‘All the more reason then, to take control of the limitless dead,’ Vlad interjected. ‘We can bury them in hungry corpses.’ He looked at the Emperor. ‘And perhaps take some measure of vengeance for the atrocities they have wreaked on our lands.’
‘Not to mention the power that would give your master,’ Caradryan said, speaking up for the first time. ‘What would he do with that army, once our common foe was defeated?’
‘Aye, the elf has the right of it,’ Hammerson grated. He pointed a stubby finger at Vlad. ‘The living cannot trust the dead. My people know that better than most. Bad enough that we must fight alongside elves, but at least the pointy-ears are alive.’
Vlad smiled and spread his hands. ‘You think far ahead for one dangling from a precipice, Master Hammerson.’ He looked around. ‘There is no guarantee that even with the dead under our sway, it would be enough to throw back the enemy. Why worry about the future, when it is the present which is under threat?’
‘Because it is for the future that we fight,’ the Emperor said. He looked around. ‘Survival is not enough, my friends. Nor is victory. One without the other would be a hollow triumph at best, and pyrrhic at worst.’ His eyes met those of Vlad, briefly. Vlad stepped back, his pretty words suddenly so much ash in his mouth. ‘This world is all that is, and will be, for our peoples. There is nowhere that can be made safe, nowhere that we can run.’
As the Emperor spoke, Vlad saw Lileath blanch and step back, her hand at her throat. He wondered idly what secret she hid that made her react so, even as he said, ‘Then what are we even doing here?’ He gestured about him. ‘Beautiful as this forest is, I do not fancy it as a tomb.’
‘Nor do any of us,’ the Emperor said. ‘Which is why whatever else is decided here, it must be unanimous. We must stand as one, or we will fall separately.’
Vlad glanced up at Nagash, and then away. He smiled and shook his head.
It was a pretty sentiment. But it was going to take more than sentiment to sway any of the gathered powers to a single cause.
The Temple of Ulric rang with the sound of footsteps. Robed, huddled shapes scuttled into the dark, hissing and murmuring in abominable fashion. Strange, inhuman figures cavorted in the shadowed alcoves and aisles. Bestial forms clambered through the chains strung across the curve of the dome, feeding off the rotting bodies which hung there.
Pale shapes swayed and danced to the piping sound of flutes before the throne of the Three-Eyed King. They were clad in silks and damask, smelling of sweet oils and perfumes, and their hooves and claws were sheathed in gold. They sang and laughed as they danced, delicately clawing one another and scattering the blood about them as if it were rose petals. The pipers, slovenly, fat-gutted plaguebearers, crouched on the dais and played duelling melodies, as cackling pink horrors clapped and kept time.
Canto Unsworn strode forwards, through the silently arrayed ranks of the Swords of Chaos. To the best of his knowledge, the Chaos knights hadn’t moved since they had taken up their positions some weeks earlier. The daemonettes, in their dance, moved amongst them, but not a single one of the knights so much as twitched. Canto gestured sharply as one horned and cloven-hoofed beauty pirouetted towards him, and the creature dashed away, favouring him with a sulky smile as she spun past him. Her claws clicked across the side of his helm as he moved away.
As Canto drew close to the throne, he tossed the still-smoking helm of Nalac the Eschaton onto the floor. ‘The Changer of Ways sends his regards,’ Canto said, as the pipes went still and the horrors ceased their laughter. The helm, composed of millions of shards of tinted glass, caught the light in a thousand ways. It reminded him of another helm, belonging to another devotee of Tzeentch, long ago and far away. He pushed the thought away.
Archaon, heretofore slouched on his throne, sat up. ‘Nalac. I do not know him.’ He had Ghal Maraz across his lap. Even now, the hammer terrified Canto. No mortal hand would ever wield it again, but even so, it seemed to hunger for death and destruction. His death, and the destruction of those he served. Others had encouraged Archaon to dispense with it, to shatter it, or hurl it from the city walls. Their bodies now hung from the chains above, along with the others who had tested Archaon’s patience.
‘And you never will, my lord,’ Canto said. ‘He was one of Vilitch’s disciples, and was trying to rouse the tribes occupying the Sudgarten District. I thought it prudent to – ah – head that off at the pass, as it were.’ He gave the helmet a kick.
‘Did he die well?’
‘I’m not entirely certain. A flock of purple ravens burst out of his armour after I cut his head off. They flew off. I think that means I won.’ He looked up at Archaon. ‘The army grows restless, my lord.’
‘The army eats itself, Unsworn,’ Archaon corrected. ‘Like a fire, swelling to fill a room and snuffing itself in the process. That is the nature of Chaos. Like the serpent eating its own tail, it feeds on itself, until there is nothing left to devour.’ Archaon stroked the hammer gingerly, as if afraid it might bite him. ‘And then, it begins again.’ He shoved the hammer from his lap. It struck the dais and tumbled down the stairs. Daemons scrambled out of its path with shrieks and yowls. Canto stepped back as the hammer smashed into the floor at the foot of the steps. ‘It always begins again,’ Archaon said.
‘Yes, my lord,’ Canto said carefully, bowing his head.
When he looked up, Archaon was studying him. ‘Have I thanked you yet, Unsworn? While I sit here, in my seclusion, you wield sword and shield in my defence. You fight battles so that I do not have to. Do you begrudge me, my executioner?’
Canto did not meet Archaon’s gaze. He could feel its weight on his soul, and knew that his answer might determine his survival. Archaon had dispensed with most of his advisors and confidants in the days following the fall of Averheim. The lands of men were fallen, or of little consequence. The lands of the elves had sunk beneath the sea, and the dwarfs had retreated into the roots of the earth. The sour redoubt of Sylvania was ringed about by armies of beasts and daemons and skaven, and its crushing was of minor importance with Nagash’s departure. There were no enemies left that Canto could see, save Archaon’s own lieutenants.
Chaos feeds on itself, Canto thought. He lifted his head. ‘I do not, my lord. I am content with my lot.’ As he spoke, he hoped Archaon couldn’t see that he was lying.
In truth, Canto had been preparing to leave for days. Every time he thought he might slip out of the gates and ride hell for leather for Araby or Cathay, some champion or chieftain got it into their head to cause trouble. If it wasn’t a schemer like Nalac the Eschaton, it was a brute like Gorgomir Bloodeye, being spurred on by a suspiciously pale courtesan. Finding a vampire amongst the daemon-worshippers wasn’t that surprising. There was at least one other in the city, to Canto’s knowledge.
And a frightening creature she is, he thought. The Countess kept to herself, for the most part, and stayed within the plague gardens that had sprung up in what had been the merchant district. They said that she spent her days humming and singing to herself. On a whim, Sigvald the Magnificent had tried to hack his way into the gardens only to be put to flight, his tail between his legs.
‘I do not remember what contentment feels like,’ Archaon said. ‘Maybe I never knew.’
Before Canto could even attempt to formulate an answer to that, the heavy oaken doors of the temple were smashed open. The sound of splintering wood filled the rotunda, silencing all else. Then, a thunderous voice boomed, ‘You mock me!’