Vlad glanced speculatively at Tyrion. The Incarnate of Light stood, as ever, near the throne of the Everqueen, one hand resting on his sword. Like Caradryan, Tyrion said little at these gatherings. Instead, he stared west, as if he could see the battle taking place there and longed to be at its forefront. From what Eldyra had told him of her old master, Vlad thought that the latter was exceedingly likely. He wondered if, perhaps, it might not be wise to bring master and former apprentice together once more. Eldyra would be of great help in the battles to come, but she needed focus. She needed to see that there was only one path open to her, and that path was Vlad’s. Whatever the elf thought of the changes wrought in her, he would surely strive to aid her.
And in the lending of that aid, common cause might arise between Vlad himself and the elf-prince. Vlad had no illusions as to the disgust and mistrust his presence engendered among the others. It had ever been such, and it was no less than he expected. But if the Emperor could put aside his distaste, and even Gelt could be civil, then there might be hope yet. The time was coming when Nagash would dispense with him and return him to the dust from which he had been drawn. To Nagash, his champions were but tools, and easily disposed of.
Vlad had no intention of going back into the dark. Not now. Not while Isabella still walked the world, held in thrall to the Dark Gods. And not while the empire he was owed could yet be salvaged. He reached up and touched the tattered seal affixed to his cuirass – the official seal of Karl Franz, and the sign of an elector. Yes, he would speak to Tyrion and the Emperor both, and ingratiate himself to his enemies as only one who had manoeuvred through the adder-pits of the Courts of the Dawn could.
But later, I think, Vlad thought. When Nagash’s presence was not such a sore point for the others, they might be more inclined to think charitably of him and his. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of argument. It was a familiar sound, and almost depressingly so. Teclis and the others were, Vlad reflected, finding that forging such an assemblage of disparate powers was one thing, but getting them to work in harmony was another entirely.
Elven voices outweighed those of men and dwarfs here, and it was only thanks to the mediating efforts of Karl Franz that violence had not already erupted between the haughty exiles of Ulthuan and their guests. And the less said about Nagash, the better. Everyone had their own opinion as to what action the gathered Incarnates and their ever-dwindling followers must take next, but none could convince the others. The pendulum of discussion swung back and forth from civil discourse to squabbling arguments, and Vlad watched it all in amusement. This time, it was the sorcerer, Teclis, trying to sway the so-called Council of Incarnates to his strategy.
‘The fate of the eighth wind is of the utmost importance,’ Teclis was saying.
Lileath stood beside him, her face grave. She added, ‘The Wind of Beasts is loose somewhere in the world, and while it is lost to us, your power cannot hope to match that of the Chaos Gods. If we are to have any hope of victory–’
‘And what victory would that be? To save a world already infected by the taint of Chaos?’ Malekith snarled. ‘No, that is no victory at all.’ He rose from his throne. ‘With our powers we might yet seal the great breaches through which the winds of Chaos roar. Imagine it, a world free of Chaos, and of the tyranny of wild magic.’
‘And without magic, what then?’ Alarielle said. ‘Our world only thrives because of it. Rather than dispensing with it, we should combine our abilities, and infuse Athel Loren itself with the very stuff of magic. We can return it to the splendour of ancient days, and make it a fitting final redoubt which might stand against the Dark Gods for an eternity.’
‘No,’ Arkhan the Black said. He stepped forwards, to the consternation of the others. Vlad hid a smile. Nagash rarely deigned to speak to the living, preferring that either Vlad or Arkhan handled such a tedious chore. The living undoubtedly considered it to be arrogance; in truth, Vlad knew that Nagash was ever at work attempting to bring the untold millions of mindless, unbound corpses which had wandered the world since his resurrection under control. Such a feat required every iota of Nagash’s attentions.
‘No,’ Arkhan went on, ‘Nagash shall not sacrifice that which is his by right. Not on behalf of the demesne of another.’
‘Indeed,’ Vlad said, speaking up. He smiled and gestured airily. ‘Especially when there are better ways to use such things.’
‘You will be silent, leech. You are only here on sufferance,’ Malekith snapped.
‘No,’ Gelt said. The wizard stepped forwards. ‘Whatever you think of him, in his time Vlad von Carstein was a military commander without equal. For that reason, if no other, we should heed him.’ Vlad hid his surprise. Gelt was the last one he had expected to speak for him, except for Hammerson, possibly. Vlad inclined his head.
‘The lands from here to Kislev are swarming with the walking dead – bodies without life or consciousness, uncontrolled, but waiting.’ He indicated Nagash. ‘With the power of the other Incarnates added to his own, Nagash would be able to control the dead in their entirety. An army of billions, waiting to be utilised howsoever we see fit. Imagine it,’ Vlad said, gesturing. ‘The Everchosen may have armies aplenty, but they are not limitless, and with every battle, our numbers would swell.’
‘Pah. Why bother with the dead at all? We should send emissaries to my folk,’ Hammerson barked, pounding a fist into his palm. ‘There are mighty holds yet in the mountains. Copper Mountain is but a few days travel east of here. My kin would open their doors to me – to us. And we would have an army capable of smashing us a path wherever we wish to go, or to hold these forests and crags indefinitely if that is your wish.’
‘Hammerson is right,’ Gelt said. He looked at the Emperor, as if seeking support. ‘The dwarfs have always been the staunchest allies of the Empire, come what may. They would not abandon us now.’ Hammerson nodded fiercely.
‘Aye. But say the word, and I’ll send my rangers into the crags. They’ll use the dwarf paths, the routes known only to the dawi, and bring us back an army…’
‘Time is short enough, without wasting it begging for aid from those who’ve already made their cowardice clear,’ Tyrion said scornfully. Hammerson snarled an oath, and made as if to attack the elf, but Gelt held him back. Tyrion looked around, seemingly oblivious to the dwarf’s mounting anger. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘we have an army. The finest in the world – Aenarion himself would have been proud to lead it.’
‘And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Malekith said.
The Emperor spoke up before Tyrion could reply. ‘And what do you suggest we do with this army?’ he asked.
Tyrion laughed. ‘Isn’t it obvious? We take back your Empire, my friend. We rally your folk, province by province. We drive the enemy back, back into the north, back into the void whence they came.’
‘There are no provinces to rally, Tyrion,’ the Emperor said, after a moment. His voice was rough with barely restrained emotion. ‘There are no armies to raise, no sieges to lift. There are no embers of resistance to fan into rebellion.’ He spoke slowly, as if every word was painful. ‘The Empire that I – that Sigmar – built is done and dust. It has been ground under and made as nothing.’
Gelt hunched forwards, leaning against his staff. ‘The Emperor is correct. The forces we have here are all that remain to us. To all of us.’