Neferata had laid Heinrich bare with such casual ease that the vampire lord had still not recovered. For nearly twenty years now he had hidden his nature and nearly his every thought behind layers upon layers of lies to protect himself. Given no forewarning and completely out of his league, Heinrich had been unable to return any answer but the raw truth—something he had never thought to happen again. The ancient queen seemed appeased with what she heard and both aided and healed Heinrich in a way that all his arcane knowledge said was impossible. And that too had his head still spinning.

But the war would not wait.

The Grand Marshal and the Dread Master surveyed their battlefield and planted their ambush. It went off initially much better than expected. The enemy commanders were briefly exposed. Away from the intrigues of Court and creatures thousands of years his senior, the Warden of Templehof fell into the familiar rhythm of combat; fire and power surged in him like never before. The Wight King maneuvered Heinrich and Ziegfried into the perfect position. In the first breath, two-thirds of the exposed enemy commanders were instantly turned to stone by the Gorgon’s magic. Before the massive cygor could even process what had happened Ziegfried leapt into the enemy ranks and smashed the statue of their bray-shaman leader into a thousand pieces. In six seconds Heinrich unleashed absolutely every last ounce of his speed and skill onto the mighty Gorebull and with a final shout from Wealdmaer the majority of the Chaos Warherd’s commanders lay in shattered pieces on the forest floor.

The trio of powerful undead had never launched a more sudden or well-coordinated or devastating attack in all their time together but despite having expended the lion’s share of their combined resources, one enemy commander remained. The enormous cygor towered above his tiny opponents and sought to unleash devastation upon them when magical ruin not seen since Mannfred’s full power was unleashed in Templehof swallowed them all.

The Dread Master’s most powerful incantation had gone out of control and threatened to destroy everything.

“Does he always do that?”

The mumbling thing?

“YES THE MUMBLING THING WHAT ELSE WOULD I BE TALKING ABOUT?”

You’re the one talking out loud to yourself. No need to get snippy. And yes. He’s positively enraptured by this point. Good luck getting anything meaningful out of him.

The responses came from within him, in his mind to be specific… though not too specific. They weren’t voices so much as entirely formed ideas hurled into his consciousness unbidden. They weren’t images in his mind’s eye, nor disembodied aspects. They were more like… voids… distinct in their presence but lacking in any substance. From the voids came the responses and they were three in number, these voids. He had learned to identify the voids by their responses only.

It wasn’t hard.

One of them would actually form cohesive thoughts. That was Zacharias. Melkhior only mumbled incoherently, constantly, but at a low enough pulse that he could be filtered out. And their true master, their sire? W’soran slept. Uselessly. So his void was truly an emptiness.

That left Zacharias, whose ongoing narration of the Dread Master of Liches’ daily tasks, random thoughts, whims, and follies were quickly becoming a deep-seated source of irritation. Thus far, consuming the flesh of the penultimate necromancers of their age was proving more a curse than asset.

I don’t know why that should surprise you.

“You could at least make yourself useful,” the Dread Master dropped his quill and simply willed the ink in the nearby pot to flow into the air, hovering over the page, “Show me more of the Convalescence of Spheres and the Shadowfell’s place in it.” An image appeared in his mind, a diagram, basic at first but growing in complexity by the moment as slashes of color and sigils of power were written around them. He formed the ink in the air to the same image, then simply lifted the paper into it where it alit and stained perfectly. He studied the diagram for a long time.

“What of the spaces between?”

What of them?

“What are they? How do you get there? What are they made of? Who controls them? Why-”

Emperor’s Blood, slow down, Tomus. When last I investigated them, they were an abyssal void. Only the Hysh, Ulgu, even Azyr winds ruled. There might even be more but the eddies are sparse. It would take great spans of time to collect them into something useful, but therein lies the trick. Time passes quite slowly there, slowly indeed. If you were patient enough… yes I see what you’re thinking.

PUPPETS AND PORTENTS!…

They both waited to see if Melkhior would say anything else. He didn’t.

“Anyway, yes, should the world fall to Chaos we will need a suitable demesne until we can find a new realm, don’t you think?” He neither waited for an answer nor listened for one, instead setting aside the diagram and pulling another sheet of paper. “More on these gaps,” he picked up a quill, “Where am I likely to find one?”

He was turned against his will.

He feels loyalty to his people and will not feed upon them.

He has endured great pain and in the throes of it, lost himself to the monster inside, slaughtering innocents and feeling guilt for his weakness.

He has worked to atone by feeding only on monsters and criminals (both man and beast).

He has tried to manipulate circumstances to protect his people both from external threats and his fellow creatures of the night.

Despite his opposition to the court he serves and the damage it causes, he still remains at the forefront of its defense.

His name is Abhorash. Heinrich could not help but see the parallels as he read the history of the knight that had served as their Curator. And this Abhorash had freed himself from the Thirst. And he fought alongside the knights of Bretonnia instead of against them.

Thinking back to the others squabbling for control, bargaining with monsters and devils and dividing up the world amongst themselves after a victory they had yet to win and resisted working together to win in the first place Heinrich began to consider finding his way to Bretonnia as well and abandoning the selfish self-destructive despots he was surrounded with to their fates. What was the alternative? Travel the planes to allow a creature of absolute evil to consume another in the hopes of becoming the earthly host of incarnation of undeath? Resurrect the foul originator of necromancy so he could resurrect the demon prince of undeath to again give host to the blasphemy Atropus? Which horrid demon god of death and destruction was most preferable to the legions of Chaos destroying the world and returning it to the Abyss? Perhaps an age of rot and worms and defilement.

Heinrich had never been a religious man, but now he had stood amongst gods and held pacts with primordials. So he was forced to wonder, where was Sigmar? Where was Morr? Shallya? Rhya? If the gods of Chaos and evil were real, then where in all the Hells were the patrons good little Imperials made their supplications to? Where was the alternative to dooming every living creature in the world to either destruction or slavery to the forces of the dead? Once again Heinrich considered disappearing into the night and making his way after Abhorash. Ziegfried was happy, that debt was paid. Rollo had his war, the respect and support of Mannfred, his Templar. Wealdmaer was an evil monster that wished to perpetuate the cycle of evil tyranny that birthed him. And the Dread Master cared nothing for anything but his own personal power and bringing about his version of the end of the world.

Why stay?

It bothers me deep within my soul to have to ask Bane for assistance. But the hour is late and our enemies are pressing down upon us with one single purpose. Mannfred has chosen to enlighten our adversaries as to our intentions, or more precisely, his intentions. Now five armies bear down upon us with nothing but our destruction on their collective minds. In the end it serves Mannfred’s purpose, but I don’t believe it will ensure a victory over chaos in and of itself. But for now, I will toe the line as I have always.

I summon Trixie, my conduit to Bane. I need to know where these armies are going to surface within our lands if we are going to have any chance to overcome their onslaught. She arrives promptly, with her ever present sly smile in tow. She answers my first several questions on the Slayer King and his armies as well as a question on how to get the wood elves and the high elves to go at each other instead of us. A name keeps repeating in my head as she is answering my last question. Atropus. I realize I am not listening at all to what she is saying. That single name, or word keeps repeating in my head. As she finishes, I ask my next question. “How can we use Atropus to destroy Chaos”? I can clearly see Trixie is receiving the answer from Bane and just as she is about to speak her form is completely obliterated…..

Beyond the gods. I head straight back to Drakenhof. I scour the library for references to power beyond the gods. Bane said it would take a power beyond the gods to stop chaos from its inevitable course, but I can find nothing in these tomes. Frustrated and out of patience something dawns on me, there is an ancient source of knowledge not 500 feet away from me in this castle.

Waiting in line, are you fucking kidding me? “Who is Atropus”? Mannfred looks at me like I just asked him who “Steve” is. “What is the power beyond the gods”? I ask impatiently. “Blasphemies, the mistakes of the gods” replies Mannfred. “Why is this so important to you”? “I believe that this Atropus is a power beyond the gods and I am positive that the only thing that with allow us to defeat chaos is power beyond the gods. Mannfred then asks me how I came by this information. “Bane and W’Soran” I reply…

The ruined tower of Melkhior was reminiscent of Greghor’s, the Necrarch’s also shared a penchant for linking their domains with sinister reflections in the Shadowfell. Heinrich stepped through the portal into darkness with his characteristic silence but the eternal burning sensation beneath his scalp felt as though his skull would ignite. The empty entrance hall was silent as the grave and seemed undisturbed for centuries as the others investigated. Heinrich kept alert for guardians but visions of Kalarel’s inverted ziggurat distracted him as skeletal warriors emerged from their hidden alcoves to menace the tower’s intruders.

Rollo was beset but laid about with his hammer as the skeletons were unable to meaningfully pierce his formidable armor. Ziegfried was likewise attacked but his wounds had already begun to mend and soon he would be unmarred once more. The Dread Master was about to be similarly accosted when Heinrich intercepted and dispatched his aggressor.

When the horrible roar of the varghulf’s echoed across the tower however, Heinrich froze as terror clutched his chest. The monster of his nightmares, the memory of his tortured transformation, the reflection of what he feared he had become was personified in the monstrous beast that smashed its way through Rollo and into Ziegfried. Heinrich tried to bring himself to interpose but the strength had drained from him and the varghulf batted the Firewind Blade away like a child’s toy.

Heinrich could do little but stand before the monster, trapped in his own internal torment as it snarled and smashed itself in him. But the Gorgon stood unmoved. While Heinrich retreated once more into cold oblivion the Gorgon was unleashed more powerfully than ever before. Aided by the Wight King’s menagerie of magical artifice the Gorgon leapt about the clumsy varghulf in a vicious flurry of sweeping slashes that sheared off limbs and brutally decapitated the surprised monstrosity. As the Gorgon landed lightly upon the flagstones, the black flames of his sword completely coated his arms and chest approaching his pale skull but paled entirely before the inferno that blazed forth from its terrifying gaze.

There was a monster here, but it was not the quartered varghulf.

Summoned by Mannfred. All the Darkh Stalkers are present. He proceeds to inform us that Archon the Black is on his way, along with Neferata, and when they arrive we are going to resurrect Nagash. Mannfred believes Nagash can anchor the 8 winds of chaos within himself and end the threat. A monumental amount of blood is going to be required to complete the ritual. Mannfred has, in his infinite wisdom, informed all of our mortal enemies of his plan to resurrect Nagash. They have responded by sending their respective armies straight to us, thus fulfilling the blood requirement.

Brilliantly insane. I fail to see how this is a better option. Nagash roaming free is not high on my list of shit to accomplish. This is not the power beyond the gods Bane spoke of. But he also said the plans of Blackroot, Mannfred, and Bagagundus might be necessary to stop chaos. Time to prepare for another last stand…

Ziegfriend stood alone in his chambers looking over a map of Sylvania. Millions were marching to destroy the Von Carsteins and prevent the return of Nagash. Men, dwarfs, wood elves and high elves (why so many elves) all with one common goal. Mannfred had thrown in a half million beast men just to make it all the more interesting. Ironically their intervention was needed to make the very thing they wished to prevent happen. The fools should just of all stayed home. But within all of this stood the true prize, Neferata.

But how to best approach the Queen of the Lahmians? The considerations were overwhelming. At least there be no competition worthy of mention. Glaedwine was gone and Mannfred and Arkhan were more likely to court Nagash than Neferata. Ziegfried mulled over numerous plots in silence… small talk about Strigany… wait until the battles were won and seduce her as a returning champion?

A terrible thought struck him. What about the actual battle? Shouldn’t someone be focusing on that? Well, Heinrich probably had developed a plan already. He was reliable like that. Ziegfried smiled and continued his plotting.

The Gorgon, Warden of Templehof continued leading the ritual from his position in the first dhar while the sixth position, opposite him, so distant that he could scarcely make out her slight frame, was conspicuously given to the new ‘Nightscryer’. Merethyl and Wispern Tod controlled the third and ninth, opposing. They were complimented by Wigalf and Oliver respectively at the fourth and tenth positions.

The Dread Master of Liches hovered in the center of the titanic symbol, a conduit, stoically absorbing raw Shysh into his own physical shell. It was the seventh such performing of this ritual, each at a different location where masses of the Crusade’s routed warriors had been run down by Sylvania’s forces. The spirits of the fallen were beacons in the night to the magical winds of Death. They would normally push the spirits back toward the Abyss, the Astral, the Aethyr, depending on which book you read. But no longer. With the winds harnessed in this way, the dead would haunt these lands until they could be put to proper use.

Not that the Dread Master would allow anyone else to know this. The official story was merely one of fact-finding, which was, in its own way, partially true. One could hardly be expected to follow in the footsteps of Nagash whilst ensconced in a dome, after all. And if it allowed the dead to spread across the face of the world, then the Grimoire Necronium would be all the happier for it.

---

She drifted in the place between worlds, between time and reality, often mistaking one for the other, often going unnoticed and unseen. The others in the Tower of Sorcery were always surprised when she appeared. But not The Tree…not the one known as Merethyl.

When Igna drifted through the Tree’s branches, the Tree felt her. When she coalesced fully into the world of Man, appearing as an ageless courtier from an Age long past with pitiless black pits for eyes, The Tree would appear as well.

“Did you watch it?” Merethyl teased, as always. A part of Igna remembered what it was like to cluck with the hens of court. They were always clucking. Sometimes pecking. Rarely they even drew blood. That was her favorite. But mostly all they did was cluck.

“You know I cannot leave the Tower any more than your roots,” explained Igna.

“A momentary prison,” sighed the dryad with a brief twitch of an eye. She languidly sprawled across the roots of this particular, nondescript corner of the Tower where the banshee liked to meet. The Tree now grew through the center of most of the Tower’s upper floors. Its roots were omnipresent in the lower floors, its canopy filled the top floor. The tower’s original stairs had been replaced with its many branches. “We were gone for some time. Did you manage to stay out of trouble in our absence?”

Igna smiled darkly and pointed to a bookshelf on the wall. Merethyl’s eyes widened and she bolted uptight immediately, furtively glancing from the books and back. “You did not!” She clapped eagerly and sprung to her feet. Igna drifted behind the dryad who was scanning the shelves hurriedly.

“He’ll be looking for it,” whispered the banshee, “So be quick and I can have it back before he knows it’s gone.”

“Where is it?!” Merethyl began ripping books off the shelf in immediate frustration. “Oh.”

She found a small, utterly unremarkable, blue-covered book coated with less dust than the others. “This?!” She uncoiled the thong that held it closed and pulled it open, it’s spine cracking after long years of neglect.

“Orbi…ka…worlds….sun-der… Yes! This was the one! Oh you should hear Oliver blather on and on about it…”

She spun and leapt to embrace Igna like a sister only to pass straight through her incorporeal form. Undaunted, she skipped toward her Tree, calling over her shoulder, “I won’t forget my end!”

“Nor shall I forget your-” but Merethyl skipped straight into the trunk of her Tree and was gone.

Soon, the dryad thought as she scanned her body for the former Apprentice, Soon I’ll have what He wants and I’LL be his favorite again. Not that stupid dragon!

---

“You’re a bit early aren’t you,” remarked Oliver from his desk, not bothering to turn around, “I won’t have time for our reading lessons until I can finish this summary for the Dread Master.”

A small, blue book splattered onto the wet ink in front of him, likely marring the rear cover forever. He narrowed his eyes and his red beard bristled with checked anger. He sat up straight and pressed his thumb so hard against his quill that it cracked, ruining that too and depressing his mood further!

“Aren’t you proud of me?” Her petulant, child-like demeanor was a ruse that belied a deep cunning, even a neglected wisdom. Wigalf may have been fooled by it but that’s because Wigalf was a fool. Still, she was unbearably difficult at times.

He turned slowly in his chair to regard her. Her form today, sprightly and lithe, if a bit angular for his taste, betrayed not a drop of blood to his new, vampiric eyes. There was really nothing about her he liked, but he was determined to find a semblance of redemption in the constant disturbance of her tree is in laboratory.

“What is this you’ve brought me? A child’s book? Did you manage to read the whole thing then?”

“It’s a present! Well, for the tree blood…you know….that I asked you for…” She lowered her chin and folder her fingers behind her back, twisting slightly back and forth.

“I told you, only if-” he paused, then immediately spun back around and snatched up the book. The stains on his fingers from the back cover would be worth it if…

“Otiluke’s Treatise on Worlds Asunder! Where did you-?! Never mind. Here,” he opened the desk drawer near his knee, reached in, and tossed a black vial over his shoulder.

Merethyl caught it easily and frowned, “Wait a-you had it the whole time?!”

Oliver ignored her rantings and stroked his beard, knowing what this would mean. At long last, the Dread Master would see him for the invaluable asset he was! Maybe then he could finally read from the Grimoire Necronium itself!

---

“Your supplication leaves much to be desired,” intoned the dracolich menacingly. Oliver, to his credit, lowered himself as completely as he could, his brow touching the floor. “Better, little deadling. I tolerate your presence until you displease me.”

Oliver wanted nothing more than to roll his eyes. Every blood-sucker and walking bones in Sylvania wanted to be groveled unto, but at least had the good sense not to rub it in every single time. Even the Von Carsteins seemed to have better ways to spend their eternity than constantly lording it over their underlings!

But a dragon was a dragon.

“I would never dare to disrupt you,” Oliver tried not to sound pathetic but it was difficult with your face on the floor, “but I have not been able to locate the Dread Master for several days.”

Wispern Tod shifted his bony bulk on his dais. What was once an unadorned rise of stone in a moldy cave serving as his temporary lair had recently been carved by his imaginative magics into a grand chamber befitting one of his magnitude. Oliver had to admit, it was a terrible and beautiful spectacle, especially the bit with the blue fires.

“Do I seem concerned with the movements of such a creature as he? His low ambitions are trivial to me.”

“And yet,” Oliver delicately countered, “even you must consider him a useful ally to keep track of?”

“ALLY?!” The dracolich placed his great front claws upon the edge of the dais and pushed himself upright, plumes of magical energy spilling from his exposed torso. Oliver backpedaled and tried to recover,

“Ah-what I mean is, one never knows when one such as he may have a useful … opportunity! To offer!”

“Speak your business and be gone from my sight!”

Oliver unslung his satchel and withdrew a parcel from within. It was small and rectangular, bound in twine. “He had commissioned me to a… a project. And it’s here. Just here. For him. Oh and,” he reached into the satchel once more and produced a pouch, “I believe it has been said you have a fondness for sapphires, yes? A gesture, you see, the Dread Master is not the only one who is well-connected in the arcane libraries of Castle Drakenhof.”

The lair fell silent for quite some time.

“I am to meet him on the morrow,” Wispern Tod admitted at last, “You will return in seven days to share your… connections. Leave me.”

Oliver hesitated to simply entrust the delivery of the book to the dracolich’s care. The note inside (a fabrication of great daring-do, of course) would explain everything but…he supposed he had no choice. Making as grand a bow as he dared, Oliver all too happily exited the cave and began the trek back to Templehof.

Meanwhile, Wispern Tod mage-handed the book and pouch of sapphires to his dais. He tore the bindings from the parcel with a flick of his claw and incinerated the accompanying parchment within, unread. A book? The deadling risked his immortality for some simple blue book? Perhaps this could be leverage he needed with that damned necromancer to get access to the Grimoire…

---

Wispern Tod alit upon the ancient stones of one of grandest spires of Castle Drakenhof. It was the only spire large enough for him to do so. He was immediately aware that he was not the only dragon to have been here recently (recent as undead dragons go). The implications of this did not sit well with him – a thought for a later time. A hooded figure emerged into the night from a stairwell nearby. Wispern Tod growled,

“The Dread Master dares to send an underling to my arrival?!”

The deadling seemed unphased by this outrage, which only outraged Wispern Tod further. The little creature pulled back his hood to reveal a twisted visage, taut and mutated no doubt by dabbling overly much in the Chaos energies.

“I am Wigalf, the Dread Master’s-”

“I know what you are, deadling! Send him up immediately,” the massive dracolich’s cacophonous voice shook the weathered masonry. “I will not tarry long once I have what I came for.”

“He is afield. West of Oberstyre, near the edge of the …wall,” Wigalf indicated the dome above them all, “There is a field of butchered crusaders and their mounts. The last ones of any significant number to fail to reach the border.”

“This will be the last ritual,” more of a statement than a question from the dracolich but Wigalf nodded all the same, “And take this rubbish…”

Something tumbled out of the dragon’s empty ribcage and fell at Wigalf’s feet, a blue book he immediately recognized. His faced twisted up even more than it already was. Stooping down to get it with his taloned hands just to make sure he wasn’t imagining things, he recognized the leather thong and bindings immediately.

“How did you- I’ve been looking everywhere for this!”

“I cannot imagine why. My notions have never been so insulted by such drivel. When does the Dread Master propose to conduct his ritual?”

“Tomorrow,” said Wigalf absently, trying to grasp what set of circumstances could have possibly led to Wispern Tod getting access to his personal library. He was still trying to piece it together when the great dracolich left without another word.

Wigalf went to scratch his head but remembered he was bald now and so tapped his lip instead. Perhaps the book was drivel, but the Dread Master wanted it and so he would have it after all. He never would have suspected that the harbinger of his salvation would be Wispern Tod! Moreover, this gift would ensure that the secrets of the Grimoire would only be shared with he, the Dread Master’s most favored acolyte.

Heinrich sat hunched over maps and letters and rubbed tired eyes. He wore an illusion of a distinguished old gentleman today but he knew under his scarred fingers was truly the fetid gray flesh of a stitched-together monster. To the northeast, the World’s Edge Mountains, the North Stir, the Misty Wood, and Waldenhof. The Slayer Kings were marching and there was nothing to be done. Mystic Sendings would go forth, Elize would have to hold the line. Wailing towers, blasphemous bulwarks, corpse balls, she and her necromancers would have to be raising the dead of both sides as quickly as they fell. But perhaps, just perhaps…

His eyes kept drifting back to the Misty Wood. ‘Blackroot,’ he whispered to himself. If Blackroot could exert his influence over the wood, twist the Beast Ways flowing through them, maybe the Chaos Warherd could emerge right into the rear lines of the Slayer Kings. With the mountains to the east, Hel Fenn to the west, and Waldenhof’s walls in front of them the dwarves would be smashed to pieces. The Viscount would have to be very convincing, and the Misty Wood and likely the Tangled Wood south of it would still likely be added to the twisted treant’s demesnes.

Looking to the opposite corner of Sylvania and the empty plains and hills around Schwartzhafen he tried to imagine the marching treemen of the Glade Lords and shook his head. The vast plains of Averland would be the obvious place to engage, away from the cover of trees the elves would be exposed to cavalry and artillery. But the Wall of Faith removed that option, thankfully apart from the Ghoul Wood to the east of Schartzhafen, the entire area was ancient burial mounds and empty bogs. And the Ghoul Wood was infested with the Crooked Eye, no, now the Dead Eye tribe of greenskins. The elves were expecting to face the legions of the undead, but if Wealdmaer commanded his Waaagh to ambush the elves anywhere north of Schwartzhafen the elves would have nowhere to retreat to short of the Hunger Wood leagues and leagues away to the north. Better still, Wealdmaer could forewarn the greenskins that they would be fighting trees and they could attack with fire and axes and the surprised elves would … ‘BURN.’

Heinrich sat bolt upright as the firelord’s sinister voice burst into his mind unbidden, laughing. Black flames licked along Heinrich’s arms and—as they had been more often lately—were beginning to be tipped by hints of blue. With effort Heinrich suppressed the primordial flames once more but images of the greenskins setting tree-creatures alight as they writhed around unable to extinguish themselves still danced in his mind’s eye. His concentration ruined, the Warden stood and stalked out into the night to clear his thoughts.

Deep in the night Heinrich returned to his maps and letters and came across the Grand Marshal’s notes on the deep enmity between the High Elves and the Wood Elves. There was some history there, some order the Wood Elves disobeyed, staying behind in some war with dwarves and some resentment at feeling abandoned or shunned by the High Elves that had fled across the sea. But how to use it?

It wasn’t for hours later when reading an intelligence report about disgruntled Imperials that Heinrich found his answer. The High Elves were cautious, taking their time. Their deliberate pace was incensing the soldiers of the Empire who burned to take their vengeance on the lords of the night in Sylvania. The connection wasn’t immediately apparent but slowly a weakness began to appear. Since the Sisterhood was going to be attending, this was precisely the kind of manipulation they excelled at but lacking their direct intervention perhaps the Viscount’s charm or Heinrich’s own forgeries could be pressed into service. He would have to bring it up prior to the Count’s gathering so Ziegfried could press for Neferata’s assistance in infiltrating the Wood Elves with her agents. The High Elves might have good reason to be taking their time, but it could be perceived as arrogance or worse, the callous disregard for the lives of their erstwhile allies the Slayer Kings or the Wood Elves. With the right words whispered in the right ears, every day the High Elves didn’t arrive, every moment they delayed, every Wood Elf that fell in battle would be a deliberate slight, an act of war, by the High Elves. The arrogant and haughty creatures that name themselves High and tarry cautiously protecting their precious lives while the ancient creatures of the forest are slaughtered by greenskins.

If the Dead Eye tribe could hold on long enough, or even if they couldn’t, by the time the High Elves finally arrived with the Empire the Wood Elves would be murderous. If the greenskins could rout to the north, directly into the path of the High Elves that would be best, but even if their forces converged closer to Templehof the damage would already be done. The Empire would be angered given their long journey, the forced delay the High Elves had put upon them, and the accusations and hatred of the Wood Elves that our misinformation, no, our valid interpretation of events had manipulated them into bringing to bear. The High Elves patience would already be tested by the Empire’s constant grumbling and be forcibly put on the defensive by the accusations of the Wood Elves. The resulting unstable maelstrom of emotions compounded by the ancient enmity of all three peoples could be catastrophic in any number of ways and all of them would benefit the Count’s ritual.

It would all come down to blood and steel and fire in the end. It always did. But after the ambushes and machinations and infighting, only then would the Dire Pack be unleashed on their archers. Only then would the Chillgheists ride down their cavalry. Only then would the Mortis Engines unleash all the Dark Magic collected from the devastation. And only then would the Claw of Nagash unleash its corruption on the remaining forces. The Wind of Death would tear bodies asunder. The Purple Sun of Xereus would descend once more. And in the end Nagash would rise once more.

Or everyone would be destroyed.

With Archaeon’s legions of daemons on the march that most likely would be the outcome in any case.

Ziegfried was filled with pride as his two daughters entered his room. Jovi and Hadubrand had both turned wonderfully since they were given the blood kiss and were fitting into the daily life of Templehof quite well. Each was adorned in outfits similar to their past lives in the crusade with Jovi in mage’s robes and Hadubrand in a suit of armor. Instead of sigils of Sigmar their attire bore engravings of House Von Carstein and depictions of great Vampire victories over mankind. Ziegfried had seen to their new look personally. Although they both looked dazzling his true goal had been parody. If only there former brethren could see them now! Ziegfried had to focus to prevent himself from bursting out with laughter at the thought.

“Hello girls,” he said.

“Hello father,” they chimed in response.

“Jovi, go seek the Dread Master and assist him with researching this blasted barrier.”

“But he says he always too busy,” Jovi protested.

“None the less try to help where you can,” Ziegfried replied. “You’ll learn a great deal about our magic and at the same time you may remember more from your own training as a human. It could be key in tearing the whole thing down.” Ziegfriend turned his attention to Hadubrand. “Hadubrand, today go and train with Frigobert. Tomorrow, you’ll spend time with your uncle Gorgon.”

“Uncle Gorgon? Ugh, fine,” Hadubrand said as she rolled her eyes.

“Don’t disparage Heinrich,” Ziegfried responded. “He’s acquired the title of Von Carstein which is more than either of you can say, yet. He may be …unorthodox, but there is much to learn from him. There’s a reason I made him Templehof’s Warden after all.”

Hadubrand nodded silently.

“Alright girls, go out there and make your dad proud,” Zeigfried exclaimed as he stood up and opened him arms. “Group hug!”