The End Times: The Return of Nagash

Hans Leitdorf, Grand Master of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood, tossed the scroll aside with a weary curse, and rubbed his aching eyes. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be,’ he said.

‘None of us are, old fellow,’ Thyrus Gormann said, emptying a decanter into his cup. ‘What was that one – bill of sale? An invoice for lumber, perhaps? Or something more interesting.’ Gormann spoke teasingly. He was the only man who could get away with poking Leitdorf, and he indulged every opportunity to do so. He glanced towards the frost-rimed window. The sun was rising. It had been a long night, and they were almost out of ale. Still, it was nearly time for breakfast, a thought that cheered him considerably.

‘Elves, actually,’ Leitdorf said, leaning back in his chair. He and Gormann were in his office in the high tower of Heldenhame Keep. The office had a certain rustic charm, which spoke more to its owner’s disregard for the subtleties of interior decoration than any longing for simpler surroundings. Gormann took a swallow of wine and gazed at the other man with keen eyes. The Patriarch of the Bright College was, despite his bluff exterior, a man of quick wit and political acumen. It was something he shared in common with Leitdorf, who was more a political animal than he let on.

Gormann grunted. ‘Elves… in Altdorf?’ he guessed. ‘Ulthuani, I’m guessing.’

‘Yes. They’ve come to petition Karl Franz for aid, apparently.’ Leitdorf said. He rubbed his face. ‘Fill me a cup, would you?’

Gormann did so. ‘Well, they picked the right time, didn’t they?’ he asked, as he handed the cup to Leitdorf. ‘It’s not like we have a war to fight, after all.’

‘I don’t think they particularly care about our little disagreements with our northerly neighbours,’ Leitdorf said. He emptied half the cup and set it aside. ‘Karl Franz is keeping them at a distance, for the moment. He placated them by sending a rider to Karak Kadrin – I’m guessing to see if the dwarfs were interested in taking them off his hands.’

‘Ha! That I’d like to see,’ Gormann laughed. He tugged on his beard. ‘Old Ironfist is no friend to the elves, nor in truth to us. We’re allies of convenience, nothing more.’ He cocked his head. ‘Did your spies happen to mention what it is they want?’

Leitdorf gave Gormann a hard stare. ‘I don’t employ spies, Thyrus.’

‘My mistake. Did your… friends happen to say what the elves wanted?’

Leitdorf made a face. ‘No. Nor do I particularly care. We have enough troubles of our own.’ He swept a heavy, scarred hand out to indicate the stack of reports scattered across his desk. ‘Reports from the Border Princes, Bretonnia, Tilea… It’s all going to pot.’

‘When isn’t it?’ Gormann asked.

‘This isn’t a joke, Thyrus,’ Leitdorf growled. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear von Carstein had escaped Sylvania somehow.’

Gormann’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile. ‘No such luck, I’m afraid. Gelt’s wall of faith still holds.’

Leitdorf sighed. ‘Admit it, Thyrus. That was the whole reason you came to visit Heldenhame, wasn’t it? To examine Gelt’s thrice-cursed enchantment.’ He shook his head. ‘I know what goes on behind the doors of your colleges. They’re worse snake pits than the Imperial court.’

‘Well, I admit, it wasn’t for your company, splendid as it is, Hans,’ Gormann said, opening a second decanter. He gave the liquid within a sniff and filled his cup. ‘Gelt’s a funny one – always has been. Powerful, but dodgy. Even Karl Franz, Sigmar bless and keep him, doesn’t like the scrawny alchemist much.’

‘Which was it that saw him usurp your position as Grand Patriarch? The power or the dodginess?’ Leitdorf asked. He held up a hand as Gormann made to reply. ‘I know, I know – it wasn’t a usurpation. It was a transition. That’s what wizards call it, isn’t it?’

‘He beat me fair and square, Hans. Truth to tell, I was getting tired of the job anyway. There’s precious little fun in it. The uptight little alchemist is welcome to it.’ Gormann took a drink. His duel with Gelt was the stuff of legend, though not for the reasons he’d wish. Gelt had been more cunning than he’d expected, though he’d heard plenty of stories about the younger man’s little tricks – turning lead to gold and the like. When the dust had cleared, he’d been out of the job, and the Gold Order had outstripped the Bright Order in prominence.

He didn’t bear Gelt a grudge – not too much of one, at any rate – but he’d come to learn that the new Grand Patriarch wasn’t adverse to cutting corners. He was cunning but sloppy, with a compulsion to tinker when he wasn’t cheating his creditors. That sort of man needed someone trailing after him, making sure he wasn’t causing too much of a mess. Gormann chuckled to himself. That he’d been elected to that position by his fellow patriarchs would be amusing, if it weren’t so sad. Then, if Gelt grew suspicious, they could simply claim that Gormann was driven by vindictiveness.