Leitdorf raised his sword and bellowed in defiance as he and his order struck the phalanx. The air rippled with the screams of men and horses as the impetus of the charge carried them onto the spears and in some cases, beyond. Leitdorf was thrown from his saddle as his steed collapsed, a spear in its chest. The Grand Master of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood was thrown deep into the ranks of skeletons. He crashed through them, but was on his feet with remarkable speed for one who ought to have been dead from a broken neck at the very least.
Mannfred watched as Leitdorf waded through the ranks of bleached bone, his sword flashing as he fought to reach his prey. Spears sought and found him, but he refused to fall. Mannfred found himself enraptured by the spectacle. Leitdorf’s face was not that of a berserker, or a man driven insane by fear. Rather, it was the face of one determined to see his desires fulfilled, regardless of the cost. Mannfred could almost admire that sort of determination. For a moment, he considered swaying Leitdorf to his way of thinking. Vlad had always been fond of that – turning foes into, if not friends, then allies. A brave man was a brave man, he’d always said.
Then, Leitdorf broke free of the phalanx, and his blade chopped down, narrowly missing Mannfred’s face. Mannfred sprang back, a snarl on his lips. From behind him, Elize said, ‘I told you.’
‘Yes, thank you, cousin,’ he spat. He brought his blade up as Leitdorf, wheezing like a dying bull, staggered towards him. ‘Anything else you’d like to add? No? Good. Shut up and let me have this moment, at least.’ He extended his sword towards Leitdorf in a mocking salute. ‘Well, old man, is this it then? Come to die at last?’
‘The only one who’ll die tonight, vampire, is you,’ Leitdorf said hoarsely.
Mannfred brought his blade up. ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ He crooked his fingers in a beckoning gesture. ‘Come, Herr Leitdorf… One last dance before the world ends, eh?’
TWENTY-FOUR
Eldyra looked up at the dark sky. Morrslieb and Mannslieb waxed full and bathed the world in an unpleasant radiance. She leaned back in her saddle and fingered the pommel of the runeblade sheathed on her hip. She said a silent prayer of thanks to Tyrion for all that he’d taught her. She’d used every ounce of skill and every swordsman’s trick she’d learned in the days since they’d found what was left of Leitdorf, hanging from a tree south of the gutted and stinking ruin that had been the village of Klodebein.
She felt a pang of sadness as she thought of her mannish ally. She hadn’t known him long, or well, but Leitdorf had seemed a good sort as far as humans went. But he had been as impatient and reckless as men invariably proved to be.
They’d lost the dwarfs as well – Ungrim’s throng had not made the rendezvous. Belannaer had cast a spell of far-seeing and discovered that the throng had come into conflict with the largest beast-horde Eldyra had seen this far from the Wastes. She couldn’t tell whether Eltharion was pleased or disappointed. He was no dwarf-friend, but even the Warden of Tor Yvresse could see that that their nigh-hopeless quest had become a suicidal one.
Nonetheless, they had not turned back. The Stormraker Host had fought its way through every obstacle Mannfred von Carstein had placed in its path – snarling packs of dead wolves, swarms of ghouls, shrieking spectres, and vampire champions clad in armour reeking of the butcher’s block. Eldyra had taken the heads of more than a few of the latter, including a particularly stupid creature who had dared to challenge her to single combat.
Belannaer, guided by Aliathra’s silent song, had guided them at last to this place, where the final fate of the Everchild, and possibly the world, would be decided. ‘To think that it all comes down to such an uninspiring place,’ Belannaer murmured from beside her. The mage stood on the edge of the slope looking down into the immense crater, at the centre of which lay their destination: nine great standing stones, arrayed on a bubo of rock and soil. And spread out around it, in all directions, was the vast and unmoving army of the dead. Eldyra doubted that they could have defeated that army even with the aid of the men and the dwarfs.
‘You would prefer Finuval Plain?’ Eldyra asked.
‘As a matter of fact – yes,’ Belannaer said. ‘The air here is thick with the stuff of death. It is their place, not ours, and they have the advantage in more than just numbers.’
‘Then we shall have to fight all the harder,’ Eltharion said. They were the first words he’d spoken in days. He sat atop his griffon, his fingers buried in the thick feathers of the creature’s neck. He leaned forward and murmured soothingly to the restive beast as it clawed at the hard ground impatiently. Eltharion’s face might as well have been a mask, for all the expression it showed.
Eldyra thought that somewhere beneath that impassive mask, the Grim One blamed himself for Leitdorf’s death. The man had tried several times to convince Eltharion to move faster, but he had been rebuffed every time. Eltharion had thought speed secondary to ensuring that their path was clear of potential enemies.
He had dispatched Eldyra to cleanse dozens of ruined mansions, abandoned villages and ancient tombs. And with every day, Leitdorf had grown more and more impatient, until at last he had simply given up trying to nudge his allies along and marched on ahead, to his death. Eltharion had said nothing either way. He’d shown no emotion when they found Leitdorf’s body, and he hadn’t mentioned the man’s name since.
If Eltharion had a fault, it was that he was arrogant enough to think that the world was balanced on his shoulders. Eldyra had always wondered if that strange arrogance was the common bond he shared with Tyrion and Teclis. Heroes always thought that the world would shudder to a halt if they made a mistake.
Then, given what they’d seen recently, maybe they were right.
‘Then perhaps it is time to tell them what we are fighting for,’ Eldyra said softly. Belannaer’s eyes widened. Eltharion didn’t look at her. None had known the identity of the one whom they sought to rescue, save she, Eltharion and Belannaer. They had hidden that information from their own folk, as well as the men and the dwarfs, for fear of what might happen were it to be known. For long moments, Eldyra thought Eltharion might refuse.
Then, as if some great weight had settled on him, he sagged. ‘Yes,’ he said.
And he did. Once a decision was made, Eltharion would not hesitate. Eldyra watched from her horse as the warriors of Tiranoc and Yvresse mustered on the edge of the crater, and Eltharion, standing high in his saddle, addressed them. He spoke long and low, with deliberate plainness. Rhetoric had no place here, only the plain, unvarnished truth.
Eldyra watched silently, wondering what the result would be. She wasn’t afraid to admit, to herself at least, that the Ulthuani had no more love of truth than their dark kin. The world coasted on a sea of quiet lies, and the truth was an unpleasant shoal best avoided.
Eltharion finished.
For a time, the assembled host might as well have been statues. Then, one warrior, a noble of Seledin by the cut of the robes beneath his armour, swept his curved blade flat against his cuirass in the ancient Yvressi salute. ‘Iselendra yevithri anthri,’ he said. ‘By our deaths, we do serve.’
As Eldyra watched, the salute was echoed by every warrior in turn. Eltharion stared, as if uncertain how to respond. She nudged her horse forwards to join him and drew her blade. She laid the flat of it over her heart as she gazed at him. ‘You heard them, Grim One,’ she said.