The end times, p.90
The End Times, page 90
He caught the creature’s blow on his sword once again, and pain pulsed through his shoulder joint. As he stumbled, Be’lakor’s free hand sliced towards him. The creature’s black talons tore bloody furrows in his face and hurled him to the ground. Jerrod skidded backwards through the mud and fallen leaves. He slammed into a tree and rolled onto his face, struggling to suck air into his abused lungs. He was blind in one eye, and his cheek felt like a punctured water skin. Everything hurt, and thin rivulets of what could only be his blood crept across the ground.
With a groan, he levered himself up onto one knee. Using his sword, he tried to push himself to his feet, but his arms lacked strength. Be’lakor strode slowly towards him, trailing fire and smoke. ‘Why do you fight?’ the daemon prince gurgled. ‘I heard all that passed between you, mortal. Your goddess has used you as badly as my gods once used me. She raised you up, and cast you down when you were of no more use.’
‘While I can stand, monster, I will fight,’ Jerrod groaned. He made to rise again, but his strength was gone. He toppled backwards. Be’lakor studied him for a moment. Then, with a grunt, the daemon lifted one clawed heel and slammed it down on Jerrod’s left leg. Jerrod screamed as the force of the blow split his armour and pulverised the flesh and bone beneath.
‘Now you cannot stand.’ Be’lakor smiled. ‘Do not feel obliged to interfere further, mortal. This is a matter for demigods.’ Seemingly satisfied, the daemon prince turned away. Jerrod rolled awkwardly onto his side, and tried to pull himself towards his fallen sword as the creature closed in on Lileath.
Her eyes were closed, and spirals of glowing white energy began to form about her. Those spirals lashed out at Be’lakor as he drew close, and he bellowed in agony as wisps of his shadow thinned to nothing or were plucked from his body. Snarling, Be’lakor brought his blade down, smashing the staff from Lileath’s hands and knocking her to the ground. ‘You think to banish me?’ Be’lakor roared. He smacked a fist into his chest. ‘I am the First Damned, and older than any exorcism or rite of banishment. I have more right to stride this world than you, and I will not be cast out – not now, not ever!’
Jerrod’s fingers closed on his sword. Biting back a scream, he plunged it into the ground and used it to haul himself upright. He lurched on his good leg, using the sword as a crutch, his eyes locked on Be’lakor’s broad back.
Lileath scrambled away, her eyes wide. Be’lakor laughed. ‘Is that fear I see in your eyes, little goddess? Prophecy was once your gift… Did you see this moment? Have you feared it all of this time? Is that why you offered your neck to the ape, so that you might escape your destiny?’ He reached for her. ‘Take it from one who knows, woman… There is no escaping destiny. There is only pain. Inevitable and unending.’
Lileath shied back from his outstretched talon, and Be’lakor leaned in. But he immediately reared back with a wail of pain as Jerrod lunged and slammed his sword into the daemon prince’s back. Be’lakor thrashed wildly and Jerrod lost his grip on his sword, falling heavily to the ground. He rolled aside as Be’lakor’s foot came down. The daemon prince’s screams threatened to burst his eardrums, and he clapped his hands to the side of his head as the sound rose to agonising heights.
With a howl, Be’lakor finally tore the sword free of his back and flung it aside. But before he could move to finish its incapacitated wielder off, he was distracted by an ear-splitting roar that shook the trees to their roots. Large talons slammed into the daemon prince and knocked him sprawling.
The black dragon landed in the middle of the glade, giving vent to a second roar, louder than the first. Jerrod saw Malekith perched on the beast’s back, sword in hand and a shroud of shadows curling about his lean frame. Be’lakor scrambled to his feet with a snarl and whirled as if to flee, but a thunder of hooves made him hesitate. A figure glowing as brightly as the sun hurtled into the glade and cut off the daemon’s path of retreat.
Jerrod stared as Tyrion urged his horse up. The light which poured from the elf-prince incinerated the shadows which made up Be’lakor’s form. The daemon prince reeled, and his body shrank and twisted, losing mass. Be’lakor lunged away from the newcomers and dived towards the welcoming shadows beneath the trees.
Malekith gave a sharp, mocking laugh and gestured. The shadows about Be’lakor seemed to twitch and stretch, and the daemon prince snarled as he was dragged backwards. He fell, clawing at the ground for purchase, but to no avail. Even as he struggled, chains woven from light snagged him by his limbs and wings and horns, imprisoning him. The daemon was like a child before the power of the Incarnates, and soon, Be’lakor, who had thought to seize a goddess, had himself been made a prisoner.
Jerrod saw Lileath running towards him, and he wanted to speak, but no words came. Darkness crowded at the edge of his vision, and he fell back into oblivion, accompanied only by the frustrated shrieks of the First Damned.
CHAPTER TWELVE
King’s Glade, Athel Loren
Gotri Hammerson chewed on his cold pipe and stared into the dark. The sounds of celebration had died away quickly after Jerrod had entered the vast glade where the Bretonnians and the other refugees from Averheim had made camp. Now, there was no noise at all, as people retired to their cold meals or ragged tents and the glade fell into darkness. But it was no darker than a mineshaft, and so Hammerson sat and thought.
The duke had survived, but only thanks to the efforts of Athel Loren’s healers. Even so, he was crippled, missing a leg and an eye. And all to save an elf woman who was not what she seemed. Hammerson sighed and adjusted his posture. He’d waited to welcome the lad back with the rest, after hearing of his heroism. But Jerrod had been in no mood for celebration or exultation. He had taken his men and retreated to the far edge of the glade, away from the other refugees and the Zhufbarak. Now the great camp was quiet, and Hammerson sat in the dark, wondering what had happened.
It was the elf’s doing, he knew that much. Whatever else, he knew he’d been right to warn Jerrod away from her at the start. You couldn’t trust elves, especially ones who claimed to have been goddesses. He tugged on his beard, wondering what he should do, or if he should do anything at all. Was there even anything he could do?
His hand fell to his hammer as he smelt warm metal and forge-smoke. He didn’t look around as someone eased out of the dark to sink down beside him. ‘The manling will live, then?’ a rough voice asked. It was a voice such as the mountains might have spoken with.
‘He will,’ Hammerson said, after a moment.
‘That is good.’ There was a flash of heat, as a pipe was lit. ‘They’re fragile, humans.’
‘But brave.’
‘Aye, they are that. Too brave. Too rash.’ Hammerson’s companion puffed quietly on his pipe for a moment before continuing. ‘Then, maybe these are the days for the foolhardy among us. The days of sealed holds are done. There will be no barred gates strong enough to resist what is coming, I fear.’
Hammerson turned to look at the white-bearded dwarf. Even now, a hood obscured his features, and he had his great, single-bladed rune-axe balanced on his knees. ‘Is this to be it, then? Is there no hope, old one? Are our people to vanish into the hungry dark, unmourned and unremembered?’
‘Aye,’ the old dwarf said, softly. Then, he smiled and reached out to clap a heavy hand on Hammerson’s shoulder. ‘But we’ll not go alone, lad.’ He heaved himself to his feet, axe in hand. ‘We’ll march proudly into the dark, son of the Black Water, axes sharp and shields raised. We’ll make the enemy pay for every inch of ground, and water the roots of the world to come with their blood, young Hammerson. That I swear.’
And then he was gone, as if he’d never been. Hammerson did not look for him. Grombrindal went where he wished, and no dwarf, daemon or god could hinder or follow him if he did not wish it.
‘Who was he?’ a voice asked.
‘Who was who, manling?’ Hammerson turned. ‘I was wondering where you were. Not in a celebratory mood?’ he asked.
‘Not as such,’ Wendel Volker said. ‘I think they’re planning to leave.’
Hammerson looked at the man. ‘And why would you think that?’
‘I heard Jerrod say as much, when I was eavesdropping,’ Volker said. He held up a small cask as Hammerson glared at him. The little barrel was some unlucky dwarf’s personal supply of drink, designed to hang from his belt or the inside of his shield. ‘I didn’t mean to. I was just going to get this,’ Volker said, shaking the cask.
Hammerson’s glare intensified. ‘Is that one of ours?’
Volker popped the plug on the cask and took a swig. He smacked his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said, handing it to Hammerson. ‘I got it off poor old Gorazin, after that last fight with the beastmen. He wanted me to have it.’ The dwarf shook his head and accepted the cask. He took a long pull and handed it back.
The liquid burned going down. ‘Gorazin knew his Bugman’s, I’ll say that for him,’ he muttered. ‘Not done, giving an ancestral cask on to a manling, though. Remind me to admonish him, when we get to the halls of the ancestors.’
‘How am I going to do that? Seeing as I’m not a dwarf, I doubt I’ll be going to those particular halls, lovely as they sound.’ Volker took another swig.
‘You’ve drunk enough Bugman’s over the past few weeks to be a dwarf. I think the gods will overlook your abnormal height,’ Hammerson said. He stuffed his pipe back into his armour and added, ‘Did you come out here just to get a drink, or did you have something to say?’
‘The council requires your presence. Or so the wizard says,’ Volker said, stuffing the plug back into place. He belched and rose to his feet. ‘Gelt convinced the rest of them that the daemon should be interrogated. The wizard thinks knowing what Archaon’s up to might help the council come to some sort of decision. They’re about to question the beast. Gelt thought you’d like to be there for it.’
‘Aye, that I would,’ Hammerson said. He rose to his feet and gestured. ‘Lead on.’
When they reached the King’s Glade, Be’lakor had already been brought before the council. The daemon prince had traded his chains of light for shackles of silver and starlight, and he looked the worse for wear, surrounded by the levelled halberds of Malekith’s Black Guard. Be’lakor knelt at the centre of the ring of heavily armoured elves, his body shrunken and battered. His wings had been clipped and broken, and one horn had been smashed. The elves had not been gentle on their captive.
Not that I blame them, Hammerson thought as he and Volker joined the Emperor and Gelt. The dwarfs too had their stories of the Shadow-in-the-Earth, and his fell deeds were carved into the record of grudges for many a clan and hold. It was said that Be’lakor had been responsible for the destruction of Karak Zhul, among other crimes.
Malekith reclined on his throne, Alarielle beside him. Tyrion stood to the left of them, and Caradryan to the right. Teclis and Lileath stood at the foot of the dais. The latter looked hale and healthy for a woman almost stolen away by a daemon, Hammerson thought. Then, maybe the gods of the elgi were made of sterner stuff than gossamer and moonbeams. Nagash, as ever, stood away from the rest, accompanied only by Arkhan the Black and Vlad.
‘I heard the other vampire escaped,’ Hammerson murmured, looking at Gelt. ‘Slipped clean away in all the confusion.’
‘He can’t have got far,’ the Emperor said. ‘Athel Loren is a trap from which there is no escape, I’m told.’
Gelt shook his head. ‘You don’t know Mannfred. He’s escaped, otherwise Vlad wouldn’t be here,’ he said, nodding towards the vampire. ‘If Mannfred were still loose in this forest, Vlad would be on his trail. That he’s here instead…’ He shrugged.
‘What’s one more monster loose in the world, eh?’ Hammerson said. He fell silent as Malekith rose from his throne.
The Eternity King looked down at Be’lakor. ‘Well, beast. What have you to say for yourself? I would have thought that you’d have learned your lesson when you came for the Oak of Ages and we sent you scuttling off back into the dark.’
Be’lakor looked up, eyes smouldering with hatred. ‘Did you ever learn from your many, many attempts to conquer Ulthuan, Witch-King?’ Be’lakor looked at Teclis. ‘Or did you have to wait for someone to do it for you?’ The daemon prince laughed.
‘At least I accomplished it in the end,’ Malekith said. ‘You, unfortunately, have been descending ever further into cosmic irrelevance with each passing century. Look at you – you’re barely a ghost now. Just a flickering blotch at the corner of my vision, a whisper easily ignored.’
Be’lakor looked at the halberds pointed at him. ‘You do not seem to be ignoring me.’
‘No,’ Alarielle said. She did not rise, but her voice commanded immediate attention. ‘You have made that impossible, beast. You must be dealt with.’
‘And yet here I kneel,’ Be’lakor growled.
‘Destruction is far too merciful for a creature like you,’ Malekith said. He glanced at Lileath as he spoke. ‘Besides, who knows how long you’ve been flitting about, listening to our councils? Why send you back to the Realm of Chaos, where your dark spirit would merely inform your masters of what you’ve learned?’ Malekith gestured derisively. ‘No, I think we can do better than that.’
Be’lakor laughed. ‘I do not fear you.’
‘THEN YOU ARE A FOOL,’ Nagash said. ‘LONG HAVE I BEEN CURIOUS AS TO THE DURABILITY OF CORPOREAL MANIFESTATIONS SUCH AS YOURSELF. HOW MUCH IS FLESH AND HOW MUCH IS THOUGHT? I SHALL DISCOVER THE ANSWER AT MY LEISURE. AND YOU? YOU WILL HOWL.’
Be’lakor stared at the liche, as if trying to gauge the truth of his words. Then he laughed. The sound was a bitter one, full of malice but also resignation. It was the laugh of a master who had met his match. ‘I know you, Nagash of Khemri. I saw you place yourself on your father’s throne, blood still wet on your hands. And I know that you will do as you say, and worse besides.’ He looked at Malekith. ‘What must I offer, to escape the tender mercies of the Lord of the Charnel Ground?’
Gelt stepped up. ‘Information, daemon. We wish to know why the Everchosen sits in Middenheim, and allows beasts to lay siege to this place. Why has he not come himself?’
‘Perhaps you’re just not that important,’ Be’lakor said. Malekith gestured, and the shadow-stuff which made up Be’lakor’s form writhed for a moment. The daemon shrieked and shuddered. Malekith lowered his hand, and Be’lakor sagged, panting. The daemon prince laughed weakly. ‘It is the truth,’ he hissed. He looked at Gelt. ‘Three times, I have sought to pre-empt the Everchosen’s successes with my own, and three times I have failed. But there will not be a fourth. So I will speak. I will tell you all that I know.’
He shoved himself to his feet. The Black Guard stepped back as one at Malekith’s gesture, giving the creature room. Be’lakor looked around. ‘Archaon has no reason to come to Athel Loren, for he already has what he desires – what the gods themselves desire. You think them directionless. You think them to be mad, idiot intelligences, but they are anything but. There is purpose in the random, and direction in the storm. The destruction of your petty Empire was never the goal,’ he said, leering at the Emperor. The latter didn’t so much as bat an eye, and Hammerson felt his respect for the human grow.
‘The gods care little for the slaughter of nations, or the deaths of kingdoms. Oh, they dine well on the souls offered up so, but Middenheim is the true prize. Middenheim, and what lies beneath it,’ Be’lakor continued. His eyes strayed to Volker and the daemon twitched back. Volker shuddered and made a low sound in his throat, but the Emperor placed a hand on his shoulder, calming him. Be’lakor blinked, and said, ‘There is an artefact there, a device from an earlier age, before the coming of Chaos. Even now, Archaon works to excavate it.’
‘What sort of artefact?’ Teclis demanded, voice hoarse. Hammerson was startled by the elf’s expression. He had never known one of that race to ever show such raw horror so openly before. The mage was white-faced and trembling.
‘One which, if certain rites are performed, will detonate. It will create a rift in the fabric of your colourless reality. A rift to equal those which occupy the poles of this broken world.’ The daemon prince smiled. ‘So you see, you are not important, for you have already lost.’
‘Well, I don’t see it,’ Hammerson blurted out. ‘What is this overly talkative soot-stain hissing about?’ He looked at Gelt, who shook his head helplessly.
‘It means the end of everything, dwarf,’ Teclis said. ‘The end of the world.’
Teclis sagged. He felt as if his strength were but a memory. Everything he had done, every sacrifice he had made… all for nothing. He felt Lileath reach out to steady him, but he flinched away from her. He forced himself up, and looked around. Every eye was upon him now, waiting for answers only he could provide. Answers that he did not wish to provide. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat. ‘The Loremasters of Hoeth theorised that our world only survived the coming of Chaos because a terrible equilibrium formed between the two polar rifts. They cancelled one another out, and became stable. But if a similar rift is opened in Middenheim, with no counterbalance…’ He trailed off, unable to get the words out.
‘THE WORLD WILL BE CONSUMED,’ Nagash said.
‘It might take years, or days or mere moments,’ Teclis said. ‘But if that rift is called into being, if it hasn’t already been called into being, the end is certain.’ He looked around. Horror and fear was etched onto every face.
I did this, he thought. If he hadn’t taken the Flame of Ulric, Middenheim might have withstood the siege. Tyrion would be dead, but the world might have survived. He had sacrificed everything to resurrect his brother, and now it was all for nothing. The world was doomed regardless. He closed his eyes and pressed his head against his staff. My fault, he thought. Forgive me, please.
