The End Times: The Return of Nagash

‘What did the leech want?’ the old man grunted.

‘Merely to pass on the compliments of Mannfred von Carstein,’ Arkhan said. The dead twitched into motion, lurching forwards. Arkhan and Kemmler moved with them, lending sorcerous speed to the slower corpses.

‘Ha! That’s a poisoned chalice if there ever was one,’ Kemmler spat. He peered after the Crowfiend, eyes narrowed. ‘I remember that one. He served in Mallobaude’s army. He followed that fool Obald around. Fussed over the old pig-farmer like a nursemaid,’ he sneered. He smiled nastily. ‘If he’s here, the Bone-Father must have finally died.’

‘You sound pleased,’ Arkhan said.

‘Merely satisfied, I assure you,’ Kemmler said, and tittered. ‘Obald was a fool. Just like the idiot Ogiers, or that black-toothed sneak, Fidduci.’ He glanced at Arkhan, his eyes sly. ‘They were but pale imitations of their betters. Useless chattel, fit only to be used and discarded.’ He made a fist. ‘Power belongs only to those strong enough to wield it. It belongs to those who can survive its use, and those who can take it for themselves. I’m a survivor.’ He licked his lips. ‘Pity Nagash wasn’t, otherwise we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we?’

Arkhan said nothing. Kemmler laughed and turned his attentions back to the dead. The vampire had been right – Kemmler was up to something. He couldn’t help but to boast. He resolved to keep an eye on the old man, even as the night sky above was suddenly lit up by a rain of fire.

‘Arrows,’ he said, raising his staff. A quickly conjured wind plucked away those missiles that drew too close to him and Kemmler. But even as Arkhan readied himself to deal similarly with the next volley, he saw that they were not the target.

The forward elements of the undead host had crossed no more than half the field before the Bretonnian bombardment began. A second volley of flaming arrows pierced the darkness and tore into the ranks of skeletons and wights. Again and again, the Bretonnian archers fired. Only scant seconds passed between each volley, testament to the skill of the longbowmen. Peasants though they were, Arkhan was forced to admit that their skills were on par with the archers of Lybaras.

With a flick of his fingers, he willed those of his minions who possessed them to raise their shields. Nonetheless many were still set alight by glancing or lucky shots, and the shields were of little help against the larger fireballs launched by the massed trebuchets. As the great war engines found their range, more and more impacts occurred, tearing great ragged holes in the undead ranks.

But the undead marched on, driven forwards relentlessly by the combined wills of Arkhan and Kemmler. Dark magic flowed from the fingers of both necromancer and liche, rousing the fallen dead to continue the march, no matter how badly damaged they were. There were few in the world more attuned to the winds of death than he and his troublesome comrade, Arkhan knew. Dieter Helsnicht, perhaps or Zacharias the Ever-Living, but no others possessed the mastery of broken bone and torn flesh that he and Kemmler did.

The dead fell around him and rose again; shattered skeletons swirled and danced back into motion, to rejoin the unwavering advance. The attrition caused by the bombardment slackened, drew to a crawl and then ceased. Arkhan spat black syllables into the greasy air, and every iota of concentration he possessed was bent to thrusting his warhost forward, as if it were a single weapon, and his the hand that wielded it.

It would have been easier with the others – the battle-line more fluid, the tactics less primitive. But Arkhan was forced to admit that it would not have been nearly as satisfying. It had been decades since he had dirtied his hands with war in this fashion. He had stayed on the sidelines of Mallobaude’s rebellion, a fact he regretted, if only for the squandered opportunities.

His attention was drawn by screams. Krell had reached the enemy. With a roar audible only to sorcerers and lunatics, Krell unleashed the Silent Legion upon the Bretonnian lines.

The killing began.