Nehekhara - Khemri
The Liche Priests shuffled along the throne room of the great Settra the Imperishable, their souls dragging along hunched and wretched bodies that should have long since crumbled to dust. They had been waiting for over two hours as Herald Nekaph, the most honoured champion of Settra recited all his titles perfectly. Now he was finished, the priests bowed before their greatest king.
"There has been a change in the air." Settra's voice called out to them through his unmoving jaws, burrowing into their heads like maggots. They said nothing but all knew of what Settra spoke, the winds of magic had changed their song, sweeping south as they never had before. "It comes from the north. There is only one foe who could bring about such a change. Nagash." He spat the word like venom. The liche priests kept their heads bowed, for they all knew of Settra's irrepressible hatred for the Necromancer who had restored the Nehekaran royalty in such a mockery of its past life.
"We drove him away once before," Settra declared, his fingers tightening on his throne. "I will not see Nehekhara in another's hands, certainly not his. I will prevent him. Nehekhara must be mobilised as not seen in generations. Nagash is powerful." Settra was many things, brilliant, cruel, vain, bloodthirsty, proud, but his pride did not become hubris. He knew when his foes were strong. "You still serve for your errors, and you serve at my will. You will go from this place. You will go to every city and raise the lesser kings from each of them. Have their legions shake the sand from their bones and prepare."
"Every city?" One liche priest asked, not daring to look up at the Imperishable.
"Every one," Settra replied, power radiating from every syllable he spoke. "I will have them all, serving behind me." He stood up, tall and powerful. "Nekaph and I march on Arkhan's tower, that Liche will serve Nagash when he returns and I will prevent it. You will have the armies raised by the time I return or you will suffer my wrath."
He waved them away and the liche priests bowed their way out of Settra's throneroom. The Imperishable beckoned forwards his next servants who had been waiting to the side, stepped forwards. Ramhotep, the greatest of the Necrotects led his acolyte to prostrate themselves before the king of Khemri.
Settra glowered down at Ramhotep. When Settra had awoken and subdued the kings who had proven less than worthy he had the Necrotect brought before him, demanding to see the being that had sought to fashion such grand works across Nehekhara. Ramhotep had been cowed and nearly slain, but Settra, for all his pride, saw the talents that Ramhotep possessed, and had demanded his supplication and loyalty in exchange for sparing his life. "Necrotect. You will now prove yourself worthy of my own patronage. A great threat is coming and we must be prepared to face it. I want your warsphinxes. I want your Ushbati, your Necrosphinx and Colossi. Every Construct you have ever envisioned will be made ready to march to war for Nehekhara. I swore on a thousand souls that Nagash would never return and we will be ready to repel him and his ilk."
"As you command, oh almighty Settra," Ramhotep replied, bowing low. "My greatest designs are yours. We shall command the constructs of gold and bone, raise beasts of basalt and stone that will march at your will. Nagash would bring our works low, and our powers are yours to resist him."
Settra dismissed Rahmotep with a gesture. When he was alone with his sworn protectors he stood up. Settra didn't trust Rahmotep, the Necrotect had once made a pact with Arkhan the Black, the cursed Liche of the Black Tower to take his vengeance. Arkhan had long sold his services to the lesser kings for artefacts of power and wealth, using his power to aid them in their personal projects and endeavours. Countless times Settra had marched against the Black Tower to make Arkhan submit to him, but the cursed servant of Nagash had greater necromantic power than any of his own liche priests. No longer. If Nagash was to return, then Settra could no longer allow the boil of Arkhan to continue. "Nekaph, raise the army and have my chariot prepared. We are marching south." Without a word, Settra's herald departed to carry out his lord's wishes.
Outside the liche priests finally allowed themselves to rise to their full and feeble heights. "Every one," muttered Phar with his rasping voice.
"Every one," repeated Alakhaar. "So King Settra has spoken, so shall his will be done."
The liche priests scattered, venturing into the desert sands towards the other cities of Nehekhara: To Numas, Lybradas Zandri, Quatar and every other city, to awaken legions of sand and bone to defend Nehekhara and prepare for the approaching arrival of Nagash the cursed.
Rahmotep departed south with his acolytes to the Charnel Valley to raise their constructs. He had not lied. Nagash would seek the destruction of all that was Nehekhara, all they had ever built, every impact that they had made on the earth. That could not be allowed to happen, if it cost them their lives and souls they would destroy Nagash once more to preserve what they had built.
Not one week later a grand column departed Khemri, at it's head was Settra standing tall in the Chariot of the Gods and clutching the Blessed Blade of Ptra as he led his fleshless legions south, past the shadow of Nagash's black Pyramid towards the black tower of Arkhan the Black. It was a path Settra had marched before, every time the upstart Arkhan needed to be brought to heel. This time there would be no submission, no waiting, he would smash his way through Arkhan's foul sorceries and destroy the Liche once and for all. Then he could turn his attention to the upstart Nagash and punish him for destroying his paradise.
Naggaroth - Naggarond
Morathi strode through her son's bastion with the confidence of millennia driving her onwards. It was not often that she was drawn down from her Tower of Ghrond, but now her son needed her to fuel his flames once again. He was falling hatefully passive and immobile and she had not spent thousands of years driving him on to fall flat, once more she would rouse his hate and set him on the path to his destiny.
The heads of the Black Guard turned as she walked past, drawn to her exposed flesh, lust burning within them, for even her son's bodyguards did not deny themselves lust, they were not of the get of prudish Ulthuani, they recognised their desires. In a less delicate time she could have amused herself with the armoured warriors, but for now she had to speak with Malekith, so she set her feet upon the stairs and ascended towards the Witch King's personal retreat.
Her son was waiting atop the tower, silhouetted against the cold grey sky like a dark shadow, his armoured form staring out to the crashing waves and mists of the sea in the direction of his heart's desire – Ulthuan, the home that should have been his to rule. He didn't turn to her as she stepped up behind him. "Why are you here?" He asked.
"I have news, from the north," she replied, angered that her own son wouldn't turn to face her. "There has been an incursion."
"Daemons," he replied, unmoving, still staring out to the seas. "I already know."
That didn't surprise Morathi, her son kept an eye on everything that happened in Naggaroth, he had to, for around every corner there was a knife that waited to murder him and take his place. What did surprise her was his inaction. Daemons were a great threat, and unlike the Ulthuani they were not ready sacrifices, banishing back to the realm of Chaos before any delicious pain could be inflicted on them. "And yet you do nothing."
"I do all I need to." He replied the embers of rage flickering in his voice. It was not enough, she needed him to be an inferno of fury and hate. "The weak will fall, the strong will rise and continue to be useful to me."
"Now is not the time for this." She scolded him harshly. "I thought you stronger than to permit an intruding army."
She heard his breath hitch and his head begin to turn ever so slightly in her direction. She stepped up to his side. Her son was the most cursed of the Druchii. To save his life she had sealed him in his Armour of Midnight when the cursed flames of Asuryan had wreathed his body in pain. Pleasure was beyond him now, the soft, warm touch of a body beneath his strong hands. It would be so much easier to fuel his flame if she could only give him that. "Look over this land." She told him. Dominion and power, they were all he had now. "Look at the swirling wind and jagged ice. It is yours."
"Ulthuan is mine," he replied harshly.
"It is all yours, every fjord and drop of water. This world is yours, even this ice. But even with you here, there are those who would dare to try and take it from you. If you're as weak as your enemies say you are then you'll let it happen."
His hand lashed out like a serpent and wrapped around her neck, digging into her skin, the sharp metal scraping against her. "Do not call me weak again, Hag Queen," he snarled, his armoured mask making his voice seem far more ominous, like he was a great dragon imprisoned at the base of a great pit. She had to set him free. The pain was good, a warning that he could spill her blood in an instant, but he needed more rage, she needed to feel her neck about to snap, her windpipe cut off by his grip and her blood pumping in her arteries, rushing through her ears and flooding her brain. Then he would be restored.
"I will call you weak as long as you are," she hissed at her son, her gaze not faltering from his eyes. "I raised you to be a king and yet here you are, doing nothing."
"I am doing all I need to do."
"You are failing!" His grip held her fast, tightening around her windpipe. "You are weak, a fool, a coward!" She grunted in pain as her son slammed her into the black stone at the top of his tower.
"Silence!"
"Show me," she dared him. "Take up your sword and show me that you aren't." He dragged her to the edge of the tower and held her out as though she was a twig, her feet dangling in the air, the black spires of Naggaroth far below her ready to impale her if he let her go.
But she didn't look down, he wouldn't drop her, he relied on her too much, and he was a fool to let that weakness into his heart. "Enough of this game, we both know that you won't drop me."
Come on my son, remind yourself why you are the Witch King. "You aren't even a king anymore. No true king would let anyone, not even a daemon, deny what he is. But you... you let your own mother, and with your inaction you let all of Naggaroth, all of the world know you for what you've become. Weak."
He roared and slammed her into the stone floor. A blinding pain flashed through her bones, but it would take more than that to kill Morathi. But she could see Malekith's eyes, shining with cruelty behind his mask. His hatred had been stoked, now she just had to direct it, focus it like a crystal on his enemies. "Yes," she hissed, leaning up as she felt his fingers did into her neck, nearly touching her bones and the blood pumped violently in her ears. "Go on; show them you are a fool. Murder your own mother while your enemies slaughter their way across your lands."
"I am no fool!"
"You are. Or are you going to prove otherwise?" He snapped his hand back like a viper and turned away. This time he didn't look out east, but to the north, to the invaders.
"I am no fool. And no one will see it that way. I will destroy these invaders." He turned once more and descended from the tower. Morathi allowed a smile to grace her lips. Only at his lowest was Malekith so foolish. Normally he would have savaged that demonic horde long ago, but every now and then his drive went cold and sluggish and she had to stoke it again. Best that she disappeared for now. Malekith was back, and if she stayed he might just lash out and kill her in one of his rages, bruises were already forming on her throat from where his fingers had been digging in. She smiled, her son was back.
Skavenblight
The Council of Thirteen sat around their horseshoe shaped table of pure warpstone in the midst of a great squeaking debate. "The herald of the Dark Gods was clear in his meaning," gnashed Lord Sneek of the assassin Clan Eshin, his rat-eyes gleaming beneath his hood.
"We know he was," replied Lord Verminkin of Clan Moulder. "But if he knew our intention he would consider us just as much a rival as the manlings and bearded things he sends us against." Verminkin's heavily mutated body drew scorn from some clanlords and a mild admiration from others.
"My clan is gathered beneath the jungle," squeaked Nurglitch, the plaguelord of Clan Pestilens, his matted fur covered in gleaming pustules that threatened to burst like overripe grapes at the slightest touch. "Why should I bring them back across the seas now?"
At that point the Seerlord spoke up. Kritislick spoke for the Grey Seers of the Skaven and had the power to break any deadlock by deploying the thirteenth vote, the vote of the Horned Rat himself. "You shouldn't." He sat up taller, his tail sweeping along the dark stone floor like a bristled brush. "The herald can get his wish, let him believe us to be his. In the meantime, we proceed as the Horned Rat intends." The council shivered. They would move to stab each other in the back at every other time, but when it was the will of the Horned Rat, they were cowed into unity. "Our preparations are nearly complete. We will not be stalled by the herald or anyone else, the Horned Rat will be brought forth and the upperworld will be ours, as the underworld is. Give the herald what he wants, bring ruin to the manling realms that surround us has long been our desire."
"I can do it," proclaimed Paskrit the Vast. As his name suggested, Paskrit was the largest of the council, and he was also one of the most dangerous. Unlike the other Skaven here he belonged to no clan, but was instead the Warlord-General of all Skavendom. He had led the decimation of the warrens under the manling capital of Altdorf when the broods of Skaven there had dared to think that they were the equal of Skavenblight. Any other Skaven would have been killed for his position or because of the danger he posed to another in the never ending game of Skaven politics, but Paskrit had been able to navigate Skavenblight's bloodiest sport as well as he could a battlefield. "I will swarm these manling realms with enough clanrats to drown them in bodies."
"The time of ascendency has come!" Screeched Warlock-Engineer Morskittar of Clan Skyre. "The bearded ones as well, we must have them, we must!"
"And we will," assured Kritislick. Clan Skyre's advanced technological designs were of great benefit for the Skaven, but Kritislick knew that everyone on the council would kill Morskittar if the chance arose, and half of them may even be thinking about the Skaven when they did it. He was the oldest on the council, kept alive by pulsing green tubing that stuck into his furry body. But that age brought experience, he was the greatest of the Warlock-Engineers, but Kritislick had long wondered if it would be better if a younger one took his place. "Queek is still skulking around beneath the Eight Peaks, fighting the beared ones and the goblins. The bearded ones cannot interfere with us and we have been silent long enough. We'll attack again on all fronts. And Clans will swarm under the seas to join Pestilens beneath the forests. In the meantime we know who could return if the dead are not stopped. Clan Mordkin possesses the weapon that can destroy Nagash should he rise again. Make sure they keep it ready, we may need to use it once again. But that necromancer was in possession of some of the final knowledge we need. Send clans to his city, and the tower of his servant, find it."
The leaders of the greatest clans in Skavendom were slavering at the thought of dominion, and that would keep them well enough in line to fulfil their needs. "Lord Sneek, you can make the manling realms ripe for conquest?"
Lord Sneek nodded, his beady eyes gleaming at the prospect of murder. "Oh we can, we can."
"Then see to it, Paskrit, be ready to follow on."
"I will be," Paskrit declared, eying Sneek angrily, no doubt already plotting to make sure that he received the glory for the fall of the manling realms of Tilea and Estalia. As long as they did it, Kritislick didn't care, his purpose was greater than any of his fellow councillors, for he served the Horned Rat himself.
The Council gave their consent, Kratch Doomclaw and Vritch Ironsnatch refused to give their consent because their rivals had given theirs, but with a margin of nine to four, the vote passed.
That very day the swarms began. Runners were sent to the Clans festering under the mountain kingdoms to restart their assaults, greater than ever. Numberless hordes of rats descended beneath the seas to begin the journey west and join Pestilens in the new world, where they would battle the Lizardmen in their temple cities. At the whispers of Lord Sneek, the greatest of Skavendom's assassins emerged from the sewers of Tilea and Estalia for a night of bloody murder that would not be forgotten for the rest of those kingdoms' short lifespans. Behind them came the swarms of Paskrit the Vast. The world had relaxed as the Skaven held their breath, but now they would tremble as they swarmed and made the world a ruin – the perfect nesting ground for the manifestation of their god. The Horned Rat would emerge and claim the world that was rightfully his.
