‘I agree, but there is nothing to be done, my lady,’ Teclis said. ‘The others will not be swayed by pretty words or promises – especially not from me. Not now. My crimes are too numerous, my betrayals too fresh.’ His sword hummed out, drawing blood and howls of agony from the enemy. He set his staff and lightning crackled from the tip, arcing out to smash into the ranks of beastmen. Contorted bodies were flung high into the air, to land smoking on the churned earth.
‘Then you should have hidden your crimes better,’ she snapped. Teclis almost snapped off a retort, but held his tongue. Though she had given the last of her power to slow the blight of Chaos, Lileath was still one of the ancient gods of elvenkind. And she was still the closest thing he had to a guide on the path he now trod.
In fact, it had been Lileath who had first set him upon that path. It was her staff he wielded, and her strength which had flowed through it, once, into him. As a goddess, prophecy had been amongst her gifts, and she had foreseen the End Times, and perceived the shape of their coming, long before his birth. It was she who had warned him of Aenarion’s curse, and how it would twist Tyrion and doom their people. It was she who had convinced him of Malekith’s legitimacy, and the need for the Incarnates. And it was she who had shown him how to bring Tyrion back from death, and what sacrifices would be required.
It had all been Lileath, and he had performed every task to her expectation save one – he had not been able to control the winds of magic. The shattering of the vortex had failed, and now the eighth wind was lost, somewhere in the east. If he strained his senses, he could feel it, just barely. It had found a host, he knew, though what sort of host he couldn’t say. What he did know was that the Incarnate of Beasts was steadily moving west, pulled by the same sorcerous signal which had drawn the other Incarnates. But the host, whoever or whatever it was, would not reach them in time. Not unless they went out to meet it.
Then, united, the Incarnates could throw back Chaos once and for all. Or so Lileath had assured him. Even now, however, he wasn’t sure. He watched her as they fought, studying her. Her determination was inhuman, greater than any save perhaps Nagash’s, but was it truly bent in service to his cause? Was she truly fighting for the elves, or was there some other game being played? Some deeper purpose that the once-goddess had not seen fit to share with her servant.
His mouth twisted into a frown. Was that all he was now? A servant of fate? The thought did not sit well with him. Fate had ever been his enemy, from the first moment he had learned of the curse that had lurked in his and Tyrion’s bloodline. Without thinking, he sought out his brother. As ever, Tyrion was deep in the maelstrom of battle, his form glowing brightly as he rode Malhandir through the press, striking down beastmen with every blow. The Emperor rode beside him on his screeching griffon, and though the human did not glow with power, his sword, and the claws and beak of his beast, took an equal toll.
The two were accompanied by Imrik and his fellow Dragon Princes, who crashed and swirled through the enemy ranks like lightning. The finest cavalry in all of Ulthuan, it was all but impossible to force them to maintain proper battle order. The Bretonnians too had joined with them, carving out a trail through the heart of the warherd. And above the massed charge flew Caradryan and his Phoenix Guard. The captain unleashed torrents of flame which burned only beastmen, and spared elves, men and trees alike.
And still, it was not enough. Teclis could feel the awful pulse of dark magics which hissed through the blood of the enemy. The Children of Chaos had ever been the fodder of the dark armies, and they had been called to Athel Loren in their thousands, united at last in common cause. They were not meant to succeed, he knew. They were but chaff, sent to die and keep the last redoubt under siege, until the Everchosen bestirred himself to launch a final attack.
The question was, why hadn’t Archaon yet launched that attack? Why did he still sit north of the Grey Mountains, rather than flowing down and engulfing Athel Loren in fire and steel? Why not make an end of it?
There was something they were missing, some piece of the puzzle not yet fitted into place. Frustrated, Teclis whirled his staff over his head and brought it down. Crackling talons of lightning shot forth, catching nearby beastmen in their grasp. The creatures fell, wreathed in smoke. What have we missed? he thought. He heard the sound of a signal horn, and saw the Dragon Princes and the Bretonnians retreating. They flowed through the ranks of spearmen, who formed up behind them as the beastmen pressed forwards. He could hear elf nobles shouting out orders up and down the lines. They were buckling, and there was nothing anyone, even the Incarnates, could do. And will we survive long enough to find out?
He saw Imrik’s standard bearer gallop past. The spearmen were falling back in good order, covered by bowmen and Alith Anar’s Shadow Warriors as well as the dwarf Thunderers, but there were too many bodies in white and silver left behind. The battle-line was swinging inwards, folding in on itself as the press of the enemy became too great. Teclis set his staff, and readied a spell. It would not end here, but they would lose the Silvale Glade, and the enemy would draw ever closer to the heart of the forest-kingdom.
Then, a wash of cold, foul air filled the glade. The beastmen, once braying in triumph, began to edge back, suddenly uncertain. Teclis turned, and felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. Nagash had at last decided to act. The Great Necromancer had stood at the rear of the army, accompanied by Arkhan the Black, seemingly content to do nothing more than observe. But now, the Undying King moved slowly to the centre of the glade. The bodies of the dead twitched and stirred as he moved through them, and moaning souls were drawn in his wake. His nine books thrashed in their chains and snapped like wild beasts.
A minotaur charged towards him, roaring. Nagash’s claw snapped out and caught the creature by the throat. Without slowing, or any visible effort, he broke the beast’s neck and slung the body aside. Horns sounded and the elves retreated, streaming back from the liche. Teclis forced himself forwards. He doubted Nagash needed any help, and he wasn’t inclined to offer it besides, but he was curious about what the Incarnate of Death was planning.
Nagash raised his staff in both hands, and brought it down. The ground groaned, and a circle of dead grass spread out from the point where the staff touched. Amethyst light blazed through ruptures in the soil. It grew brighter and brighter, and where it passed, beastmen died in untold numbers. Hundreds fell in moments, and fear swept through those who survived. Soon, those that the light hadn’t touched were fleeing back into the trees. The herd was broken. Teclis released a shuddering breath.
Nagash lowered his staff and turned.
‘IT IS DONE.’
‘You… have our thanks,’ Teclis said. Silence had fallen over the glade in the wake of Nagash’s spell. Nagash strode past him without reply. Arkhan fell in step beside him. Vlad hesitated. He looked around, a slight smile on his face, and sheathed the sword he’d been holding. The vampire looked as if he’d participated in the fighting, at least.
‘Well, I trust you’re now seeing the benefit to our presence,’ the vampire said. He grabbed Lileath’s hand and bowed low. ‘My lady,’ he murmured. He released her and nodded to Teclis. ‘Loremaster,’ he said. Then he straightened, turned on his heel, and strode after Nagash.
‘Though you did not choose him, I am forced to admit he is impressive,’ Lileath murmured. She cradled her hand to her chest, and for a moment, Teclis wondered whether she was talking about Nagash or Vlad.
‘I would be more impressed if he’d done that to begin with,’ a harsh voice said. Teclis turned to see a familiar figure clad in blue and silver armour approaching, leading a horse in his wake.