The End Times: The Return of Nagash
- Автор: Рейнольдс Джош
- Год: 2014
- Язык: английский
- Год: Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd.
- Жанр: Боевая фантастика
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It had taken him centuries to discover Kadon of Mourkain’s staff and the Claw, hidden as it had been, in the vaults of that lost city. Ushoran, fearing its power, had sealed it away in the deepest, blackest pit he could find, though he’d taken the Crown for himself. Then, perhaps the ancient vampire had thought that he could master one artefact of Nagash’s but not two, more fool him. Ushoran’s will had not proved equal to the task, though he’d come closer than any save Mannfred himself. Mannfred stroked the staff, and the Claw curled and twitched like an appreciative cat. ‘Poor Ushoran. If only you had listened to me,’ he murmured. ‘I told you that she couldn’t be trusted.’
‘What?’ Markos asked. He sounded annoyed.
Mannfred glanced at him lazily. ‘Nothing, brave cousin. Merely talking to myself.’
‘An old family trait,’ Markos muttered.
‘What was that?’ Mannfred asked, even though he’d heard Markos quite clearly. ‘You have something to say, Markos?’
‘I said that this map is out of date,’ Markos replied smoothly.
‘It’s Tilean. What did you expect? Cartography is one of the few arts that they do not claim to have invented,’ Mannfred said. ‘And in answer to your impertinent query, cousin… This is no mere hunting party, whatever our host claims. Why else bring a troop of armoured horsemen and spearmen?’
‘Spears are used in hunting,’ Markos said. Mannfred could tell from the glint in his eye that he was being deliberately obtuse. Markos’s mood had been positively acidic since they entered the Black Mountains, and hadn’t abated with battle. They’d encountered the small force as they descended the mountains and entered the Hvargir Forest. Mannfred had obscured the movements of his forces through sorcerous means as they travelled through the mountains, but Markos and the others had been growing restive when the unfortunate Duke Forzini had crossed their path with his simple ‘hunting party’. Forzini was one of a multitude of minor, self-proclaimed counts and dukes who ruled the petty fiefdoms of the Border Princes.
‘True,’ Mannfred said. ‘But what hunting expedition requires a hundred such, as well as cuirassiers, fully armoured knights, and what I believe is called a – ah – “galloper gun”, hmm? What were they hunting for, cousin?’
Markos opened his mouth to retort, but Nyktolos returned, and shoved a bedraggled figure through the tent flap. The man, bound in chains, and stinking of blood and fear, fell onto the ground at Mannfred’s feet. Mannfred clapped his hands. ‘Ah, and here he is now! The man of the hour, Duke Farnio Forzini, of the demesne of Alfori. They make a fine millet in Alfori, I’m told. Of course, the prime export, as with so many of these tiny mountain realms is violence.’ Mannfred smiled. ‘Something I myself am well acquainted with.’ He stood and hauled his prisoner to his feet. ‘Up, sirrah, up – on your feet. I am a count, and you a duke, and neither of us should kneel.’
Forzini flinched away from Mannfred’s grin. The Tilean was a big man, with the muscle of a trained knight. He had fought hard, even after he realised what it was he faced. It had taken two days to beat a sense of fear into him. Forzini saw the dead body of the maid and his face went pale. Mannfred followed his gaze and asked, ‘Oh, was she one of your peons? My apologies. I was peckish, you understand. I so rarely allow myself to indulge, but, well, you put up quite a fight and I built up a hellish appetite.’
He looked at the beaten man. He had to reach Mad Dog Pass before the first snows of the season, and that meant moving quickly through the Border Princes. He had no time to indulge in unnecessary battle. If the petty aristocracy of these lands had learned of his approach, and were mobilising to meet him in battle, he needed to know, and sooner rather than later. ‘Where were you marching to?’ Mannfred hissed. ‘Tell me, and I won’t gut you and feed you to my horses.’
‘S-skaven,’ Forzini mumbled, his eyes tightly closed.
Mannfred grunted. ‘How many?’
‘Thousands – more maybe,’ Forzini said. He looked at Mannfred. ‘We were riding to aid my neighbour, Count Tulvik, at Southern Reach. His fortress had come under siege.’
‘Then you were going in the wrong direction,’ Nyktolos said mildly, cleaning his monocle on his sleeve. ‘I was once a… guest of old Tulvik.’ He blinked. ‘Well, his grandfather, actually.’
Mannfred growled. He caught Forzini by the throat. ‘I don’t care for lies, Forzini.’
‘W-we were! I swear!’ Forzini choked out. ‘But then, a runner brought word that my own hold was under siege. So I turned back – my wife and children, my people!’ The last exploded out and Forzini broke free of Mannfred with a convulsive surge of strength. Mannfred let him go. Forzini lunged for the hilt of Mannfred’s sword. ‘I have to save them!’
Mannfred casually dropped his fist onto the back of Forzini’s skull and knocked him sprawling to the ground. He pinned the cursing duke in place with his foot and looked at Markos. The other vampire nodded grudgingly. ‘That would explain what we’ve seen, wouldn’t it? This isn’t an isolated raid we’re talking about, cousin. It’s an invasion.’
When they’d descended into the foothills of the Black Mountains, the plains and fenland and forest should have been dotted with proud, if small, cities and fortified outposts as it always had been. What they had seen instead was a land in ruins. Castles were scorched piles, and towns were reduced to smouldering embers. And everywhere, the signs of plague – bodies choked the ditches and mass graves lay full, yet uncovered.
At first, Mannfred thought it was simply the aftermath of one of the interminable border wars, which occasionally flared up and then died away. But the devastation was too extensive. Memories of the portents of doom that he had witnessed in his scrying so many months ago had come rushing back, of the fates of Tilea and Estalia, and he knew that the end that he had witnessed was drawing closer. The weft and weave of the world was realigning and time was running out. That was the only thing that could draw the skaven from their twilight burrows in such numbers as Forzini and his own scrying had described.
He had faith enough in Elize’s ability to maintain control of Sylvania in his absence, but he knew that no other could defend his realm better than he could. If the skaven were truly massing in such numbers in the Border Princes, he couldn’t count on his sorceries seeing him unmolested to his goal. Better then not to even try, now that he had passed beyond the borders of the Empire.
‘How many prisoners did we take?’ he asked, after a moment.
‘Ah, one, two, three… Fifty or sixty,’ Nyktolos said, ticking off his fingers. ‘Mostly the duke’s household guard. They fought hard for a band of jumped-up bandit-knights.’
‘Due to my friend Forzini here, I have no doubt,’ Mannfred said. He caught hold of the chains binding Forzini and pulled him close. ‘I am not ordinarily in the habit of giving choices, Forzini. It sets a bad precedent, you see, for royalty to allow the dregs to think that they get a say in their own fates. But, if there are thousands of skaven slumping and sneaking through these lands, I’ll need every sword I can get, dead or… otherwise.’ Mannfred licked his lips. Though the girl’s blood had quenched his thirst, he could still detect the erratic thump of Forzini’s pulse. Mannfred tightened his grip on the chains. ‘Swear fealty to me, Duke Forzini, and I shall save your lands for you. Indeed, you can be the hero who saves the entirety of the Border Princes, if that is your wish. Or die here, and ride at my side regardless as a nameless and mindless thing. Serve me in life, or in death. But you shall serve me. Name your preference.’