The end times, p.89
The End Times, page 89
‘Lileath, goddess of moon and prophecy,’ Mannfred said, gingerly pushing the blade aside. It squirmed unpleasantly at his touch.
‘Where?’ Be’lakor growled.
‘That was not part of the bargain,’ Mannfred said. ‘But, as I am an honourable man, I shall tell you anyway. The King’s Glade. She sits on the Council of Incarnates, and listens to their bickering, no doubt plotting some scheme of her own.’
Be’lakor grinned. Then, in a twist of shadow, the daemon prince was gone. Mannfred sagged. Free of the deadening effect of the magics, he suddenly realised just how weak he truly was. Hunger gnawed at him.
He heard the rattle of weapons, and realised that Be’lakor’s destruction of the cage had roused the guards. Mannfred smiled, and as the first elf entered the chamber, he was already in motion, jaw unhinged like that of a serpent and claws sprouting from his fingertips. He bowled the elf over with bone-shattering force and tore the spear from his grip. He hurled it with deadly accuracy, spitting the second and driving her back against the wall. With a growl, he tore the helm from the first guard’s head and fastened his jaws on the helpless elf’s throat.
Pain lashed across his back, even as he fed. He turned, jaws and chest stained with blood, and twisted aside as the sword came down again. The elf pursued him as he slithered away. Mannfred caught the blade as it stabbed for his midsection, and hissed in pain as the sigils carved into its surface burned his flesh. He drove the claws of his free hand into the elf’s throat and tore it out.
He fed quickly, knowing that more guards were on their way. When he had supped his fill from each of the guards, he fled into the labyrinth of roots, taking care to keep to the shadows and to hide himself from the spirits which haunted Athel Loren. Freed of his cell, his magics had returned, and he had little difficulty in reaching the surface.
As he reached the open air, he tilted his head and sniffed. Escape was his most pressing concern, but he hesitated. He had been betrayed and humiliated. All of the plots and schemes he had concocted in his confinement came rushing back, and he savoured them. No, it wouldn’t do to leave without saying goodbye. Nagash was beyond the scope of his powers. But he could still poison the well.
Which one will it be? he thought, as he glided through the trees, moving swiftly, conscious of the alarms which were even now being raised. The Incarnates were all, like Nagash, beyond him, though he hated to admit it. That left only certain individuals. And only one whose scent was close at hand.
Mannfred smiled as he set off in pursuit of his quarry. How appropriate, he thought. Maybe fate is on my side after all. If nothing else, it might prove amusing to take Be’lakor’s prize off the table before the daemon got a chance to claim her. And if in doing so he could rend his faithless former would-be allies from a safe remove, all the better. Moving swiftly, he navigated the ever-shifting trails of the forest, avoiding the kinbands likely dispatched to bring him to heel, until he found the one he sought.
And then, with the surety of a serpent, he struck.
Duke Jerrod rose to his feet and spun, his sword flying from his sheath and into his hand. The point of the gleaming blade came to rest in the hollow of Mannfred von Carstein’s throat. ‘Do not move, vampire, or I will remove your foul head,’ Jerrod said.
The Council of Incarnates was squabbling again, arguing over which course of action to take. He’d hoped that the battle with the beastmen would have seen them united at last, but such was not to be. Even as they’d returned to the glade, arguments had started anew. While Hammerson seemed to take a perverse pleasure in watching such rancorous discussion, Jerrod no longer had the stomach for it. It reminded him of the last days in the king’s court, before Mallobaude’s civil war. An enemy on the horizon, and all of them more concerned about getting their own way. Even demigods, it seemed, were not immune to foolishness.
He had been kneeling in the glade, praying to the Lady, asking for some sort of sign which might show him the way, when he’d heard a stick snap beneath the vampire’s tread. Mannfred smiled and spread his hands. ‘Why would I move, when I am where I wish to be, Duke of Quenelles?’ He stepped back slowly, and bowed low. ‘At your service.’
‘I doubt that,’ Jerrod said. He kept his sword extended, ready for any attack the vampire might make. His blade had been blessed by the Lady herself, and would cut through magic and flesh with equal ease. That said, he felt little confidence that he could do much more than distract the creature before him until aid arrived. Even in Bretonnia, the name of von Carstein was a watchword for savagery and death. ‘I did not expect you to escape. Few make it out of the depths of Athel Loren alive.’
‘Well, I’m not really alive, am I?’ Mannfred said. His smile slipped. ‘I am not much of anything now.’ He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, and said, ‘We are two of a kind, you and I… lords without lands, deceived by those we placed our trust in, and fought for.’
‘We are nothing alike, vampire,’ Jerrod said. A part of him screamed for the vampire’s head. The creature deserved death for his crimes. But another part… He blinked. ‘What do you mean “deceived”?’ he asked, without thinking.
Mannfred pulled his cloak tight about him. ‘You do not know, then. How unfortunate. But how in keeping with the selfishness of such creatures, that even now, when you have sacrificed so much, she still refuses to tell you.’
‘She,’ Jerrod said. He knew who the vampire meant. Lileath, he thought.
As if he’d read Jerrod’s thoughts, Mannfred nodded. ‘Yes, you know of whom I speak.’ He frowned. ‘I come now to warn you, Duke of Quenelles, as I wish I had been warned. A final act before I depart this malevolent grove, to perhaps rectify at least one wrong in my misbegotten life.’
‘Say what you have come to say, beast.’ Jerrod readied his sword. ‘And be quick. I hear the horns of Athel Loren sounding in the deep glades. Your jailers will be here soon.’
Mannfred glanced over his shoulder, and then back at Jerrod. ‘Lileath of the Moon, and Ladrielle of the Veil,’ he said. ‘I knew I had heard those names before, secret names for a secret goddess. A goddess of the elves… and of men.’
Jerrod hesitated. ‘No,’ he said, softly.
‘Oh yes,’ Mannfred said. He stepped close as Jerrod’s blade dipped. ‘They do like their amusements, the gods. How entertaining it must have been for her to usurp the adoration of your people, and mould you like clay.’ He leaned close, almost whispering. ‘Just think… all of the times you’ve sworn by the Lady, well, she was right there, within arm’s reach. She heard every prayer, witnessed every deed.’ Mannfred grabbed his shoulder. ‘And said nothing.’
‘No,’ Jerrod croaked in protest. But it all made a terrible sort of sense. He could feel the connection between them, though he had not known what it was. And why else would the Lady have fallen silent, save that she was no longer the Lady, and had no more use for Bretonnia? He lowered his sword. For the first time in his life, he felt unsure. It was a strange feeling for him, for he’d never doubted himself before, not in battle or otherwise. But now…
He turned. Mannfred was gone. He shook his head. It didn’t matter. The vampire wasn’t important. Only the truth mattered. He was lying, he had to be, he thought as he hurried towards the King’s Glade. But what he’d felt when he’d first laid eyes on her and every time since. The way she would not meet his gaze. The way she had stepped between him and Malekith. Lying, oh my Lady, let him have been lying, he thought.
No guards barred his way, for which he was thankful. He burst into the glade where the council was being held. His sudden appearance had interrupted Malekith’s latest snarling rant, and all heads turned towards him. All save one.
‘Lileath,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Face me, woman.’
Silence fell over the glade. Malekith waved his guards back to their positions. The Eternity King slumped back into his throne, and said, ‘Well, face him, Lileath. Give the ape what he wants and maybe he’ll slink back off to wherever he goes to hide when someone raises their voice.’ Jerrod looked at him, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Malekith sat up. ‘Ah, I was wondering when he’d figure it out,’ he said softly, glancing at Alarielle. ‘Such dim-witted beasts. Unable to recognise divinity, even when it is right beside them.’
‘Be silent,’ Hammerson barked. The dwarf stepped towards Jerrod, ignoring Malekith’s sputtering outrage. ‘Lad, what is it?’
‘I know her name now,’ Jerrod said. Hammerson frowned, but before he could speak, Lileath turned.
‘And who told you that, Duke of Quenelles?’ she asked.
‘Is it true?’ Jerrod replied.
‘There are many truths,’ Lileath said, after a moment’s hesitation.
Malekith laughed bitterly. ‘This is pointless. I shall have my guards remove the ape and the dwarf both. How are we expected to proceed with such distractions?’
‘Proceed where?’ Hammerson said. Thumbs hooked in his belt, the dwarf scanned the faces of the Incarnates. ‘It’s been weeks, and all you’ve done is given yourselves a pretty name. Even the great councils of Karaz-a-Karak move faster than this, when the enemy is on our doorstep. Distraction – pfaugh. I’d think you’d welcome it.’ He patted the hammer stuffed through his belt. ‘And I’ll crack the skull of the first elf to lay a hand on me or the lad here.’
‘There is no need for skull-cracking, Master Hammerson,’ Lileath said. ‘I shall speak to Jerrod alone, away from the council, if he wishes.’ She looked at Jerrod and a wash of images flowed across the surface of his mind, memories and dreams, and for a moment, he was tongue-tied, humbled by her presence. He wanted to kneel.
Instead, he turned and began to leave. Lileath followed. They left the glade where the council met, and walked in silence to a nearby grove. For a while, the only sounds were those of the forest. The quiet shudder of branches, the rustle of leaves. And then, the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.
‘Is it true?’ Jerrod said.
‘As I said…’ Lileath began.
‘No,’ he croaked. ‘No, do not play the mystic with me. I am only a man, and I would know whether or not my life has been a lie. I would know whether my people died for the games of a goddess not even our own.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘What does it matter?’ Jerrod snarled. ‘All you have to do is say that it is untrue. Say that you are not the Lady, and I will apologise. I will renounce my seat on the council, and we shall ne’er meet again. But tell me.’
Lileath was silent. Her face betrayed no anxiety, only calm. ‘I do not deny it,’ she said. Her voice was icy. ‘Indeed, I am proud of it. I am proud of what I made of your primitive forebears.’
‘You used us,’ Jerrod said. ‘We were but pieces on a game board, dying for a cause that did not exist.’ He raised his sword. ‘We thought you were our guiding light, but instead you were merely luring us to our doom. Now the best of us are dead, and the rest will soon follow.’
‘There was no other choice,’ Lileath said. ‘Prophecy was my gift, and I foresaw the End Times at the moment of my birth. I needed an army, and your people provided one.’
‘Why us?’
Lileath looked away. ‘Asuryan would never have countenanced the creation of a new race. Not after what was provoked by the crafting of the elves.’ She turned and swatted aside his sword with her staff. ‘I chose your forefathers to serve a greater purpose. I drew them up out of the muck, and gave them nobility and honour second only to that of the elves. Without the codes and laws that I gave you, your ancestors would have wiped each other out, or else been trampled into the muck by orcs or worse things.’ She extended her staff, nearly touching his chest. ‘Make no mistake, human. What you have, your honour, your lands, your skill, all of that is my doing. You owe me your life and loyalty, whether I be Lady or Ladrielle. And I make no apology for collecting on that debt.’
Jerrod heard a low, animal sound and realised it was coming from him. His sword arm trembled with barely restrained fury, and his blood thumped in his temples. The point of his blade rose. ‘You are no goddess,’ he whispered. ‘You are a daemon.’
‘No,’ Lileath said. ‘No, I am merely one who does what must be done.’ She lowered her staff. ‘It was necessary, Jerrod.’ Her voice lost its ice, and became sorrowful. Her poise crumpled, replaced by resignation. ‘The world is doomed. But that does not mean that hope is lost. There is a world – a Haven – where life may yet continue, even as this one is consumed in the fires of Chaos. Without Bretonnia’s sacrifices, I could not have created it. Surely that is worth something?’
She stepped towards him. Her hand stretched out, and Jerrod flinched back. ‘Listen to me,’ she pleaded. ‘This war could never have been won. Not by you, or any of your brothers who died in service to the Empire, or in the civil war. But part of them, part of those who died, lives on in my Haven, protecting it from the evil which even now seeks to infect it. Even now, the spirits of your brothers, of all the knights who have ever died in service to the Lady – to me – fight on for a new world. A better world.’
‘So even in death, you use us as weapons?’ Jerrod said. A chill crept through him. ‘Even our ghosts know no peace?’
Lileath dropped her hand. Her eyes were sad. ‘What is a knight, but one who sacrifices for others?’ she said, softly.
Jerrod stepped back. ‘Small consolation, given that you were the author of that creed,’ he spat. He shook his head. ‘Is that all, then? Is that the story of us? Dogsbodies in life and death, serfs to immortal masters who see us only as weapons to be used and discarded?’
‘Is that not what one does with serfs?’ Lileath said.
Jerrod said nothing. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Why was he here? Had it all been for nothing? Lileath sank down to her knees, her skirts pooling about her. She bowed her head. ‘If you do not believe me, then kill me, Jerrod, Duke of Quenelles. Kill me for what I have done. I ask only that after your honour – the honour I instilled in you – has been satisfied, you hold true to your oath and fight beside the Incarnates. Fight to hold back the darkness, so that a new world may be born.’
Jerrod hesitated. Then he raised his sword, taking a two-handed grip. He was ready, in that moment, to bring it down on Lileath’s head. It was too much for him. The whole of his world, the philosophy by which he and all of his people had lived their lives, was nothing but a goddess’s gamble. A game between inhuman forces, in which he and his were but pawns, raised up and spent with no more thought than a child might give to her toys.
‘Why?’ he croaked. ‘Why did you do this to us?’
‘I have already told you,’ she said, softly. ‘Saying it again will not help you understand. I made your people into the point of my spear, and used you as such. And now, you have turned in my hand, and your tip rests above my heart. Strike if you must.’ Lileath looked up at him. ‘But I would have your oath, before you do.’
‘I… no,’ he said. ‘No, no more oaths, no more lies.’
‘You will give me your oath,’ Lileath continued, as if he had not spoken. ‘You will swear to me, Jerrod of Quenelles, that you will fight alongside the Incarnates. That you will die for them, as you once might have died for me. You will swear this.’
‘I will not,’ Jerrod said. ‘No more games of death on your behalf, or on the behalf of any other. You have broken us, ruined us, and my course is set. I…’ He trailed off. The blade in his hand trembled. Before his eyes, he saw the faces of every slain Companion, and every fallen friend and family member. They had believed, and they had died, thinking that the Lady was watching over them. Instead, it had all been nothing more than a cruel hoax by a goddess who cared nothing for her people, or his.
But something held him back. Some tenuous strand of the man he had been, before Lileath had broken his certainties. Some small part which whispered to him that the deed he contemplated was unworthy of him. That to kill her, was to prove her right. To prove that her meddling and scheming had been necessary… That his people would never have found the light without her.
Jerrod looked down at her. He met her cool, alien gaze and said, ‘You’re wrong.’
Lileath blinked. Jerrod lowered his sword. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said again. ‘We owe you nothing. It is you who owe us, and you will not get out of our debt so easily.’
Lileath’s eyes widened. She made as if to speak, but no sound passed her lips. She snatched up her staff and rose to her feet so quickly that Jerrod thought she meant to attack him. Then he heard the snap of great wings, and knew that Lileath hadn’t been looking at him. He spun, and saw a dark shape explode from the shadows of the glade. Though he had never seen the creature before, Lileath clearly recognised it.
‘Be’lakor,’ she spat.
‘Yes,’ the daemon thundered as he charged forwards. ‘I have come for you, fallen goddess. You denied me once, but now I will have both your soul and the Haven you boasted of for my own.’ Wreathed in smoke and darkness, the daemon prince charged towards Lileath, shadow-blade raised, the glade shaking beneath his tread.
There was no time to think, no time to fear. Instinct took over. Jerrod stepped forwards, between the daemon and his prey. Be’lakor’s sword smashed down against Jerrod’s upraised blade, and the knight’s arm went numb from the force of the blow. For all that the creature seemed barely substantial, it had a strength greater than any he’d ever known. Be’lakor’s hell-spark eyes widened and his wings snapped, pushing him aloft. Leaves swirled about Jerrod, caught in the updraught as the daemon rose into the air.
He wished briefly that he’d thought to bring his shield. Then Be’lakor was dropping towards him, shadow-blade extended like a spear. Jerrod readied himself to meet the creature’s attack but at the last second Lileath shoved past him, her staff in her hands. She raised it, and bolts of blinding light lanced from its tip to strike the approaching daemon. Or they would have, had they not passed through Be’lakor’s form like arrows punching through fog. Jerrod reached out and grabbed the goddess by her shoulder, flinging her aside as Be’lakor swooped down over them.
