The End Times | The Bone Cage

There was a clatter of hooves as Mannfred rode in close, his cursed palanquin drifting down towards him. Mordecaul could feel his skin writhe in disgust at the thing’s nearness.

A terrible tiredness flowed through him. Nearby, Olf stumbled and fell to the ground, lying with his unfocused eyes staring at the red glare of the unholy reliquary.

‘A noble effort, my deluded friends,’ said the vampire. ‘But not nearly enough.’

The last thing Mordecaul saw before the ruddy light swallowed his consciousness was Mannfred stroking the dusty tome, cradling it in his arms like an infant and chuckling softly to himself.

‘Nagash… will rise.’