As well as the first engagement went, that was as poorly as the second engagement was looking. The Grand Marshal and Dread Master had a few barely patched together skeletal guards to keep the entire warherd off Heinrich and the others. The last few templars haughtily held their ground, assured of their victory nevermind the tens of thousands of provoked beasts charging them. Meanwhile the Viscount and his Warden with Wealdmaer raced ahead to ambush Malagor before he emerged from the Feydark only to find him not alone, nor merely accompanied by a pair of gorbulls as they had been prepared to.

No, he had an entire platoon of gors, ungors, another bray-shaman, and a full squad of gorbulls

So things looked bad, and everyone almost died the last time when things went perfect.

---

With herds of tens of thousands close at hand, it became critical to ensure not a single chaos beast escaped the caves to draw attention to their little band, so lacking any options, the Viscount tumbled directly in to the heart of the enemy formation clearing just enough room for the Warden to teleport the Wight King and himself into position. Heinrich had just enough time smash Malagor’s formiddable mental defenses before the rest of the beastmen fell upon them.

While Malagor the Dark Omen snored indelicately on the broken ground.

---

Things almost looked good there for a moment, as monstrously tough as the enemy commander was, being unconscious made it a relatively simple matter to dispatch him, even whilst being pounded by the raging warherd. So of course things went disastrously wrong.

As the Warp overtook the recently deceased spawn of Chaos its form bloated and twisted and swelled into a horrid beast of flailing flesh but it spoke with a voice Heinrich recognized. Its words were of little consequence, your world is doomed, it will be returned to Chaos, etc. The whole world was awash in fire and blood and daemons, the gods of war themselves had already understood that there was no other outcome. Restating it was as pointless as the creature claimed fighting against it would be.

It blabbered on as it flailed about. Its Warpspawned wails and flailing tentacles hit much harder than its arguments. Heinrich fought with all his might but he was going to fall. The Wight King and the Viscount were both being bullied about the caves being tossed about by the remaining gorebulls and Heinrich was suspended in the air by tentacles and claws while fists and pseudopods pummelled him relentlessly.

But somehow, it was not to be. The Warden disappeared from the monster’s grasp and crashed into it from above like a spinning fiery meteor, cleaving it apart and sending it screaming back to the Warp and as he rose from its smoking crater he saw that the others had dispatched the remaining Chaos spawn. Heinrich was barely conscious as the surprisingly strong grasp of the Wight King hurled him back out into the Feywild to make their escape as the Grand Marshal’s pitiful forces had managed to form some semblance of an ordered retreat under the Dread Master’s arcane protection.

But that voice…

What did it mean?

Atop the Tower of Sorcery, a ritual came to its culmination. Strands of pure Chaos (or was it Astral essence?) tumbled in red ribbons through the air around the gathered mages at the edges of the circle. The Dread Master of Liches, tearing the very fabric of reality in the center, vanished and the winds quieted in his sudden absence.

Everyone looked around. Wigalf spoke first, “Did he mention what he was doing? Where he was going?”

“He didn’t use the Circle,” intoned the Gorgon. The others exchanged nervous glances for the Gorgon rarely spoke to them. “I believe he just wanted the space. Anyway he needs to be quick about it, we need to return to Drakenhof soon.”

“So,” mused Merethyl, “what you’re saying is, you’re all very busy?”

The Gorgon didn’t smile, only turned and made for the stairs. If he was quick, he could return to his chambers and see to a bit of Warden business.

Eventually the others lost patience and each sought out their own business as well. Whatever was happening, they lacked the ability to affect it.

---

Where are you even going? You can’t reach anywhere from here!

Appease your absolution! There can be no dominion without damnation!

… Hello, what’s this?

“All of you shut UP for a few moments. I can fix this.”

A squat, empty room appeared. Its walls were white alabaster, as were its floor and its ceiling. They were ‘within’ it in as much as four discorporated minds could be contained in anything.

Four figures appeared, each bearing the visage of the Dread Master. Each in his own way examined his form then turned from one to the other.

“Where are we?” This was Zacharias.

“A new place. A realm of my own making. If the world is to end, we shall craft a new one.” This was the one known first as Tomus, then as Oliver.

Melchior shambled toward a wall and began to run his fingers along it, transfixed by the physical sensation. “I have a body again,” he touched his mouthless face, “and a voice!”

It was W’soran who spoke last. He closed his eyes and opened them moments later, “I cannot affect the winds.”

“Nor shall you,” said Tomus, “But at least while we are here I won’t be burdened with all of your useless and inane jabbering.”

“And we are free of spectating your hapless workings of magic,” quipped Zacharias.

Tomus closed his eyes. The room rapidly expanded, its ceiling rising into great vaults, its walls growing the features of cut stone, its floors becoming polished tile and lined with silvery metals. The wall behind him, which had not moved, reshaped to accommodate a growing door of silver. He turned and stepped through it, leaving the three former masters of necromancy behind him…

And he created a world.

Ziegfried briefly stared into Neferata’s eyes as they started their final dance together. He resisted the temptation to joke about the literal meaning of her name. Surely she had heard that before over her thousands of years. The first dance had been a bit rough when the Strignay came up. Fortunately, Neferata was still a woman and preferred to discuss herself over any other topic. He was able to quickly rebound listening to her go on about her life story, nodding when needed and emphasizing as appropriate. They had switched partners for the second dance. Whatever had transpired between Neferata and Heinrich during the second dance seemed to have left her off her game. In contrast, the Viscount felt emboldened and rejuvenated by the easy conquest of Mercy. Ziegfriend sensed ultimate victory was in his grasp but business still had to come before pleasure tonight.

He masterfully laid a trap out bringing up meeting with Bane and the revelation that the Wood Elves could be manipulated through a false illusion of their silly god. She went after the the lure and pressed for details, asking something about whether the Bane they met was just an “avatar” or a god. Did the first vampire really not know Bane was a god? Ziegfried then had the slightest notion a few details might be going over his head but compensated by going into glorious detail on Bane’s war room. She was delighted and impressed. Ziegfriend then went on to how that sadly Bane had stated there existed no one capable of this incredible feat in the vampires’ ranks. Neferata flinched so much Bane might as well of come to the ballroom to slap her himself. She had taken the bait, hook, line and sinker. Ziegfried began envisioning the hilarious carnage she would soon inspire on the battlefield for them.

With the business being completed and final dance coming to an end Ziegfried finally turned to pleasure. He inquired about the Chalice of Blood and was surprised to learn no one had ever tried taking it twice. He heeded Neferata’s counsel on speaking to Negash once he was resurrected. He deftly complimented her command on history during the first dance and asked to meet again for another “lesson” before the battle and ritual occurred. The subtext was playfully(and painfully) clear and Neferata accepted.

In his mind Ziegfried ran a victory lap around the ballroom to cheering applause. The ghost of Glaedwine clapped the loudest while shedding a tear.

“So these are the forces of Chaos,” Rollo stated more than asked. It was clear from the roiling lines of the enemy’s ranks that order was a concept foreign to them. ‘In a sense, Grand Marshall, but also not.’ came the reply from the Dread Master in his mind. Rollo would never get comfortable with the effect, and liked the vague answer even less. He raised a patient, gauntleted fist and directed his templars to sink lower into the tall grass around them.

The Beastmen, oblivious and consumed with hunger, drove ever forward into the inevitable. Ever closer…and then beyond. He glanced over his shoulder to the blank, faceless expression of the Dread Master who gave no indication he was aware the opportunity slipping. Rollo grinned, “Clever bastard. You’re going to come up right in the middle of them.”

As a response, the Dread Master tugged hard on the hundreds of invisible threads of dhar he maintained to their buried units. He willed them with one thought: arise!

The vanguard of the rampaging Beastmen erupted from below. Earthen-clad skeletons and zombies tugged the ungors to the ground, clawed their flesh, and set off a cacophony of primal screams from their enemies. In the middle of it all, the Dread Master could sense his allies’ proximity to the enemy captains, for to his witchsight eyes Heinrich, Zeigfried and Weldmar’s deep power made them shine like beacons.

The instincts of the ungors had been underestimated. Within breaths, the battle raged in full. The hordes of undead wouldn’t stand against such mighty creatures for long.

Rollo spurred his felsteed to its feet, pressing forward between his hidden men, picking up pace, drawing his hammer and holding it aloft,

“TEMPLARS! … RIDE!”

He personally led the charge of the black-clad templars and ghostly hexwraiths. Where they collided with the enemy, they wrought total devastation. The entirety of both enemy flanks collapsed utterly in the face of overwhelming force. Terrified ungors threw down their axes and fled the field in droves. The effect was one that Rollo Von Carstein would never forget, nor would he soon forget the next thing he saw.

The expendable horde was in shambles and quickly decaying. He circling gaze found the Dread Master of Liches in the distance, hovering over the ground with arms outstretched. He wasn’t facing the battle though, he was facing South where the main forces of the enemy were beginning to emerge in numbers from their Beast Paths.

Dawn broke, but not the resplendent white rays of hope and rebirth… this was the bleak, purple sun of Death itself and it arose from the first ranks of the main body of the Beastmen army, heeding the summons of the Dread Master. Wheresoever it touched, the enemy either decayed into rot instantly or seared to ash with dark fire. The foliage around the Dread Master was likewise blackened and withered as the very energy he had summoned would leave a permanent mark on the land. He slowly fell to the ground, exhausted, while his creation began to run amok.

It wasn’t enough. The Beastmen still came, and came, in uncountable numbers, emerging from nowhere.

Rollo looked for his allies (Zeigfried usually stood out). It was time to go. Their trap had worked a little too well; the main force was nearly on them. He spun his felsteed and led one more feigning charge into the vanguard before falling back to Blackroot’s entrapped portal, where the true pinnacle of their gambit waited. The Dread Master was there already. The Beastmen pursued like a gathering hurricane, black and full of thunder.

Suddenly an innocuous black bat alit on the ground near Rollo’s feet. It immediately grew disfigured, its wings becoming arms, its fur becoming fine embroidered silks, its beady red eyes becoming…slightly less beady but still red. Zeigfried dusted off his shoulders and ran his fingers through his magnificent hair.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” the Grand Marshall remarked. Zeigfried scoffed, gave a short, sarcastic bow, and turned on his heel to make for the portal. A moment later, he was followed by Weldmar and the Gorgon, each fleeing in his own way from the coming onslaught. They were then trailed silently by the Dread Master and the handful of hexwraiths left afield.

Only then did Grand Marshall Rollo permit his templars to take up the rear. The wave of teeth and fangs had circumvented the purple sun which stood in their way and now descended upon them. With a gesture of his great hammer, he led his dauntless men through the portal and out of the Beastmen’s reach just in time.

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.

“What about Orcus…,” Ziegfried asked. He paused as if stung by his own words. Did he really just utter that out loud? The last few minutes replayed in his mind. That bag of worms Baugegundus had dolled on top of his soap box about one ancient god or another and their chances of defeating Chaos. Of course he spent most of the time praising his own choice the walking worm(or whatever.) Ziegfriend was unsure if he had been magically induced to think out loud about Orcus of if the worm-lover had simply been so dull it affected the vampire’s social guard and he rambled it out. He thought the latter was more likely.

Baugegundus seemed to honestly entertain the accidental suggestion by Ziegfried as if it was made in good academic sport. As far as Ziegfried could read the pile of worms he did not notice the vampire catching himself. Nonetheless, Ziegfried suddenly felt very small as if the whole room was watching his every move, every breadth, and in a bad way. For the first time in his vampiric life he preferred to be out of the spotlight this very instant.

Ziegfried quickly excused himself and left the hall. Duty still called and he went with the others to welcome Arkhan the Black. While going through the motion’s with Negash’s loyal dog his thoughts turned back to the slip up. Initially blaming himself it became clear upon further reflection that Baugegundus was to blame. It was obvious, in fact! One way or another this insult would be repaid. Ziegfried spent the rest of the ride back to Drakenhof imagining himself fishing in Lake Templehof using Baugegundus as bait.

“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?

Ziegfried mulled over the last few hours in his head. The Dread Master, who’s identity later on would potentially become multiple choice, had requested his help in traversing the tower of Melchoir. At first the whole visit came off as a bust as the destroyed tower appeared uninhabited and looted. A portal to the shadow realm was eventually discovered and yet another tower was found on the other side.

When they entered the second tower there was no response as Necrachs are notoriously bad hosts. Wealdmaer of all people decided to help himself to some of the tower’s art work which was actually a great idea. Blatant theft is an excellent way to determine if someone is home or not as most do not take kindly to it. Melchior’s (or Zacharias or whoever) wight king decided to finally accommodate his guests when the Gorgon reinterpreted one of the tower’s varghulf into bloody abstract art (as expected of Templehof’s Warden!).

Upon finally meeting the incapacitated host of the tower the Dread Master showed proper Necrach manners by promptly eating him. Ziegfried was glad he was not expected to act in-kind. With the Dread Master now in charge Ziegfried picked a few choice items for himself from the tower and arranged for the rest to be transported to Templehof in due time.

All in all it was really just another day.

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…