Lord of Undeath Page 13

  The obscuring mist suddenly evaporated, and Huld had an unobstructed view of what lay beneath him. Many strange sights had filled his eyes – the frozen fires of Chamon and the living forests of Ghyran – but never had he seen such an uncanny vista as what now lay below. He hesitated to call the surface either ground or sea, for it seemed to be a translucent substance which refused to be either. He could see through its wraith-like essence, peering straight down into the drowned streets and smothered buildings of the vanished city. At the same time, the ectoplasmic sludge was viscous enough to provide support for the few trees and weeds stubborn enough to persist this far into the forgotten ruins. He saw something resembling an enormous rat go skittering across the surface, plunging through the phantom muck like an ice-fox hopping through the snows of Yvir in the far-reaches of the Celestial Realm.

  Now, the clash of steel and the cries of combat were close at hand. Warning the Prosecutors with him to be still more cautious than before, Huld soared close to the half-smothered roofs and crumbling minarets of the drowned city. Ahead, beyond the narrow streets, some tremendous conflict was raging.

  When he was clear of the sunken streets, Huld could only gaze in amazement at what he had discovered. Before him, stretching away for thousands of yards, was a great clearing, a plaza covered with the translucent phantom sludge. Here and there, the top of some monolith protruded from the ectoplasm, the angular tips of colossal pyramids and the eroded faces of stone kings. The summit of a smothered mountain reared at one end of the clearing, its barren slopes littered with a carpet of bones.

  Here was the site of the battle Huld had heard. Across the transparent slime, legions of fleshless warriors marched. Even from a distance, the Knight-Azyros was struck by the impression of antiquity conjured by their corroded armour and archaic weapons. The armies of Nulahmia had arrayed themselves in the relics of a living people, but the skeletal warriors he now beheld seemed devoid of even so fragile a connection to the mortal coil. The bronze breastplates strapped about their ribs had been pounded into the shape of leering skulls, and their tall helms were the shape of bony hands. The serrated edges of the falchions and adzes they carried had been cast into the semblance of rending talons.

  Beyond the fleshless legions of infantry, Huld could see troops of cavalry mounted upon skeletal steeds, their caparisons as rotten and tattered as the shroud-like cloaks that clung about their undead riders. Ghoulish flames rose from each skeletal rider, flickering from beneath their tattered robes and rusted helms, rippling across the glistening edges of the wicked scythes they bore. With eerie precision, the malignant riders wove between the advancing formations of infantry, the ethereal slime doing nothing to arrest their speed.

  Other, even less corporeal things wound their way through the undead legions. Masses of spectral energy eddied about the periphery of the battlefield, sometimes coalescing into great pillars of ghostly malevolence that rolled forwards before forsaking whatever cohesion held them and dispersing into wisps of glowing fog. When he tried to follow the flittering lights, Huld would see them draw near one another once more, again merging into clouds of deathly faces and spectral talons.

  To the rear of the graveyard army, Huld could see baroque chariots and strange carriages; catapults fashioned from bone alongside hulking giants with fleshless faces; a strange altar lit by corpse-fires and borne aloft by a vortex of howling spirits and vengeful apparitions. Above them all, however, was the solitary presence that stood upon the summit of the drowned mountain. At such distance, Huld could only discern a skeletal shape mounted upon an abyssal steed similar to that favoured by Neferata. The aura of power and malevolence spilling from the figure was undeniable. He could almost sense the belligerent motivation exuding from the undead lord to fill the decayed ranks of his army with murderous purpose and animation.

  It was an effort for Huld to look away from the sinister presence on the mountain, to turn his gaze from the undead legions to the foes they battled. Only the pronounced horror of the undead could have eclipsed the noxious foulness he now beheld. As vile as the decay and filth of the swamps themselves, a vast host of disease and corruption seeped across the clearing. As though responding to his regard, Huld’s senses were now struck by the fecund reek of that horde, the dirty taint of the pestiferous Nurgle.

  Knights in corroded armour charged across the spectral slime, the hooves of their diseased beasts throwing up great swathes of translucent sludge as they galloped into the massed ranks of skeletons, smashing them to bony splinters with their lances. Hulking Chaos warriors, the fly-rune daubed upon their shields and helms, trudged through the ghostly mire to slam into the lines of their deathless opponents, shrieking their outrage as they brought destruction to the fleshless corpses. Grotesque brayherds plunged across the morass, shattering skulls and crumpling armour with clubs of stone and axes of bone. Prowling amidst the havoc, daemonic plaguebearers and swarms of giggling nurglings brought corrupt dissolution to even these lifeless enemies.

  Gigantic and heinous, the bloated bulk of a greater daemon squatted behind the hordes of Nurgle. A veil of flies and gas rose from the monster’s leprous flesh and exposed organs, a discharge of abominable black liquid trickling from its limbs to sizzle on the ghostly surface that supported it. The daemon’s squat, toad-like head seemed to sink beneath the weight of its own horns, its single eye struggling to shrug off the fatty folds of its own lids. The monster’s cavernous mouth spread in a hungry grin, thousands of sharp, diminutive fangs jutting from its bleeding gums. Gesturing with one of its gigantic hands, the Great Unclean One encouraged its infectious followers to press their attack.

  Huld lingered only a moment, then peeled away from the surging battle. Mighty as the undead legions might be, he knew they were no match for the enormity of the Chaos horde that opposed them. How long the undead could hold against their enemy was something he couldn’t say, but unless they could be reinforced, the outcome of the fight was certain.

  There was little the Knight-Azyros and the Prosecutors could do to tip the balance, but the rest of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer could. They had fought greater odds before and emerged victorious. From what he had seen and felt, he was certain the undead general was the creature Nagash had brought them into the swamps to find – the Mortarch of Sacrament, Arkhan the Black. His duty now was to bring such news back to Makvar. The decision to intervene belonged to the Lord-Celestant.

  The Lord-Celestant and the Great Necromancer.

  Lord-Celestant Makvar was silent as he pondered Huld’s report. He balanced the Knight-Azyros’ observations against the warning that had been passed to him by Kismet. It would seem that even if Nagash knew where Arkhan was, if this foray into the swamp was a pretext of some kind, then his plot had developed a severe complication. The hordes of Chaos had discovered the missing Mortarch first.

  ‘Our course is clear, commander,’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar said. ‘Arkhan fights the slaves of Chaos. We must come to his aid.’

  ‘It is certain that he will need it ere long,’ Huld agreed. ‘These bone warriors are enormously resistant to the pestilence carried by the disciples of the Plague God, but contagion isn’t the only weapon they carry. The horde I saw descending upon Arkhan’s army numbered in its thousands, with more emerging from the swamps to join it.’ There was a dour look in his eyes as he turned back towards Makvar. ‘There is a realmgate not far from the city, a pillar of mud and slime from which the creatures of Nurgle are vomited into the Mirefells. If we aren’t swift, Arkhan may be overwhelmed.’

  Knight-Heraldor Brannok shook his head. ‘You forget, brother, that the armies of death are unlike those of mortal kings. What means their losses if with a few conjured blasphemies they can reinvigorate them and put their fallen back into the fight? Many and abominable are the powers of Chaos, but they do not infuse corpses with fresh vitality.’ He removed his helm, wiping away the sweat beading his brow. His face bore a hardened expression,
implacable and resolute. ‘I advise caution,’ he said.

  ‘Caution is a luxury for the army in the field,’ Lord-Castellant Vogun declared, recalling a quote from the Fifteenth Canticle.

  Makvar knew the parable well. Many times had he thought about its meaning and the wisdom locked within it. Quick to hesitance, slow to action. Recklessness could drive an army to destruction, but too much reserve could lead them to an even worse fate. Disgrace.

  ‘You surprise me, my lord,’ Brannok told Vogun. ‘I saw your indignation upon the Pathway of Punishment. You understand the limits to which these creatures may be trusted.’

  Vogun patted the feathered neck of his gryph-hound, feeling the old scars where Torn had been struck by a Khornate daemon on campaign in the Realm of Fire. ‘There is no truce with Chaos,’ he stated, remembering the scene of unspeakable carnage they had found in the duardin tunnels. ‘Shyish has languished a long time under the invading hordes. They will have learned the lesson a thousand times over since the War of Bones. Whatever else they may be, they are no friends of the Ruinous Powers.’

  ‘If all had the nobility and valour of Sigmar,’ Kreimnar said, ‘then the Mortal Realms could never have been assailed by the hosts of Chaos. Archaon would have been hurled back into the shadows long ago. Such is not the way of things. Even among gods, such fortitude is rare.’ He laid his hand upon Brannok’s shoulder. ‘It is fruitless to despise the desert because there is no water within it. You must accept it for what it is, not what it isn’t.’

  Brannok was unswayed. ‘This realm is a reflection of its god. Harsh and unyielding, devoid of pity or compassion. I don’t–’

  Whatever more the Knight-Heraldor might have said never fell from his tongue. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer went on the alert as the chill of sorcery rushed along the creek, speckling the mud with beads of frost and turning the breath of each Stormcast into icy mist. A sandbar in the middle of the channel began to darken, becoming shadowy and indistinct. Liberators marched forwards, forming shields around the conclave of officers while Judicators raised bows and crossbows.

  The shadow lengthened, thickening until it stood like a pillar of night. From its depths, the Great Necromancer stepped. The armour that enclosed his skeletal frame pulsed with dark energies, seeming to feed the nebulous doorway Nagash had conjured. The Lord of Death stared across the massed Anvils, contemplating their defensive formation and their readiness for action. His focus soon settled upon Brannok.

  ‘You are in error,’ Nagash declared. He wagged a bony talon at the dismal marshland that bordered the creek. ‘Much of this realm has slipped away since Sigmar’s leaving.’ Stretching his clawed hand, he caused one of the corpse-willows to wither, blackening to a crumbling husk in the blink of an eye. As it collapsed in upon itself, grotesque green moths dug themselves out from the ruin. Spreading their blotched wings, the insects quickly took flight. Brannok didn’t fail to note the unsettling pattern the markings of their wings assumed – three swirls that intersected in emulation of Nurgle’s fly-rune.

  ‘The force of death shaped the Mirefells,’ Nagash explained, ‘but no longer does it rule alone. Chaos has found its own strength here, drawing its own sustenance from the swamps. Even in this place, the enemy seeks to pervert my domain into its own semblance.’

  Makvar stepped out from behind the line of Liberators. ‘Did you know the enemy was here?’ he asked. He pointed at Huld. ‘My scouts have found the second of your Mortarchs. He is beset by a horde of invaders commanded by one of the Plague God’s vile daemons.’ He tried to find any hint of surprise or emotion in the Death God’s reaction to his words, but the fleshless visage was as inscrutable as ever. ‘I have been conferring with my officers. If we don’t hasten to his aid, your vassal is certain to be overwhelmed.’

  ‘Is that your counsel, then?’ Nagash asked. He loomed over Makvar, his death’s head staring down at the ebon knight. ‘Would you advise a swift foray against the foe to rescue my layman?’

  Makvar looked across the black masks of his knights. He knew each of them would follow his command without hesitation. Even if they had their reservations, like Brannok, they wouldn’t allow their concerns to influence their duty. It was upon him that the decision to act or hesitate would depend. What was it that Sigmar would expect of him?

  ‘We will march to relieve Arkhan,’ Makvar said, feeling no doubt that the decision was what would please the God-King. The Stormcast Eternals had been forged as warriors, an army to bring battle to the foe. It was their purpose and their strength. He trusted that, in his wisdom, Sigmar knew that these were the things which would bring them honour in the Realm of Death.

  The shadowy gate behind Nagash expanded, seeming to reach out and enfold the Great Necromancer in its essence. ‘My layman makes his stand in the ruins of Mephitt, upon the slopes of Mount Khaerops,’ he said. He waved his claw at Huld. ‘It is a simple thing to find what is lost when you know where to look. I will bring my subjects against the enemy’s left flank. If your storm-knights can strike from their right, we will have only the foe between us.’ The darkness wrapped itself around Nagash, his final words echoing on as the shadows consumed him. Almost before Makvar was aware of it, the sorcerous cold was banished and the column of darkness evaporated. The Lord of Death had returned to his cadaverous subjects.

  ‘Which of us do you think he intends to bear the brunt of the fighting?’ Kreimnar asked as he drew near Makvar.

  The Lord-Celestant shook his head. ‘I think the question counts for little with him,’ he said. ‘As Brannok observes, whatever losses his armies incur can be redeemed.’ He stared back at the spot where the Great Necromancer had faded from view. ‘The greater question is whether this battle is by chance or by design?’

  ‘You think Nagash means to see for himself our quality?’ Kreimnar asked.

  ‘We ask him to leave his realm and take the field against Archaon himself,’ Makvar said. ‘Before giving my answer, I think I’d want to know who I would be fighting alongside.’ He clapped the Lord-Relictor’s shoulder and led his friend back towards their knights. As Huld had said, they would have to be swift if they were to be any good to Arkhan. The Primes would have to get their retinues moving quickly.

  Even as he relayed his commands to his men, Makvar couldn’t shake the warning Kismet had given him. How much of this conflict had been engineered? He felt certain he knew what Sigmar expected of him, but what was it that Nagash expected?

  Mist boiled up from the spectral slime that had consumed the ancient ruins of Mephitt, rolling across the city in a ghoulish fog. The warriors of Neferata’s army became little more than hazy shadows in the grey veil, even the creak of their dry bones and the rattle of their rusty mail smothered by the glowing vapours. The vampire queen could barely detect the stolen life-energies that pulsated within the bodies of her blood knights, much less see them as they slowly trotted through the eerie expanse.

  ‘Shall my knights lead the charge, my queen?’ Lord Harkdron asked, his voice reduced to the merest whisper.

  Neferata shifted around in Nagadron’s saddle, glowering at her vampiric consort. ‘You will hold my knights until I tell you to attack,’ she snapped. Since abandoning Nulahmia, Harkdron had become by turns insufferably presumptuous and annoyingly attentive. She knew he was fearful of his position, trying to impress upon her the invaluableness of his services. Ever since the Stormcasts descended from Azyr, he had gone to great pains to exhibit his ardent devotion to her. Neferata wasn’t certain if the display was pathetic or simply irritating.

  ‘Of course, my queen. Forgive me.’ Harkdron clapped his hand to his breast in salute.

  ‘Obedience pleases me more than initiative,’ Neferata told him. She smiled at the flicker of pain her reproof provoked on the vampire’s face. It was comforting to know that there were some things still firmly under her control.

  Obedience and initiative. She turned the word
s over in her mind, sickened by the sound of them. Since the resurgence of Nagash from his underworlds, she had felt his abominable spirit towering over her like some smothering force. The least exertion of his awful malice and she would be crushed beneath him, her independence smothered by his all-consuming power. The Mortarchs drew their power from Nagash, a legacy bestowed upon them by the Lord of Death. Neferata feared for the moment when her dark master might repossess that power and leave her little more than a withered shell. She tried to convince herself that some things were beyond even the Death God, but there were times when such arguments sounded hollow even to her.

  Now, riding through a sorcerous veil conjured by the Great Necromancer, feeling his dark spirit all around her, knowing that somewhere close by his corporeal form glided through the ruins, it was hard for Neferata to quiet the shivers that rippled through her dead flesh. Nothing seemed beyond him, not when his presence surrounded her. She wondered if everything might not be a facet of one of his eternal schemes – the War of Bones, the hordes of Chaos, even Archaon and Sigmar – all of them pieces he was moving in his endless game of domination.

  The sounds of battle reached Neferata through the fog. She could smell the blood of Arkhan’s foes, the rancid, sickly stink of polluted gore and daemonic ichor. Idly, she wondered if the Chaos horde had simply stumbled upon her fellow Mortarch or if he had baited them to him. Of one thing she was certain – whatever Arkhan’s purpose in the wastes of Mephitt, it was by Nagash’s design. Of all the Mortarchs, Arkhan was most in the Great Necromancer’s shadow, sometimes seeming to be naught but an extension of his master. He could no more be separated from Nagash than one of the Death God’s hands. What, then, were they trying to accomplish?