The End Times: The Return of Nagash

Elize stood staring at the wall opposite the door to the chamber for some time. She could feel the burning gazes of the two wights, who now guarded the chamber, on her back, but she didn’t move away. They were no threat to her. Mannfred had seen to that.

She considered simply going back in and killing one of them – the nature priest, perhaps. He was little more than a mindless husk, after all this time in captivity. There were ways that it could be done that would leave no one the wiser. Mannfred would assume that he’d simply expired, despite the sustaining spells he’d etched into the prisoners’ flesh. Unless he didn’t, in which case she’d have some explaining to do.

Elize didn’t fear Mannfred’s wrath any more than she had feared Isabella’s incandescent and unpredictable tantrums, or Vlad’s quietly menacing disappointment. She knew which strands to pluck to see her safely out of the von Carstein web, and which to pull in order to get back in, should it be necessary. Mannfred was guileful and cunning, but not especially subtle. He strode across the landscape like a warrior-king, and expected his opponents to fall at his feet in awe of his majesty and political acumen.

He was, in short, a barbarian. Vlad had been much the same – a man out of time. The difference between them lay in the fact that Vlad had had an almost childlike delight in learning the ways of the Imperial court, and navigating the choppy political waters of the Empire. Vlad had been subtle: patient and unswerving. Mannfred was not patient. He never had been. He was a creature of passions and selfish demands, and he only understood those things in others. Patience, to Mannfred, was simply fear. Dedication was foolishness. Subtlety was hesitancy.

But this time, Mannfred had bitten off more than he could chew. They could all see it, even if the sisters of the Silver Pinnacle hadn’t been whispering it into every ear. It was madness, what he planned, and in everyone’s best interests to see that he failed.

Elize looked back at the door, thoughtful now. The old man hanging on the wall in there was no different, really. An obstinate, obdurate relic, sitting athwart the stream of history, determined to bend it to his will. Again, the temptation to simply kill him rose. But… no. Best to wait, until there was no other option. Best to wait until all of the pieces were in place.

‘Think carefully, child. Think, before you do something we will all regret.’

Elize turned. Alberacht Nictus lumbered down the corridor towards her, more or less a man. His wings had shrivelled to flaps that could easily be folded in the narrow corridors and he wore a set of armour purloined from somewhere. His face was still a tale of horror, but his eyes shone with kindly madness. He held out a taloned paw. ‘Come away, my sweet girl. Come away, and let the Sigmarite rot in his tomb.’

Elize took his claw gingerly. Alberacht pulled her close, like a doting uncle. ‘You always were a risk-taker, my little stoat. Always going for the throat,’ he gurgled. ‘That is why Isabella loved you best.’

‘Unlike Mannfred,’ Elize said. She allowed Alberacht to guide her away from the chamber. The big vampire chuckled harshly.

‘Mannfred heeds your words,’ Alberacht said. ‘After all, we are here, are we not?’

Elize tensed. ‘What do you mean? Speak plainly, Master Nictus.’

‘Oh, is it Master Nictus now? Have I offended you, cousin?’ Alberacht peered at her owlishly, and showed his teeth in a ghastly smile. ‘You were here, at Sternieste, before the wall went up, and before Mannfred made his bid for secession. It was you who advised him to raise the Drakenhof banner and call the order to war. You asked him to set the black bells to ringing, while you rode out to find your pet and Markos.’