ Vlad leaned against the roots that made up the bars of Mannfred’s prison and stared at him. ‘You are only alive because I asked him to spare you.’
‘Did you really?’ Mannfred spat.
Vlad smiled. ‘Well, not exactly. I pointed out that your suffering would make a better peace offering than your death. And Nagash, being, well, Nagash, thought that made sense.’
‘Remind me to thank you at the first opportunity,’ Mannfred said.
Vlad frowned. ‘I did it for you, boy. Whatever you think, whatever self-deluding lie is even now burrowing into the sour meat of what passes for your brain, know that what I did, I did for you.’ He leaned forwards, gripping the ancient roots. ‘You are still my… friend. My student. Even now. Even here.’